Chapter 23
Slipping through my fingers
Clara
“Your dad wants a word with you.”
I startled at Pete’s voice and spun around on the pavement to face him, fear stealing my breath for a moment. Pete might look scrawny, but he was just as dangerous as the rest of them.
“Fuck off, Pete,” I snapped, skittering away from him. It didn’t matter that we were on a busy pavement and it was broad daylight; I wasn’t safe near any of my father’s men. I turned to walk away, but strong fingers closed around my upper arm, bringing me to an abrupt stop.
“You can’t ignore him, Clara,” Pete hissed, squeezing harder and then giving me a small shake. “You know what happens when you ignore him.”
I yanked my arm out of his grip and took a few steps back, nearly colliding with a suited businessman walking in the other direction. Pete jerked his head towards an alcove next to a shop, and I gritted my teeth but followed him there.
“Like I said, he wants a word,” said Pete.
I crossed my arms over my chest, swallowing down the bile that had risen into the back of my throat.
“The last time I spoke to my father, it didn’t go well for me, Pete,” I said, levelling him with a steady look.
Pete looked away and shifted uncomfortably on his feet.
I was surprised when colour crept up his neck, staining his cheeks.
He knew what had gone down, and clearly, he hadn’t been working for my father for long enough to lose his humanity completely.
“It’ll be worse for you if he has to have you brought in,” Pete said stiffly.
My eyes widened. “How much worse could it possibly be?”
“What happened was an accident,” he said, his voice lacking conviction.
“An accident?” I said, my voice rising with my panic. “My father’s fists accidentally slipped, did they? Pete, he was teaching me a lesson. I’ve learnt the lesson. I won’t go near him ever again.”
“You know it doesn’t work like that, Clara,” Pete said, losing his patience. “You know you can’t just walk away from your family. No one walks away.”
I huffed. “That’s bloody ridiculous. We’re not the Mafia.”
Pete’s gaze sharpened on me. He didn’t reply. I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I went over the facts of my situation.
Shit.
The term mafia basically just describes an organised crime network.
My father and brothers did control a large portion of east London.
Bloody hell. They basically were a mafia operation.
Just a slightly crap, unattractive version who drank beer, wore England shirts and conducted their crime deals in the local pub.
I knew my father’s organisation had grown since I left home, but he was clearly more powerful than even I’d realised.
“I-I-I am not going back there,” I whispered. “He can’t expect me to.”
“Listen, you stupid little bitch,” snarled Pete. “You will go back to that house and you will speak to him.”
I straightened my shoulders, reaching for the backbone I knew was in there somewhere. “I can’t, I—”
“You know you will, and you know why,” he said, shifting again in discomfort.
It took me a moment but when I realised what he was saying I rocked back as if he’d physically struck me. My shoulders slumped as the spine I’d been reaching for disintegrated again.
Zach.
That’s what Pete meant. That’s why he knew I’d fall into line.
If I were honest with myself, I knew that I’d buried my head in the sand over the last three months.
Living in a world where I travelled in a bulletproof car and stayed in a house complete with a high-level security system had shielded me from my worst fears for a while.
Had allowed me to hide from the shitshow that my life actually was.
Because, in reality, I didn’t exist in a world with handsome men wearing billowy cashmere overcoats, who held me at night and gave me multiple orgasms. But this new reality had been too good for me to resist.
We’d fallen into a comfortable daily routine which involved me eating with Rafe and Ozzie, listening to Ozzie read to Rafe, then curling up with Rafe on the sofa after Ozzie had gone to bed.
Rafe would play with my hair, stroke my back, hold my hand, either watching the telly with me and making derisive but often hilarious commentary on the crap reality programmes I favoured, or working quietly on his laptop balanced on his knee but keeping me plastered to his side.
I was no longer on edge all the time. My BMI was no longer in a dangerously low range and I felt safer than I had in years.
I was getting a full night’s sleep, mostly in Rafe’s arms, although I insisted on retreating to the guest room before Ozzie woke up (something Rafe was becoming more and more frustrated with, especially as he was ready to be open about our relationship).
I’d never known the level of endorphins I was currently experiencing.
Only this morning Rafe had accomplished the logistical feat of shagging me up against the tiled wall of his ensuite bathroom whilst his multiple shower heads blasted us from all angles.
As if that wasn’t enough, the man then cooked me bacon.
He gave me two orgasms before nine o’clock in the morning and bacon.
How was anyone supposed to resist that? Those regular endorphin rushes were now addling my mind.
This unadulterated happiness was like a drug, and I was an addict not wanting reality to invade our bubble.
That was the real reason why I still insisted on secrecy.
If I let Rafe tell Ozzie, I knew the next step would be going public with our relationship.
Something I had actually been wavering about over the last few days, given how safe I was feeling.
But this conversation with Pete was proving how right I’d been.
Rafe was a high-profile man. He was an aristocrat, had a famous sister and he was set to be one of the youngest high court judges appointed in over a hundred years.
There was no way that my relationship with him could remain under any sort of wraps – and I needed to fly under the radar of my family as much as possible.
The only other person who knew about me and Rafe was Poppy.
Given how frequently she was at the house and her rampant curiosity, it really wasn’t feasible to hide it from her.
Also, if Ozzie was at his mum’s or after he’d gone to bed, Rafe would happily hug me in front of her, kiss the nape of my neck when he brought me tea and even pull me down onto his lap in the living room.
Poppy was certainly not unaware of what was going on.
And now that she was at the house even more regularly to work with me on her literacy, it was even more difficult to hide.
But I had a geeky, six-foot-tall, skinny reason why I couldn’t stay in this bubble forever. The same reason why I hadn’t left London years ago, or more recently when Grant offered to set me up out of harm’s way.
I’d thought this time I was justified in staying away from my family.
To be fair, Zach had been so shaken by what happened after I’d come over to help him revise that he didn’t want me anywhere near the house either.
He’d told me he’d be fine, and that he needed me for when he was actually able to leave, and until then I should stay safe.
“I don’t know why they hate you so much, Clara,” he’d said when he’d come to see me in the hospital. “I just don’t understand it. It’s as if they resent you for what you represent, or what you’re trying to represent to me. But you’ve never hurt them, you’ve never hurt anyone. It’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair,” I’d croaked, trying to give him a small smile despite the swelling in my face. “We know that better than most. Just keep your head down, Zach. Try to stay out of their way. Maybe spend a bit more time at the library.”
I knew that Zach was now shielding me from what was going on at home. My texts were answered briefly. He was always “fine”. The same went with phone calls: brief, to the point and leaving so much unsaid between us.
He wasn’t fine, but I had been scared to find out just how bad things were.
And in the back of my mind I knew that these last three months were only a brief reprieve.
It was the same pattern in our childhood when most of the attacks were on Mum.
Dad would regret it afterwards, and he’d back off for a while.
But then things would start slipping, and his behaviour would begin to deteriorate again.
I re-adjusted my glasses on my face and forced myself to make eye contact with Skinny Pete.
“Okay,” I agreed, that one word heavy with defeat. “When and where?”
Skinny Pete’s tense stance relaxed slightly.
I didn’t feel sorry for him. He was a violent son of a bitch, just like the rest of them, but I knew there would have been repercussions for him had I completely refused to meet with the family.
And to be honest, I didn’t want any more violence on my behalf.
“Tomorrow, six pm, at the house.”
I shuddered at the thought of returning to that house and felt bile rise in the back of my throat but swallowed it down.
Rafe
Clara was hiding something from me. Well, no, that wasn’t strictly accurate. Clara was hiding everything from me. Until now, I hadn’t quite appreciated how much she deflected questions about herself. She was quiet in general, yes, but about herself she was silent.