Chapter Twenty-Three #2
Maybe I’ll knock his face and Noah’s together and throw Lance in for good measure.
All three need to be taught a lesson.
“…was only the beginning,” I inform her. “That’s why you need to follow London’s father. I need something on him that’ll allow me to take a second look at the contract without arousing suspicion.”
“You mean without pissing off London?”
I curl my hands into fists and level Katia with a stony look. “That’s none of your concern. What I do or don’t do, and who I do it with, is my business. Don’t make me give you another fucking reminder.”
I’m itching to take my anger out on someone.
Katia isn’t the person I’m mad at, but with the way I’m feeling, she’ll do.
She is looking out for me, but she’s also asking questions she shouldn’t.
It’s only our history that’s keeping me from taking more serious action against her.
That and the niggling voice in the back of my head screaming at me that she’s right.
When did she become so goddamn observant?
When Carlisle knocks on the door, I take a step back and reach for my drink. Katia exits the room but not before scowling at Carlisle. He enters, and I give him a blank look.
The entire time he talks, I can’t stop thinking about London.
***
London
“Don’t do anything stupid,” I mutter. With one last look over my shoulder at the door left ajar, I sit behind Miss Deveroux’s desk. My fingers are trembling as I pry the laptop open and wait for it to boot up.
I don’t know if being in here is going to get me in trouble.
I’m only allowed to escape to her office because she likes me, but what happens if she finds out how often I’ve been hiding out here?
Will she get into trouble?
You’ve seen how much influence she has. I’m sure she’ll be fine. Also, it’s not like you can do this on your own. Who knows where Mason has eyes and ears? I don’t even trust that he hasn’t bugged my phone.
The screen in front of me lights up, interrupting my thoughts, and I log onto the computer and pull up a browser. I type in Mason’s name and wait. A heartbeat later, several articles pop up, many with pictures of him at the club and with various gorgeous women.
My stomach tightens as I scroll through the articles, my heart hammering.
Mason looks put-together and powerful in every photo.
Even in pictures, his presence and aura are magnetic and undeniable.
Did I ever stand a chance against him?
I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but I know I won’t find it on the first try.
With a frown, I launch an incognito browser and glance at the door.
Laughter and music spill in through the crack.
I type in Mason’s name again and scroll farther down, alternating between glancing at the door and ignoring the pit in my stomach. When I feel the frustration and anger creep in, I finally come across Mason’s name in a forum. Despite my better judgment, I click on the link and lick my dry lips.
Holy shit.
Come on, you can’t be that surprised that the club is a front.
Since the first day he showed me around, I’ve known the club was a place for the elite to socialize and conduct business away from prying eyes. After I learned about the seedy underbelly operating below the surface, I’ve been dying to know the real purpose.
Now that I know, my mind races to put the pieces together.
According to the forum, the Paynes are the bankers of the underworld, investment powerhouses who finance short-term deals.
It’s no wonder my father went to them.
No one else would’ve given him that kind of money without collateral, and, given the state of the diner, he must’ve been desperate.
The farther I scroll down in the forum, the worse I feel.
By the time I reach a paragraph written by one of the survivors of a human trafficking ring conducted by the Paynes, I feel like I’m going to be sick all over Miss Deveroux’s expensive carpet. I stop and lean forward in my chair, but the roaring in my ears is still there.
It remains as I read about the Everetts and their trucking company, and their suspected ties to drug distribution, guns, and exotic animals.
You need to stop reading. Stop it. Right now.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t make myself look away.
I taste vomit as I read through the paragraphs about the Fitzpatricks, how they work with Fortune 500 companies, and how they control several of the largest and most important marinas, wharves, and the largest dock in Boston.
The ringing in my ears turns into a pounding as I skim through the information and linger on the Thayers.
My chest is so tight that I’m sure I’ll never be able to breathe again.
Or sleep without reliving every piece of information I’ve uncovered.
Where have I heard that name before?
I exit the forum and type in their name into the Google search bar. A heartbeat later, I lean back against the chair and remind myself that I can’t run out the door. As much as I want to race back to my father’s house and throw myself at his mercy, I know I can’t.
I’m too far gone.
And knowing that the Thayers, a major fashion family I recognize from several red carpet events, is in on it too only makes me feel worse.
What am I supposed to do with this information?
What were you hoping to do? Were you hoping that shedding light on the business would make you feel better? Or were you hoping to find something that would make you feel like being drawn to Mason isn’t a terrible thing?
I want the truth to erase whatever feeling has taken root inside.
I want it to haunt me so I stay out of Mason’s bed and far, far away from him.
Slowly, and with unsteady fingers, I lean back in the chair and let my eyes skim over specific paragraphs, the knots in my stomach only growing tighter. It makes me sick to realize how deep their hooks run, and how far back the operation goes.
The five families mentioned are as much a part of the history of our country as its founding, deeply interwoven into the very fabric of our nation.
I wonder how much of this country was built on their backs.
You’ve learned enough for one day. Close the damn browser and get back to work.
Unless I’m willing to walk right out the front door, consequences be damned, there’s nothing I can do with this information.
I can’t go to the cops because everything I’ve read suggests the five most powerful families in Boston have connections everywhere.
One wrong move, and paying off my father’s debt will be the least of my worries.
You can’t make an enemy out of them, London. Don’t be stupid.
Being curious about Mason and the snippets of the man I see behind the mask is one thing.
Drawing attention to myself and painting a target on my back is another.
Get up and close the browser. Do it now, unless you want the target to extend to your father and Noah, too.
Carefully, and on shaky legs, I force myself to my feet and take several deep breaths. That’s when Miss Deveroux finds me, and the look on her face makes me sick all over again. She places a gentle hand on the small of my back and leads me to the couch in the corner.
Wordlessly, she hands me a bottle of water, and I take a drink.
My throat still feels very, very dry.
Miss Deveroux says something, but I don’t hear her.
Eventually, when I feel steady enough, I leave her office and throw myself into work. Hours later, I’m still turning the information over in my head when I feel Mason’s eyes on me. I spot him across the room, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his expression giving nothing away.
How much of the empire did he help build?
And why do I care so much about the blood he has on his hands?
It’s not as if he hid it from me.
Nothing you learn will change the fact that you had sex with him. Twice. Or that you’re attracted to him. So, you have a thing for powerful men. So what?
I’m not the first woman to be seduced by darkness, nor will I be the last.
Still, knowing just how dangerous Mason and his world are unsettles me in a way nothing else has.
Even learning about the seedy underbelly of the club doesn’t have the same impact.
But knowing that I’m starting to care about him doesn’t make it better.
Mason continues to look at me, and eventually, I look away.
I feel his eyes follow me as I weave through the crowd, ignoring a few catcalls along the way.
When I reach the hallway, I lean against the cleaning cart and place a hand on my chest. I count the steady thundering until it slows, and get back to work.
Mason isn’t far from my thoughts.
I spend the rest of the afternoon flitting from one room to the next and wondering how much the employees of the House of Payne know.
How much of the truth is revealed to them, and how much did they uncover on their own?
How many of them just don’t give a fuck as long as they repay their debt?
You’re going to need to learn to be one of those people because you made a commitment. Like it or not, you have to see it through. You promised to survive whatever happens next. Nothing will change that.
Nothing can change that.
All learning that information has done is steel my resolve to make it out as unscathed as possible.
The only way for me to do that is to turn a blind eye to everything.
Including my frustratingly growing attachment to Mason Payne.