CHAPTER 13
THE DIPLOMAT
I barely made it out alive. Smoke still clings to my lungs, burning the edges of every breath. Maybe Mr Lewis is right - I shouldn’t smoke.
My legs ache, adrenaline all tangled in a mess that I don’t have time to sort out. The explosion rang through my bones like the final note of a symphony meant to bury me. But I made it out. And hopefully, Stella did too.
My shirt smells of scolded metal, and my hands shake.
I knew they weren’t inside. I knew it. Stella, Charlie, they should have all gone up in flames, but they didn’t.
Charlie isn’t that stupid. He planned it.
And me? I was left for dead. But there’s no time for self-pity.
No time to linger in the ashes of a job gone sideways.
I need to get back to Spain, and I need to face Mr Lewis.
Since Carlos’s death, Mr Lewis has spent more time at the coto.
It’s where he thinks, where he waits, where he plans.
The hunting reserve isn’t just land anymore – it’s his kingdom, a battlefield, and a place where loyalty is measured in survival.
I grip the steering wheel of a car once belonging to one of Charlie’s men like it owes me money, and look out at the road stretching before me – the last of the French miles before Spain – before the reckoning.
Mr Lewis doesn’t forgive. He doesn’t forget. And what did I do? I failed him. I fucked up, royally, disobeying him spectacularly.
The Pyrenees loom, judging every twist of fate that led to this.
The border slips past – just a change in road sign, but to me, it might as well be the gates to hell.
Every kilometre is another step towards my own funeral.
The hunting reserve beckons, and I can almost hear the rasp of steel against stone as Mr Lewis sharpens his knives.
‘You look like hell, Sal.’
I force a smirk. ‘Good to see you too, boss.’ He doesn’t humour me. Doesn’t ask why I’m bruised and battered. No. He just asks the one question that matters. ‘Is Marguerite Dubois dead?’
The silence stretches between us. It’s thick and suffocating.
I swallow hard. I don’t have the answer he’ll like.
Mr Lewis leans forward, elbows resting on his desk.
My silence saying all there is to say. The moment I crossed the line of betraying him, it felt like I’d set fire to my own shadow.
I was as good as dead. When I walked into his office, my heart thudded so hard, it felt like it was clawing its way out of my chest. And it still does.
It isn’t courage, it’s panic dressed up as resolve.
I betrayed him - the man who protects me and gives me a seat at his table.
And now, it feels like I’m tearing my own flesh from the bone, layer by layer, with every breath I take.
The silence is broken only by the faint scuff of movement in the doorway.
A soft click of claws on the tile draws my eye – George.
The Boxer slips in like a shadow, solemn and slow, and I kneel without thinking, pressing my hand into the warm fur at his neck.
‘Hey, George,’ I murmur, half to him, half to myself. His presence familiar and grounding.
I glance towards Mr Lewis, but he’s unmoved, watching the dog with faint disapproval.
‘So, Mr Lewis does have a heart,’ I say, quietly.
The comment floats between us, unanswered. Mr Lewis doesn’t lift his eyes, instead, he mumbles, ‘I didn’t want him starving at the club. Bad for morale.’ His voice is flat, almost bored. ‘The stink would’ve put the clients off.’
He says it like logistics, like feeding George is just another operational necessity. I rest a hand on the dog’s shoulder, and Mr Lewis still doesn’t blink. Instead, his gaze pins me like a verdict, the air thick between us with the question still hanging: Is Marguerite dead?
I straighten. My mouth opens, but no sound follows. There’s nothing I can give him.
His face hardens. ‘Fix it,’ he says. Just two words laced with threat and expectation like they could rebuild a broken world, if only I moved fast enough. ‘Or I’ll fix you.’
I stand there, blood still crusted beneath my collar, hands twitching at my sides. ‘Boss, I know I failed you.’ He knows it. I know it. ‘But, I-,’ I clear my throat, straighten my posture, and try to sound like a man who is in control of his own life. ‘I like her.’
Mr Lewis raises an eyebrow. I exhale slowly, like I’m bracing for impact. ‘Marguerite – Stella. Whatever name you wish to curse her by, she’s –’ I know I shouldn’t continue...
‘Different?’ he interrupts.
Mr Lewis sighs as he reaches into his desk drawer. He pulls out my Desert Eagle. I don’t flinch, not at first, but when the cold metal presses against my head, and Mr Lewis’s finger rests against the trigger, my heart races. ‘Do you really think that means a damn thing to me, Sal?’
I swallow hard. The muzzle presses firmly against my head. The grim reaper lingers. Heavy. The air thick with his presence, like smoke coiling from the explosion – relentless, impossible to ignore.
Mr Lewis exhales through his nose, unimpressed. ‘She’s worth dying for, is she?’
‘Yes.’ I nod. Solid. Final.
Mr Lewis’s dark eyes watch me. His left hand thrusts into my groin grabbing my cock, his nails digging into my flesh.
‘Tickle your cock, does she, Sal?’ He’s waiting, expecting doubt, expecting the inevitable backtrack.
I give him none. Instead, I lean in to his hand and the muzzle of the gun so it presses harder against my skin.
‘You know why you’re hesitating, boss?’ My voice is hoarse, the remnants of death still clinging to me. ‘Because you already know the answer.’
He doesn’t speak. But something shifts, so I take my shot. ‘Tarran.’
The name settles between us like an open wound.
Silence.
Mr Lewis takes his hand from my cock and runs it over his face, exhaling like he’s wrestled with the devil and came out only slightly worse for wear. The gun is still in his grip, but its weight feels different – less judgement, more hesitation.
‘Damnit, Sal. You really think you’re getting out of this?’ Mr Lewis mutters, his voice rougher, but tired of the fight.
‘I think you want me to.’
He scoffs, shaking his head. ‘Cocky bastard.’
I don’t deny his comment. Instead, I push. ‘I helped you with Tarran. No hesitation. No conditions. And I would do it all over again, if I had to.’
Silence.
Mr Lewis presses his fingers against his temples. The Desert Eagle still resting in his grip, but it’s not aimed at my head anymore. I lean back, slumping into an armchair, rubbing my head where the gun had pressed moments ago, and I breathe.
‘Where is she?’ he asks, debating whether this is still worth the headache to keep me alive. His patience has always been razor-thin, and his temper isn’t far behind.
‘She’s with Charlie Thompson and his men,’ I reply, ‘and I’ve got a plan. A plan that won’t just clean up this mess, it’ll make you very rich in the process.’
That catches his attention. His fingers drum against his desk, a cue to continue. ‘Charlie thinks he’s in control, believes I’m dead, and thinks he’s the predator in this game. But what if we tell him otherwise?’
The phone screen bursts to life, and Mr Lewis leans back into his chair, his hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey. On the other end, Charlie Thompson stares back, waiting. ‘Hello, Gabriel. You’re just in time for the show.’
‘I want Stella.’ Mr Lewis exhales.
Charlie snorts, leaning towards the phone. ‘Do you now?’ His voice dripping with suspicion. ‘And why’s that?’
Mr Lewis barely blinks. ‘That’s my business.’
Charlie laughs, shaking his head. ‘Come on, Gabriel – you don’t make demands without a reason. What’s she worth to you?’ Mr Lewis shakes his head – then drops the bait.
‘She’s worth Sal. The man who killed your grandson.’
Charlie stills. Just for a fraction of a second. But it’s enough. Then the corner of his mouth tugs upwards, amusement creeping in. ‘I thought he was dead. That sly fucker. You’re giving up Sal, huh?’
‘He betrayed me. And he killed your grandson. I sent him to kill Stella.’
Charlie runs a hand over his face. ‘And you want to trade?’
‘Correct!’ Mr Lewis nods. Clean. No fuss.
Charlie hums, his gaze shifting off-screen, mind whirring through possibilities.
He’s not buying it. Not completely. But the idea of revenge?
That’s tempting. And Mr Lewis knows it. Charlie leans closer to the phone.
‘Shame. She’s a pretty one. Let’s talk details. ’
The pieces are moving, and Charlie doesn’t even realise he’s already lost. Mr Lewis doesn’t ask Charlie to join the games. He sells it, because men like Charlie? They don’t take orders. They take challenges. The setup was simple.
‘You like control, don’t you, Charlie?’ Mr Lewis muses, swirling his whiskey. ‘Like knowing how a fight ends before it begins?’
Charlie scoffs, leans back, eyes sharpening. ‘You gonna tell me something I don’t know?’
Mr Lewis smirks. ‘What if you didn’t know?’ he lets the question hang, let’s the intrigue settle before pushing it further. ‘What if you had to earn it?’
‘I’m listening...’
‘You play your games in the streets, pulling strings, stacking odds, bending men to your will. I’m offering something different.
If you win, not only do you get Sal to do with as you wish,’ Mr Lewis smirks, ‘but you take control of the entire Fentanyl market in London. No rivals. No resistence. Unchallenged. Uncontested.’
Charlie tilts his head, considering, and Mr Lewis chuckles. ‘Well, maybe it’s not about the winning, it’s proving you still can. And if you do, then you don’t just walk away with a trophy. You walk away with a kingdom.’