Chapter Twenty-One Razor #4
“You could say that.” I turned back to Charles. “Not every day you get invited to a seven-course dinner by a man who once tried to put you inside.”
I’d never been good at dancing around elephants.
A dash of discomfort rippled through the room, but Charles inclined his head.
“Quite.” He took a measured sip of wine, set the glass down, then tapped his lips again.
“And for the record, we do not make a habit of this. You are, Mr Slade, an exception to rules we generally believe exist for very sound reasons.” His gaze didn’t leave mine.
“We could describe this evening as a lapse in judgment. We could attempt to pretend we do not know who you are or the world you have come from. But that would be dishonest. And it would be a disservice to the world which has afforded my family its position… and, by extension, afforded our son his.”
His eyes shifted briefly to Tristan, then returned to me.
“So, if you will allow it,” Charles said evenly, “I would prefer to speak plainly.”
I swallowed, then nodded once. “I’d appreciate that. I left school at fifteen and I weren’t great at it when I was there, so it’s hard to keep up when people weaponise vocabulary.”
A soft, amused breath left Tristan beside me as he lifted his glass and took a drink.
“Very well.” Charles remained unruffled.
“Then I shall endeavour to keep matters at a… workable level.” He let the room settle around him, probably like he did in court, everyone waiting for his opening statement.
“For the avoidance of any doubt, I removed myself entirely from anything touching your case the moment my son was taken. That was not a difficult ethical decision.”
I believed him.
“However,” he continued, “over the past few months, while all of this has been unfolding, I used the time afforded to me to learn. To ask questions discreetly of those I am… positioned to speak with.” A faint emphasis there.
“I have gained a clear understanding of the structure and mechanics of the operation you were involved in. From the top. All the way down. I have also spoken at length with Tristan during his recovery here from what were, by any standard, very significant injuries.”
I glanced sideways. Tristan met my look with a small, unapologetic smile.
“And,” Charles gestured across the table, “Eloise has been kind enough to coax some degree of insight from your sister.”
I dug my fingers into my thigh beneath the table.
Of course she had. Nothing ever came without strings.
Keeley and Maisie hadn’t been rehoused out of kindness, she’d been used as leverage.
And that thought, that once again the people I loved were nothing but bargaining chips, lodged hard in my chest. My family, reduced to context. To insight. Something to use.
Then Tristan slid his hand over mine.
I froze for a bit before curling my thumb gently around his. The simple contact grounded me in a way words never had. And whatever came next, I wasn’t taking it alone.
“I have learnt,” Charles went on, “that at an age not much older than my daughter is now—”
I peered over at Amelia. She gave me a brief smile. And looked way too young to be hearing any of this. Too clean. Too untouched. Yet she was Keeley’s age. Keeley had lived this. And like the bloke said, I was her age when my life went full fucking tilt.
“—you assumed most of the responsibility for your household. That you intervened in a catastrophic situation involving your mother, one which altered your view of people and power irreversibly. That you then took near-sole responsibility for a six-year-old child while your mother spiralled.”
I bowed my head, the burden of it pressing down as heavily as it had since that day.
“You were exploited,” Charles said plainly.
“By those in positions above you. What should have been recognised as bravery was instead used as leverage. Had your circumstances been different, I have little doubt you would be a very different man. That assessment is not born of sentiment. Though, despite whatever assumptions may be made about those of us raised in privilege, we have it. But this has been drawn from testimony.”
I swallowed.
“Do not misunderstand me, Mr Slade.” He held my gaze, steady and unyielding. “I was not searching for reasons to vindicate you. I was searching for evidence that my son was misguided.”
He drew a breath then, deeper than before, chest rising.
A faint crackle caught in it, followed by a cough he tried to suppress.
Victoria was instantly there with a napkin, which he waved away with quiet irritation.
I’d forgotten about the cancer. Impressive, really.
How he could fold something like that neatly inside a tailored suit and still hold a room.
He took a sip of water before continuing, his voice unchanged.
“I also read a statement from an associate of yours. One which detailed how you ran your line. How you deliberately removed children from its proximity. How you limited involvement to those who understood precisely what they were entering.” He paused long enough for the significance of that to make itself known.
“And how you routinely placed yourself in harm’s way rather than delegating risk to others.
How you accepted responsibility when matters went wrong. ”
God. I wanted this to stop.
“All behaviours consistent with a young man attempting, within deeply flawed circumstances, to retain a sense of personal code.” He tilted his head. “Is that a fair summary, or would you like an opportunity to clarify any part of what I have said?”
I couldn’t even find words. So I shrugged.
“I am also aware of the circumstances that led to your recent… entanglement.” He chose the word carefully.
“That it was not, in fact, the result of your own actions, but of decisions made far above you by men who determined you were expendable.” He took a drink, glancing away for a moment.
“Not all those who move comfortably within my professional circles are good people, Mr Slade. That is a lesson that Marcus and I have tried, sometimes unsuccessfully, to impress upon Tristan.” A faint, wry edge entered his voice.
“As you may appreciate, merely telling him such is rarely sufficient. He is his father’s son.
He requires evidence. Experience. And, more often than not, the freedom to arrive at his own conclusions.
Much like he had to with his previous boyfriend, who was not worthy of his affections. ”
He gave a wry shake of his head at Tristan.
I glanced at him. That boyfriend hadn’t been worthy. I might be a lowlife gutter scum, but I hadn’t cheated on him. I’d known from the off that I couldn’t get better than Tristan, so there’d be no point. His Oliver needed that spelt out to him.
I felt glee that I might have done that for him.
“I also accept that in encouraging his proximity to certain individuals,” Charles drew my gaze back to him, “I bear responsibility for what followed. For what happened to you.” He didn’t name Wolfe.
Some things were left unsaid because they might yet be needed again.
“So,” Charles adjusted his cuffs, the room leaning in with him, “I have a question. One we all share.” He gestured vaguely around the table.
“What do you intend to do with your time now you have gained complete freedom from the authorities who had their stamp over you?”
That was a lot of words for a simple question.
I could’ve shrugged. Told him I didn’t know.
Because, truthfully, I didn’t. Not really.
I was twenty-eight with no CV, no references, no qualifications.
Tesco wouldn’t touch me. Lennon had tried to get me labouring on sites, but even that needed tickets and experience.
Sixteen-year-olds were cheaper. I was surplus to requirements.
I was, on paper, fucked.
But there was one thing.
“My mate Lennon runs a boxing gym.” I shifted in my seat, tightening my grip on my glass.
“For kids who are already halfway gone. His brother used to box before…” I left that there, took a drink, and felt Tristan squeeze my hand.
I got back to the answer. “It ain’t even a real gym.
It’s some rundown council building he rents with borrowed equipment.
But it does the job. Used to send lads to him when I saw them standing on corners, palms out, thinking that was the only future available.
He’s good with them. Trains them. Teaches discipline.
Self-defence. Gives them somewhere to put all that anger without it destroying them.
Stuff I didn’t have. Stuff that might’ve changed things. ”
The room went very quiet.
“I’m gonna help him.” I forced myself to keep going.
“Now I’m allowed back in the borough. Though they’ve housed me the other end of London so the travel’ll be a bitch.
But it’ll be worth it. Kids knowing I’m there might get a few more to come along for a bit.
Maybe longer.” I shrugged, aware of how thin it sounded out loud.
“Maybe build something of my own eventually. Getting kids out before gangs feel like family. Giving them skills. Options. A reason not to owe anyone. Become anyone’s soldier. ”
I leant forwards then, rubbing a hand over my mouth, realising, too late, that this wasn’t quite what he was asking. He didn’t give a fuck about purpose. He wanted to know whether I planned to live off his son.
“It won’t make me any money.” I shook my head.
“If that’s what you’re asking. But it might keep a few kids alive.
Give me a reason to keep turning up. Purpose matters, I suppose.
” I linked my thumb with Tristan’s under the table.
“The rest?” I glanced at him with a small smile.
“I’ll work it out. Always have.” Then quickly turned back to his father. “Legal shit, I mean.”
The silence that followed wasn’t hostile. It was… evaluative. As if this room full of people were recalibrating a position they hadn’t expected to shift.
Then Charles spoke. “Then that’s settled.” He nodded to Eloise.
Eloise straightened, nodded.
I frowned. “Sorry…what? What’s settled?”
Charles looked back at me. “My daughter-in-law has founded and overseen several charitable organisations. One of which your sister is currently supported by. We had already been discussing an expansion into preventative work, and we are… encouraged to discover you have arrived at a similar conclusion independently.”
I blinked. Once. Twice. “I don’t—”
“Let me finish.” Charles held up his hand to stop me.
“Eloise will speak with your friend about formalising his gym. Turning it into a registered charitable enterprise. Accessing funding. Safeguarding structures. Sustainability. And Tristan has redirected a portion of his discretionary assets into this work.”
I went to open my mouth.
“This is not a handout,” Charles continued, anticipating me. “You would not be an employee. You would not be beholden to us. Nor to Tristan. Nor is this an attempt to replace one hierarchy with another. We ask only that you contribute your insight. Your experience. Consultation, if you will.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t come here for your money.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear it. Because we’re not giving it to you.
” He glanced from me to Tristan, back to me.
“What impressed me today, Mr Slade, was not your proposal. It was that you walked through that door tonight knowing how unwelcome you might be. That tells me you are not seeking shelter. You are seeking footing. And perhaps…my son.”
I swallowed. Looked at Tristan. He smiled and yeah, the bloke was right. I had come seeking him. Then I turned back, head pounding with what was happening here.
“Are you saying… you want me involved in your enterprise?”
“I am saying, that you have identified a problem we also recognise. And that your solution has merit.” He paused, letting that settle.
“What you choose to do with that opportunity remains entirely yours.” Then, he softened.
“But we need not conclude any of that this evening. You may think about it. Finish your drink.” He gestured to the table. “We have dessert.”
As if on cue, the housekeepers returned, placing delicate plates in front of us—some kind of cheesecake thing, all pale layers and precision and sauce drizzled like art.
I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to say.
Tristan squeezed my leg under the table, grounding me, then picked up his spoon and took a bite. Conversation drifted back into safer territory. Compliments about the dessert. Praise for Mrs Linton. Eloise laughing about something Amelia had said. The baby wailing for more food.
So I followed his lead.
I ate.
* * * *
By the time it all wound down and people rose from the table, the edge had gone from the room. I said my goodbyes. Awkward, careful, sincere. Then Tristan walked me to the front door.
“The car’s outside,” he said.
I nodded. Drew in a breath. Then leant my forehead on his. “Fuck.”
He chuckled, sliding his hands up my neck, stroking his thumbs along my jaw. “Thank you.” He kissed me. “For stepping through that door.”
“And if I hadn’t?”
“Then I’d have found a way to see you, anyway.” He shrugged. “But we’d still be hiding. Stealing time. And it would feel… wrong. Especially with what we’ve both been through.” He held my gaze. “This way, it feels…earned. We feel earned.”
I slid my arms around him and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss because God, I wanted him. All of him. But I guess that couldn’t happen here.
Waiting, it turned out, was something I was getting very good at.
He opened the door for me. “The car knows where to go.”
I stepped out, then stopped. “When will I see you? I don’t have a phone yet.”
He leant one shoulder on the doorframe. “Then my secretary will have to ring your secretary until you do.”
I snorted. Then left. Down the path, into the waiting Range Rover.
In the back, I slumped in the seat, propping my head against the glass and watching London blur past, trying to process what the fuck had just happened. After fuck knew how long, though it didn’t feel long enough, the car slowed. Stopped.
I frowned, peering out. “This ain’t my place, mate.”
The driver glanced at me in the mirror. “This is the address Mr Hale-Fitzroy gave.”
I looked again.
Then felt that quiet, sudden thud in my chest.
I got out.
And once again, I stood beneath Tristan’s window.