“Who says they can’t coexist?” I take a couple of steps towards him, forcing him to lean back in the chair to maintain a steady eye contact with me. My move. “Who are you?”
“Joseph Grayson.”
His move. His fucking move.
He rises to his feet, as if the threat of his name isn’t enough and he has to prove his reputation with his massive shadow as well.
Newsflash: The name is enough. More than enough.
He’s Santiago’s red right hand. They served in the US Military together over two decades ago, and they haven’t stopped making wars since. He’s taken a bullet for the man. The man’s taken a bullet for him. He’s the beating heart of Santiago’s entire organization. A soldier of death and anarchy. The best man at his wedding…
I glance at his gun again. “Want a drink?” I offer out the single malt as a peace-offering, and he keeps me on tenterhooks for at least five seconds before taking the bottle from me.
“Maybe later.” Instead of unscrewing the cap, he places it on the table between us. “Business first.” He gestures to the spare chair on the other side the desk again. “Sit.”
“No, thanks. I prefer to stand.”
He stares at me, those chilly grey blues searing into my skin and robbing me of my free will until I’m relenting with a curse.
His gaze dips to the bloodstains down the front of my white dress shirt. “Guido Rossi’s last will and testament, I presume?”
A hint of a smile touches my lips. “Something like that.”
“I thought Aiden made it clear to you. No waves until Santiago arrives.”
“I’m not Poseidon, Mr. Grayson. I saw a rat and I stamped on it. Fear not, the king cats are still purring.”
“That’s not the way we see it.” He goes to throw his boots up on the desk again, but I’m quicker, slamming my Oxfords down first, and accepting his frown with a smirk.
“My office. My rules.”
“My gun. Your bullet.”
He delivers it so casually, but I hear the click of the safety in my head.
“You wanted to talk business, Mr. Grayson, so let’s talk business.”
He blows out a breath. “Taking London is more than us simply moving our product into a new market, Frankie. This is about crossing lines.”
“I presume we’re not talking about white ones?”
He pauses. “Santiago has a growing interest away from the cartel. It’s personal to him…a way to expend a certain skillset, and to satisfy demons from the past.”
“What’s the side hustle?”
“No hustle. There’s no monetary gain. Over the last five years, we’ve created a network of spies and influencers who have infiltrated the highest levels of government, all with one single purpose: to destroy the sex trafficking business.”
I let out a bark of laughter. “You’re telling me that the Devil himself has a fucking soul?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“What’s this got to do with the Red Compass?”
“O’Sullivan and Semenov have a new deal on the horizon with a Brigăzi trafficking network we’ve been chasing around the globe for a while.”
“Those two aren’t exactly known for advocating women’s rights, underage or otherwise.”
“So, it would seem.”
The way he says it makes me wonder how personal this side gig is for him, too.
“That’s what the Red Compass meeting was about today?”
“Correct.”
“Who’s involved?”
“Irish, Italian and Bratva. The deal was brought to the table by Zaccaria’s son, Mario, who Guido Rossi courted. Rossi wanted out of London, he knew you’d be coming back, and this was his way of smoothing his exit with O’Sullivan. The Irishman’s suspicious of strangers. He’s not happy with Mario replacing Guido, but his greed exceeds his paranoia. The Lithuanian suppliers are overcharging them. O’Sullivan and Semenov need this new strand of revenue to stay relevant.”
“It won’t matter when they’re six feet underground.” I flash him a cold smile.
“Neither will you when you’re joining them,” he retorts with an even chillier one. “They were discussing the finer points when you strolled in like an uninvited guest with a self-control issue.” He swipes at the bottle on the table and then bangs it down again hard as his stoicism slips. “We got you out of jail to set the wheels of a new infrastructure in motion while we figured out what the hell the Red Compass was up to. We didn’t expect you to take out one of the key players in the interim.” His gaze dips to my bloodstained shirt again and his expression darkens. “The problem with love is it makes a man reckless.”
“Said like a man who knows from experience,” I snarl, struggling to keep my temper.
He rubs his hand across his jaw, his gold wedding ring catching in the soft light. “I get it. I do. If someone had broken my wife’s legs the same way they did to Ada Semenov’s, I’d be itching to flay the flesh from their bones.”
He says it so calmly, but the hairs on the back of my neck pay attention.
“You went to that racecourse today to send a message. I anticipated it, so I told my men to intervene. They hurt the woman you love, Frankie, they took your son away, and you were done waiting another week for some payback. Reckless, predictable, yet understandable.”
I say nothing.
“The fake drive-by was us. We were a diversion to make O’Sullivan think the Polish were making a play. We want his head turned elsewhere so that he never sees us coming.”
“And you’re here to rap my knuckles?”
“I’m here to reiterate the plan and then underline it in red. Santiago’s second chances usually consist of a church service and a wooden box, but he’s intrigued by you, Frankie. Enough to keep this deal on the table. And he respects Aiden Knight. The question is, do you respect him enough to back up and let us plan this the way we intended?”
I open my mouth to tell him to go fuck himself and his plan, but he sticks his hand up for silence.
“He’ll be here in three days to discuss this partnership, providing you stick to the terms. His arrival is ahead of schedule, but this thing is moving faster than we’d anticipated. The first shipment of women is due to arrive in London in eight days. That’ll give us five days to plan and execute a successful strike. We get this right and we can wipe out the network and the Red Compass in one night. You blow your load too early again, and you’ll be dead before dawn.”
“And here I was thinking we were friends,” I murmur, feeling the weight of my gun against my chest.
“Consider yourself warned.”
“If you’re not going to drink that, I will.” I swipe at the bottle myself, tipping a double down my throat before I’m coming back up for air.
Love or revenge.
It’s like asking me to choose between my past and my future. One broke me. One completes me. They’re two sides of the same soul. I can’t forget the vow I made with my father, but I can’t forget the vow I made to her either.
Grayson’s right. I’m a conflicted bastard, through and through.