Chapter Two
Cross disliked conducting business in broad daylight, let alone on a public street, and so was keen to take this particular discussion back inside the club where privacy would be assured since he owned every eye that might be watching.
Appearances were everything. The Eighth Circle relied on its reputation to maintain its standing within the criminal community. And that well deserved reputation for ruthless efficiency, clinical impartiality and utter discretion had been paid for with many lives over the years. But it was a reputation that had been under attack in recent weeks.
Despite his best attempts at maintaining his aura of chilling calm, Cross felt his teeth clench and a corresponding twitch from the muscle in his jaw. For the first time in his tenure as owner of this establishment, questions were being asked. For now, those questions remained hushed whispers that he could ignore, but if a pattern of incidents was to emerge then answers would be required.
For although the club served a valuable purpose to its members - those individuals who held positions of authority in the upper echelons of their various criminal organisations - if its facade was shown to contain cracks, it would swiftly be abandoned or torn apart from within.
The venue needed to represent safe, neutral territory where issues could be discussed and deals made. At times it was called on to play the role of impartial arbiter or mediator, to whom any member could bring their grudges and disputes. Grievances would be heard and rulings made and all parties involved would be bound by those decisions. Its judgement could not be called into question or all confidence in those decisions would be lost.
His iteration of the club wasn’t unique, there were a dozen others scattered round globe, and while each owner held complete dominion over their assigned realm, in the eyes of the criminal underworld they operated as one entity. Deals struck on the hallowed ground of any Eighth Circle club would be honoured in full. The penalty for failure, swift and brutal. But if one fell, all would suffer from the resulting lack of confidence and Cross was starting to feel that watchful gaze turn on his establishment.
If so much as a whisper of impropriety on behalf of his staff became a topic for gossip it could undermine the confidence he had worked so hard to build. And if rumours that such behaviour had been left unchecked were to reach certain ears, it might well signal the end, if not for the London branch of the club itself, certainly for him. And he’d invested far too much to let that happen. Any breach of trust had to be dealt with immediately and firmly.
An example must be made.
It has been a long time since anyone had dared overstep the boundaries he’d set, let alone a member of his own staff and that audacity angered him more than the actual theft. Retaliation needed to be swift, lest anyone else felt inspired to start colouring outside the lines. Thankfully the club was almost empty in the early hours of the morning, so witnesses were few. The remaining staff who were yet to make their way home knew better than to gawp, quickly averting their eyes as he propelled his victim across the lush chrome and marble foyer towards the back staircase.
And the woman in question seemed equally happy to avoid unnecessary attention, wisely choosing not to enrage him further by drawing attention to her plight. Normally by now, any hapless individual who had the misfortune to incur his wrath would be begging and pleading for leniency if not their life, but she remained silent as they swept down the narrow staircase to the administration levels below.
Barefoot and at a significant height disadvantage, she was forced to scurry on tip toe to keep his white-knuckle grip from wrenching her shoulder completely free of its socket. Taking three quick steps to every one of his long strides she was managing to keep up which, for now, was all he required of her.
When they reached the stark interview room he felt her flinch back from its understated menace. He knew that stories of this place would have leaked out, indeed he’d encouraged the spread of those rumours. No one wanted to spend any more time there than they had to. He could see her fighting the urge to speak. Excuses and explanations rising in her throat. Searching for the right words that might permit her to escape this room.
Without giving her the chance to voice those pleas he thrust her onto a hard chair and shackled her wrists. He had little use for carefully prepared speeches
Answers would come later. And after that, retribution.
***
Hands cuffed to the ring set into the centre of the table, Verity shifted her weight and tried to take the pressure off her wrists. Sadly, the width of the table, the placement of the hitchpoint and the fact that her chair was apparently bolted to the floor were all combining to force her arms into an unnatural stretch, making it difficult to settle into a comfortable position. Deliberately difficult she decided as she scooted her weight forward and the sharp edge of the metal chair bit into the backs of her thighs.
Minutes ticked by and she ran her eyes over the sterile interior, searching for some distraction. But the room was a featureless white box. In contrast to the decadence of the main club, the lower levels were functional at best. She was trying very hard not to think about the intended function of this tiny, windowless room, with its tiled floor and exposed central drain. The faint smell of fresh paint lingered in the air and she idly wondered how often they needed to refresh the whitewash.
More time slid past her and her shoulders began to ache. More concerningly, her hands were starting to numb. If she lost sensation in her fingers, her options would decrease rapidly. Deciding to exercise what little control she had left, she pulled herself out of her seat, leaned forward and twisted her neck until she was able to reach her hair, carefully removing one of the grips holding her haphazard bun in place. The cuffs were fairly standard, with a mechanism she recognised and could undo in her sleep, so even with clumsy fingers she was able to bend the pin and easily manipulate the lock.
Once free, she took a moment to rub the feeling back into her wrists while she studied the door. There were no visible locks on this side, which meant she’d need to take the handle apart if she hoped to open it. Not knowing how long they intended to leave her alone in there to stew, she got quietly to her feet and crossed the room.
Resting her cheek against the smooth surface she listened for the slightest shuffle of feet or exhalation of breath from the other side. The silence stretched out until all she could hear was her own rising heart rate, thudding through her head. Satisfied that no-one had been left to keep watch, she crouched down and focused her attention on the handle, but before her fingers could connect with the sleek metal, the door slammed open and she flinched back, landing once again in an inelegant sprawl.
Cross stood framed in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling most of the space. His gaze shifted silently from her to the discarded handcuffs and back again.
She ground her teeth. Of course, he’d been watching her, waiting for her to make a move. With a frown she ran her eyes over the featureless walls; not that it mattered now, but where was the camera?
“Leaving so soon?” His mocking tone gave no indication of the fury he’d displayed earlier.
Deciding to play along with his charade of faux-civility she carefully got to her feet, smoothed her skirt back into place and forced a smile. “Oh you know how it is, places to go, people to see.”
He’d removed his jacket since she’d seen him last. Shirt sleeves now rolled back to his elbows displayed the toned, tanned length of his forearms. Most men’s suits were designed to create the illusion of greater strength and bulk, but he looked more intimidating without that camouflage, she decided. The breadth of his shoulders needed no padding and without the sleek, second skin of a jacket to hide them, she could see the muscles of his torso clearly defined beneath the crisp cotton shirt. Her eyes drifted over his arm and the light dusting of blond hairs. She noticed he was carrying a large ice bucket in one hand and frowned, trying to decipher his intent.
“I’m sorry, were we supposed to meet for drinks? My diary has been a nightmare recently, and I’m afraid I’ll need to take a raincheck? I’m sure–”
Her words vanished as Cross gave a tight-lipped smile, took one step into the room and casually hurled the contents of the bucket straight at her chest. The shock of icy water robbed her of speech and took with it most of the breath in her body. Without waiting to see her reaction he turned on his heel and left the room, the door closing firmly behind him.
“What the fuck?!” Leaning forward she attempted to shake the excess freezing water from her shirt. What the hell was that about? She’d been expecting questions, most likely accompanied by violence if answers weren’t forthcoming or considered sufficient. But he barely said a word to her since dumping her in this cell, and other than this frankly childish prank of drenching her in icy water, he’d hadn’t laid a finger on her.
What was going on?
Lost in her thoughts, she almost missed the quiet click from some invisible mechanism, but the steady hum from the air conditioning unit was harder to ignore. Verity shivered as chilled air began to circulate around her. The impromptu shower was starting to make a lot more sense, its sinister intent becoming crystal clear.
The pace of the fan increased and the temperature in the small room swiftly began to plummet. What had started as uncomfortable, quickly became unbearable. For the first hour she tried to keep moving, swinging her arms and stamping her feet to maintain blood flow to her extremities. But as the chill bit deeper she balled her hands into fists and buried them into her armpits as she slowly paced the room. Still no one came and as more of her core warmth slowly leached into the chill air, she retreated to the farthest corner of the room and curled into a ball.
Jaw clenched to stop her teeth from chattering, she buried her face in her shaking arms and tried to think warm thoughts. But the piercing cold was merciless, digging like needles into her skin and sinking deep into her bones. Before too long every muscle in her body screamed in protest, her limbs jerking in response to the unrelenting cold as a dull ache spread through her whole body. The muscles in her neck spasmed and seized and her skull throbbed. Closing her eyes she tried to remember song lyrics or nursery rhymes, anything to distract herself from soul shredding cold.
Some time later, a new sound penetrated her sluggish thoughts and she realised with a lurch that she wasn’t alone anymore. If it were possible, her tortured muscles tensed further at the thought of what was to follow. She knew that any blow would hurt ten times more in her chilled state and to her frustration she felt a sob rise in her throat as Cross wrapped his cashmere coat tightly around his lean frame and settled into the chair on the far side of the table.
Neck muscles creaking from the strain, she winced as she lifted her head, watching silently as he placed a second ice bucket and a steaming mug of what she assumed was tea on the table in front of him. Once apparently satisfied that her choices were clearly laid out, he lifted the mug to his lips and gently blew the surface, releasing a fresh curl of steam.
Verity felt a stab of pain as her frozen features cracked into an involuntary smile.
He was going to break her with a cup of tea.