Chapter Three Razor #2
He took it but didn’t put it on right away.
Because he stared. At me. My chest, my shoulders, the muscle I kept hard out of necessity, not vanity, drinking me in.
I wasn’t a street thug anymore, but I had to look as though I could break someone twice my size if I needed to.
Gym, boxing, running, the occasional chase, whatever it took to keep the edge.
And yeah, I knew he liked the tattoos. The heart on my chest. Thorns and blade through it.
The one he knew exactly what it meant. And that serpent coiling along my ribs reminding him what I’d always be: poisonous.
But they weren’t where his gaze settled.
It fixed on the scar.
The long, jagged line cutting across my side, still a little raised, a little angry. The one he’d helped stitch up. The one that had almost killed me. And he stepped closer, carefully running his fingertips over it.
Soft touch.
Soft boy.
Soft thing I didn’t deserve.
He’d saved my life twice. Once with his hands, and once with information he never should’ve given me, pulling me and my crew out of the fire before it swallowed us. And feeling his touch on that scar then, it felt as though he was doing it a third time.
Couldn’t handle that.
Him like that.
So I grabbed his wrist, brought his fingers to my mouth, and kissed them. Quick, rough-edged. The closest I’d ever get to saying thank you, and the last thing he wanted to hear as it would remind him how far deep into the dark side he’d gone for someone he didn’t know and had no business trusting.
“Put the shirt on.” I stepped back before I did something even dumber.
Tristan slipped his arms into my black shirt. It was too big for him by miles. Swallowed him whole. But he buttoned it up, tucked it into his expensive trousers, and somehow, typical bloody Tristan, still looked half decent. Enough to walk out without a hundred eyes turning.
“What about you?” He gestured at my bare torso.
I pulled on the leather jacket, letting it hang open, tattoos and skin still marked with the heat of him. “Can’t pass for decent, no?”
He bit his bottom lip. “Quite the opposite actually.”
I snorted, then fastened the jacket, sealing myself back behind layers of leather and restraint.
“Right.” I met his gaze. “We’ve got one way to do this.
And I really fucking hope I don’t have to spell it out for you that if this goes tits up, it won’t be your shirt getting ripped off.
It’ll be your pretty fucking head torn off your neck.
Literally. Not figuratively or metaphorically or whatever you educated gits mean. ”
“You kind of did spell that out. But thanks. I get it.”
I cocked my head. “Smartypants.”
Tristan laughed under his breath. Christ, I could’ve kissed him.
“I’ll take you back to the toilets. You walk straight out, go to your table, grab your blazer, and leave. Do not look back.” I wrapped my fist around the doorknob.
His throat bobbed. “Okay.”
He then grabbed my wrist before I could open it. I glanced back. Met his gaze. And heard the question in those eyes. But I had no answers, so I leant back and kissed him. Then I opened the door a crack and scanned the corridor.
I turned back to him. “Try not to look like someone just fucked the soul out of you as well, yeah?”
He cocked his head. “Maybe don’t do it, and I won’t.”
“Then don’t walk into my joint looking so damn pretty.” I held my back against the door. “Now move.”
He stepped out, and I followed close behind, palm on his lower back, guiding him through the rabbit warren behind the restaurant.
The service corridors were all steel-grey and low-lit.
Pipes overhead, crates stacked shoulder-high, the hum of refrigerated units vibrating through the floor.
The air smelt of citrus cleaner and the deep, slow-cooked sauces drifting in from the kitchen line.
We reached the L-shaped bend, edging out of the one place in the club where the cameras didn’t touch.
“Through there.” I stayed in the shadow, pointing to the scarred metal door with a fading EXIT sign half-hanging above it.
“It brings you out by the back of the toilets. Walk through and out. If anyone stops you, you tell ’em you got lost.” I leant close, my breath at his ear. “Don’t turn around. Go.”
He nodded and obeyed. Then I watched him go.
He opened the door and paused, as if he wanted to look back at me, to burn this to memory.
But he didn’t. He slipped through, vanished into the glow of the restaurant and I exhaled long and rough.
Then I headed the opposite way towards the staff stairwell leading up to the mezzanine offices.
The stairs were narrow metal grates, clanging under my boots as I climbed.
The air changed the higher I got. Less kitchen heat and colder club-vent hum with the low bass thud of the DJ warming up downstairs threading through.
It was still early, but the club zone would kick off soon enough.
I stopped at the supply cupboard beside the office, grabbed a branded club T-shirt still wrapped in cellophane, then shouldered open the door to my space. “Office” was a generous term. But it was mine. Lit by a single strip light, it was the place where the real work happened.
Against one wall sat a battered desk with six CCTV monitors, showing every angle of the restaurant, club entrance, staff corridors, bar, and delivery bay.
The glow from them painted the room in shifting greys and blues, enough to light up the place without proper fixings.
My drawers held a lot of things I technically shouldn’t have.
Burner phones, stash keys, tracking tags, black books with names and numbers no one else should see.
With a safe bolted under the desk. Records to rinse.
Accounts to “clean.” And in the corner, a black leather sofa I pretended was for breaks but had really been used to negotiate threats, loyalty tests, and the occasional punch-up.
Elliot used it sometimes. But everyone knew this was my den.
I shrugged off the leather jacket, tossed it on the sofa, and tore open the T-shirt packaging with my teeth as I checked the monitors.
Camera six picked up Tristan. Stepping out of the men’s toilets, wrapped in my black shirt.
The sleeves too long. The fabric swallowing him.
He crossed the restaurant, reaching his table where a server approached.
He shook his head to whatever he was asked, then grabbed his blazer and walked out, not looking back.
Good. Smart. Necessary.
But watching him go gutted me.
I exhaled as the door opened and in walked Tyler.
I eyed him. He didn’t need to knock. No one did.
Only a few had access here, and Tyler was one.
Elliot the other. If there were something happening that was off limits, they’d know about it.
So I couldn’t exactly tear him a new one for walking in on me half dressed.
Still pissed me off though, cause second time that day he’d snuck up on me.
“Got a message for you,” Tyler said.
“Yeah? Go on.” I pulled the branded T-shirt over my head and cursed. I’d picked up a fucking small. Had to proper force it on as if I was stuffing a sausage casing. Even Tyler had trouble keeping a straight face as he delivered bad news.
“Trentham’s still here, wanted to check the club out. He’s downstairs. “
“And?” Fuck me, I could hardly breathe in this fucking top.
Tyler eased down onto the sofa. “Said he wants the first supply comp.”
I ripped off the top few buttons on the polo, tore it a little so it didn’t strangle me to fucking death. Unlike the bolshy cunt trying to go back on a deal we’d shaken on. “He can fuck off.”
“Yeah. Figured you’d say that. But he said you left and he weren’t done talking. So you owe him.”
“I owe him a fucking slap.”
I glanced back at the monitors, checking where the bastard was. Got him. Club section. Sipping on a whisky, talking to the barman. “I’ll go talk to him.”
Tyler nodded. “You heard it’s Darren’s trial hearing tomorrow?”
That got my attention. “Yeah? Where?”
“Highbury.”
“Right.” I scraped a hand over my head. I should have known that.
Darren. My sister’s baby daddy. The kid who’d flipped eight months ago and ran to the rival crew chasing the thrill, ended up on the wrong side of a raid I’d only dodged because Tricky tipped me off.
He’d been caught holding more than he could explain, and when they’d pressed him, he’d cracked.
Eighteen. Terrified. Exactly who the filth push into turning for a lighter sentence.
I’d kept my distance since stepping into this new role, and I’d told Keeley to stay away too.
Clean separation. No whispers of interference.
No reason for the cops to think he’d be tied to us.
Which meant he was alone right now. Panicking.
And a kid abandoned was bound to start talking.
I should show up at court tomorrow and let him see me.
Presence alone would remind him where he belonged. Where his loyalties lay.
Who’d be waiting for him if he opened his mouth.
“Cheers for the heads-up.” I collapsed into the office chair, everything settling like concrete across my shoulders, with the added T-shirt squeezing me to death.
Tyler cocked his head. “What happened to your top?”
“Spilt something down it. What are you? My mum?”
“Nah, mate.” He leant back on the sofa, stretching out an arm along the backrest, hooking an ankle over the opposite knee. “Just trying to figure out which bird it was.”
“Don’t go thinking too hard, Ty. It’ll give you a headache.”
“You like blondes, right? Carmon? Feisty one behind the bar?”
Fuck knew where he got blondes from. Probably because his missus’s mate was bleached blonde. Dark skin, tight afro she’d fried to hell with peroxide. Far as he knew, that was “my type.” Which was bullshit. Dangerously so. If he ever clocked the truth, he wouldn’t be narrowing to hair colour.
Though… Tristan was blond.
So maybe I did have a type.
Tyler opened his mouth, probably about to list another girl I’d barely glanced at, when the door opened again. Brilliant. My night just kept getting better.
Elliot stepped inside.
“Fuck’s sake,” I snapped. “Does no one out there know how to watch a door? Or does everyone just fancy barging in for a cuppa and a chat?”
My irritation came from being cornered. I knew that. But I also had to save face. Had to show I wasn’t losing grip.
“It’s handled.” Elliot folded his arms, then registered Tyler in the corner.
His posture faltered a millimetre as Tyler stood up, silent loyalty, even with suspicion swirling behind his eyes.
Elliot tore his gaze back to me. “I’m here to ask again what Lord Wolfe did to you to deserve to be escorted out like that. ”
“I told you before.” I swiped my hands together as if rubbing off dirt. “I don’t like him.”
“If we turned away every man you didn’t like, Razor, none of us would be drowning in cash right now.”
I stared at him. Even Tyler noted the shift in the air. If Elliot had been some gobshite on Mare Street, I’d’ve cracked him one already. Instead, I laughed once and dragged a finger across my eyebrow to keep myself steady before lifting my gaze again.
“You telling me how to run my line?” The soft tone of my voice should’ve warned him enough that I was in no mood for a professional review.
But he hadn’t known me long. Didn’t know my triggers.
Unlike Tyler, who took a step forward.
“I’m trying to stop you,” Elliot glanced at Tyler, “stop us, from making a mistake so big even Cormac won’t cover it.”
“Really?” I tilted my head. “You got a hard-on for this bloke or something?”
Elliot’s chest rose, brittle pride in every breath. “The entire country has a hard-on for Lord Wolfe.”
“Well,” I stepped closer, “they can all go fuck him then, can’t they?” I leant in until he had to tilt his chin up to meet my stare. “Me? I like my dick clean.”
Something changed in him, then. Fear… or stupidity trying on bravery for size. I didn’t care which.
“You’re making a mistake,” Elliot pushed out. “We can still fix this if you call him back. Offer a complimentary package. Show goodwill.”
I angled my head towards Tyler. “He ain’t listening to me, Ty.”
Tyler nodded. “Hm.”
Elliot scoffed. “I can assure you—”
I didn’t let him finish. Fury had me gripped. So I grabbed him by the front of his shirt to slam him into the wall so hard the shelves behind him rattled. I locked my forearm across his throat, pinning him in place with enough pressure to make his face red.
“Speak out of turn again, and instead of eating that bloke’s dick, you’ll be eating my floor.”
Tyler moved in behind me instantly. Ready to break it up, or back me up, whichever way I swung.
But I pressed harder. Making the point land.
Elliot’s breath cut off, and he clawed at my arm, eyes wide.
Sadly, I was gone. Feral. Deadly. That’s who he’d released.
The monster I kept chained under my ribs.
And he didn’t know how close he was to making that chain snap.
“I will gut you right here,” I whispered, voice low as gravel. “If you ever, ever, question how I do things. Are we crystal?”
He couldn’t speak. Could barely even nod. All I had were his eyes. And right then they were shouting yes. Maybe even a yes, sir.
So I released him and stepped back.
He dropped like a cut rope, hitting the floor hard, clutching his throat and gasping.
“Now,” I adjusted the too-tight polo glued to my ribs, “I gotta go see a man about a dog.” I yanked him up and tapped his cheek. “Get us all another wad of cash in our rockets.”
Then I moved around him, grabbed the door, and yanked it open.
But before I stepped out, I paused.
Tyler watched me, eyes narrowing in a way I didn’t like. Elliot wheezed against the wall while the screen behind me showed the ghost-trail of Tristan crossing the restaurant in my shirt.
I shut the door behind me.
And as I started down the stairs, hand tight on the rail, a nasty twist tightened in my chest.
I’d lost my temper.
I’d lost focus.
And all because of a man who shouldn’t have meant a thing.
The Firm didn’t tolerate cracks. Men like me didn’t survive them. But tonight, for the first time in a long time, I felt one forming. And I wasn’t sure how much more pressure it would take before the whole thing broke.