Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
LEON - PRESENT DAY
After giving my old bike a well-needed tune up, I fly down the street, the hum of the engine and wind whipping against my skin temporarily drowning out my exhaustion.
I couldn’t have rested even if I wanted to, not with Mum badgering me to eat and to get a bit of sun.
I’d get more rest on a bench at the tube station than being at home with her.
And then there’s the message I woke up to from my father’s assistant.
No greeting, no asking how I’ve been—just summoning me like I’m another underling at his beck and call. I should have known it wouldn’t take long for him to sniff me out once I landed in London. He has eyes everywhere.
Seated on my bike, riding through these familiar neighborhoods, reminds me how much has changed in the time I’ve been away.
How much I’ve changed. The last time I rode these streets, I’d just gotten back from holiday with my father.
His attempt at bringing me into his world.
I wish I could rewind time, and ask myself why.
Why did I want his approval? His love? The same love he’d withheld throughout my childhood suddenly dangled before me like bait.
After what I saw there, glimpses of the real person he hides from the public eye, I knew he was no father to me.
Not even a person I wanted to be acquainted with.
The guys and I have done some depraved shit, but there’s a difference. We’ve never hurt an innocent person. Never gotten off on holding power over another, leveraging lives and trading in human suffering with a smile on our faces.
What I saw that weekend, hidden by a veil of glittery chandeliers, leather sofas, and crystal whiskey glasses, were men who toasted to destroying lives.
Rich powerful men with women draped over their laps like throw blankets, their smiles ugly and insides rotten.
I watched my father grip the shoulder of a younger business man, whispering something in his ear that made his face drop.
Then saw that same man on the news not even three days later.
He killed himself. And that’s only one instance, not including the pressure put on me those three days.
Alfred Colter may be a foreign secretary who could secure me a life of wealth and power, but if that life would turn me into a man like him, then I’d rather die.
Mum and I had next to nothing most of my life.
I watched her work two jobs to keep me fed and clothed while he flaunted his wealth across London.
I wasn’t good enough for him then, so why should I let him in now?
I hit reply to his message, stared at the blank screen, and after ten minutes, left it unanswered.
I need to think on it. When Falin uttered the word London last month, I had a feeling I’d need to go to him for help, but it’s tearing me up inside.
On one hand, perhaps there’s value in making a deal with the devil, especially when I’m hunting for answers about Bailey.
If there’s even a chance he knows something, I need to find out.
I park a short distance away from the address Cruz gave me this morning.
He was right about this charity being in a posh area.
I should have thought harder about dressing the part before coming here.
Smoothing out my pants, and pulling my hand over my hair to combat the dent my old helmet surely gave me on the ride over, I open up the message on my phone again.
Before I can over think it, I respond that I’ll be there.
It’s odd to have that be the only message in my texting app.
The group chat is surprisingly quiet. Maybe they started a different chat without me in it?
Why would I need to read about Jasper playing his guitar too loudly, or Damon using all the milk?
Still, my chest aches slightly at the thought that they’re going on without me, even if it was my choice to come here alone.
It’s no matter. Right now, I have other things to worry about.
Squaring my shoulders, I make my way to the building, and find the office in question on the fourth floor.
Legacy Global Outreach. There’s very little information about the organization online, but that won’t stop me from digging in more later.
If it has connections to Orlov or The Brotherhood, I’ll find out.
The space looks expensive with its minimalistic furniture in muted tones, floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Thames, and reception desk that looks more like a piece of art.
The receptionist, a young woman about my age, openly gawks at my appearance before blinking up at me. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Hello.” I smile, and step closer to the desk. Color tints her ears. “I do, but forgive me, I seem to have forgotten the name of the associate I’m meeting with. My assistant scheduled this meeting months ago, and I’m afraid I’m terribly absent-minded.”
She laughs and that flush creeps along her cheeks. “It’s no problem. What’s your name?”
I stumble, but only for a moment as the alias I’d recently used slips out. “Randy. Randy McAllister.”
Her mouth sets into a straight line while she types. I try to keep my eyes from darting around the room. Lying is always difficult for me.
“I’m sorry, Randy, I’m not seeing your name on Ms. Bowman’s schedule. Perhaps there’s a mistake?”
“I hate to be a bother, but before I open my wallet, I like to have a face to face sit down. Especially when it comes to the large amount I’m planning on contributing. Would you mind seeing if she’s available to meet with me?”
At the mention of money, her demeanor shifts. Her back straightens and her voice drops to a more professional tone.
“One moment, please.” She picks up her phone to make a call while I pretend to admire a painting and the river view. I’m actually checking for cameras in the obvious places. After a few moments, she hits the end button. “She must be on another call. I’ll just slip back there and check.”
“Thank you,” I say, forcing a wide smile.
The moment she’s out of range, I dash behind her desk and snap photos of everything I can see.
Notes jotted on Post-its, open windows on her computer, email lists.
There’s not enough time to do much more than this.
As the clacking of her heels on the polished marble floor get closer, I take one last photo of Ms. Bowman’s digital calendar.
A name stands out to me as if it’s written in bold, twenty-five point font.
Ivan.
It could be a coincidence. There must be hundreds of thousands of Ivan’s in the world. But my gut is telling me that this Ivan is the one I’m after.
I tuck my phone in my pocket and hurry back to where I stood before just in time for the receptionist to get back.
She smiles at me, but this time it doesn’t reach her eyes and there’s nothing but forced cheer in her tone.
“I’m sorry, Mr. McAllister, but Ms. Bowman is unavailable today.
Shall I make you an appointment for another day? ”
“Yes, please. Her soonest available,” I reply, looking her over. “I’m sorry if this is forward, but are you okay? It’s just that you seem upset now and I’ll never forgive myself if I’m the cause of your bad day.”
Her eyes briefly leave the screen and meet mine, and for a flash I see genuine hurt in them. “I’m fine, thank you for asking.”
The receptionist turns back to her computer, smoothing her features into a practiced version of herself. It doesn’t take much to see that she’s being treated unwell here. “Ms. Bowman has an opening next Thursday at 2 PM.”
“Perfect,” I say, leaning casually against her desk. Think. What would Damon or Jasper do in this situation? I notice the tension in her shoulders, and the way her eyes narrow as she inputs my name into the schedule. I need to learn more. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Emma,” she answers, keeping her eyes on the screen.
“Emma,” I repeat, softening my voice. “I hope I haven’t caused any trouble. You seemed quite cheerful before you went to check on your boss.” She glances up at me as I add, “I know you said you were fine, but you don’t seem so.”
She turns her head toward the hallway where she came from, then back to me. “It’s nothing. Just a busy day.”
I take a calculated risk and layer on some Jasper charm. “Did you get reprimanded for trying to help me? That hardly seems fair.”
Her eyes widen slightly, like we’re in on a secret, before she catches herself. “I—No, it’s not like that.”
I give her a kind smile, the one that most people don’t expect from me.
Not how Jasper smiles and makes women drop their knickers, but my own version—honest, with just a hint of vulnerability.
“Look, I’m sorry if I got you in trouble.
Maybe I can make it up to you? Coffee sometime?
I promise not to talk about charitable donations. ”
I can tell I’ve snagged her as a genuine smile brightens her face. “Ms. Bowman can be... intense.”
“Intense sounds like a polite way of putting it,” I say, lowering my voice.
Emma glances around before leaning closer. “She’s not always like this. I don’t want this to sway you from donating. It’s just—She’s under a lot of pressure herself. Especially when they come in.”
“They?” I keep my tone casual, all the while the name Ivan flashes through my mind like a neon light.
“Her bosses,” Emma says quietly. “I make sure to take my lunch hour when they’re scheduled for meetings. The way they look at me… it’s like I’m not even human.”
My body reacts like I’m seconds away from cracking into a protected system. Pulse quickening, muscles tensing. I keep my tone friendly. “Sounds like proper arseholes.”
“They are,” she agrees. “Last time they were here, one of them—the older one with the accent—he undressed me with his eyes and asked Ms. Bowman if I was available after hours. Luckily, she had my back, but she reprimanded me after they left. Said I was dressed too provocatively.”
I force myself to breathe normally. In through my nose, out through my mouth. “Do these charming gentlemen have names? Just so I know who to avoid if I become a donor.”
Emma hesitates. I can almost see her mind battling with itself. “I probably shouldn’t...”
“Of course, I understand,” I say, stepping back from the desk. “Professional discretion and all that. It’s important.”
She seems to appreciate that I’m not pushing, and continues. “The main one is Russian, I think. Mr. Orlov. He practically owns this place, even though his name isn’t on any of the paperwork. And then there’s that diplomat who comes with him sometimes. Very posh, very cold.”
My mouth goes dry. “Diplomat?”
“I think so. Colter, I believe. They had me book dinner reservations for them once. Some Michelin-rated place. Like I said, very posh.”
My stomach drops to the ground floor. My father. My fucking father is working with Orlov. The room seems to tilt, and I grip the edge of her desk to steady myself.
“Are you alright?” Emma asks.
“Fine,” I manage. “Just remembered I’m late for another appointment.” I straighten, forcing myself to keep it together. “Thank you for your help, Emma. I’ll see you next Thursday.”
I back away, nearly colliding with a potted plant. My mind races as I try to make sense of this new information. The dinner Saturday, is it a trap? Does my father know why I’m in London? Does he know about Bailey? How involved is he in all this?
I grab my phone with trembling hands as the lift arrives. I should update the group chat, but my mind is jumbled. Instead, I slide it back in my pocket. I need to take a ride and decide if I want to change my RSVP.
Saturday will be here before I know it. Do I want to face down the devil I know? Or stay far fucking away from Alfred Colter?