Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
labour — Paris Paloma
CALLIOPE
M y first meeting should’ve been my most terrifying.
Coming face-to-face with the head of a criminal organization who I’d effectively run away from after being witness to him murdering someone and him having me attacked, violated as a warning. Me using the time I’d been holed up in my apartment healing to uncover the breadth of his organization.
Human trafficking. Murder for hire. Truly horrible, unspeakable shit.
The evidence I had was technically enough to take to some kind of law enforcement establishment.
But I hadn’t. Not because I’d be implicated.
If I knew beyond a doubt that those truly responsible for those acts would be imprisoned, that I’d be able to bring the victims justice and stop what was going on, I would’ve incriminated myself in an instant. I was guilty, after all.
But I was aware that there would never be justice.
Not for those at the top. Not for those who were guilty.
Because they were smart., richer than small countries’ entire GDP.
There were fucking international politicians involved.
Congressmen, prime ministers, foreign diplomats.
Their web of depravity was tangled with organizations that promised to secure law and order.
It was a sad truth the general public wasn’t privy to.
That there was no true justice nor punishment for those committing the most unspeakable crimes on our planet because they ran the planet.
At the start, I hadn’t understood the depth of it.
Ignorance was not an excuse. I was smart enough to have found all of that information at the beginning, to understand the kind of money I was handling, the kind of money I was making, to admit that the people I was dealing with were truly bad. I could’ve understood all of that from the start.
But I was greedy, selfish, caught up in the identity I’d forged for myself. I liked working in the shadows. So I let myself ignore it all. Until it piled up around my ears, and I couldn’t ignore it.
I’d uncovered the human trafficking first. The ages of the men and women involved.
The girls and boys involved. And I’d done what I convinced myself was noble.
By calling in a lot of favors then depositing money in bank accounts in their names, untraceable, I’d ensured that the girls and boys were freed.
I bought their freedom, but I could never rid them of their nightmares, their scars.
Then I’d covered my tracks. I’d shown Gregory the evidence of his embezzlement, thinking it would distract him enough so he wouldn’t notice me quietly leaving his employ.
I hadn’t imagined he’d commit murder in front of me.
Then I’d been rash with the resignation, still thinking I was strong enough to go up against such a powerful man.
But he’d proved to me I wasn’t, with the attack.
I’d healed without the police, without calling for help, recognizing that I couldn’t be rash.
So I waited until there was no physical evidence of the attack, then I ran.
To Jupiter. The plan had been to gather information, enough to buy my life, my freedom.
I’d known that it was a big task, but I’d had plenty of hubris, thinking I was smarter than all those men.
But they’d been doing what they did for decades. They were a generational web of deception and crime, honed to a fine art. And there had been many decent, brave, guilty or scared people over the years who had tried to bring them down.
They never succeeded.
Even the few upstanding people in law enforcement organizations that tried hadn’t managed.
Hence it taking a lot longer than I’d expected it to. For a moment there, I didn’t think I’d be able to gather what I needed. Had doubted myself. Had succumbed to the possibility that I was going to have to surrender.
Then came Elliot.
Who reminded me who the fuck I was. And what I had to lose.
“Calliope.” Gregory’s greeting was warm, his lips curved in a pleasant smile.
I hadn’t seen him since the lunch after the murder, when he’d politely accepted my resignation then ordered me to be beaten and raped.
He was a monster. I wished I could shatter his bones one by one then feed them to him.
But that was giving in to emotion. Smart…
I had to be smart. Because I had to win.
He thought that winning was having my fingers broken, my skin split open, my insides scarred by a brute with body odor.
He didn’t understand that men had been doing that to us for centuries. Yet we fought. We endured.
“Gregory.” There was no warmth in my tone, no smile in place. Men got to smile with abandon. Women had to guard their smiles lest a man perceive it as interest, weakness or consent.
He was one of the most powerful men in the city, which was saying something.
His legitimate businesses were run out of the top three floors of the high-rise we were in.
There were armed guards at every entrance and exit.
Cameras. Keycards were required for every room, especially the one we were in, Gregory’s office.
The inner sanctum. He thought he was untouchable here.
Because no one was stupid enough, brazen enough or powerful enough to strike him here.
“Sit.” He gestured to the velvet sofa. “Drink?” he offered, from where he was standing, pouring his own.
“Vodka,” I answered, sitting in the armchair across from the sofa, crossing my legs.
His eyes followed the journey of my exposed calves, down to my ankles and the open-toed, Hermès sandals I was wearing.
He had a foot thing. I wiggled my bright-red painted toes.
I was using every weapon in my arsenal. My life depended on it.
After a second of leering, Gregory quickly focused his attention back on the drinks.
He was a sick fuck, that was true. But he was older, more practiced.
He wasn’t overtly threatening or sleazy.
His salt and pepper hair was groomed like his dark eyebrows, his smooth forehead hinting at the Botox he indulged in, the handsome, aged face pleasant to look at.
He was always dressed casually, like he was on vacation in the Bahamas instead of running one of the most ruthless criminal organizations in the world.
Linen shirt, pale pink that day. Tan slacks. Loafers.
You’d peg him as wealthy with the flashy watch and the expensive clothes, no matter how casual because of the way he carried himself, as if he owned everything in the room because he indeed had enough money to afford it.
That energy translated to people. He was pleasant to everyone because he knew he could own them in an instant, having them buried a second later if they displeased him. He considered himself a god.
And seated in his office, I considered myself a god killer.
Dressed in my usual attire—an off-white pencil skirt that clung to my body like a second skin, displaying a modest amount of leg.
The blouse I was wearing was white lace, unbuttoned just enough to peek at my breasts without overtly displaying them. I had a flashy watch of my own on my wrist, a tennis bracelet, diamonds in my ears, hair pulled back tightly.
I felt powerful and looked it—for a woman, at least. Gregory was no idiot; he was cognizant of how dangerous I was, as much as a man could be. He’d seen the skirt, the heels, things designed to make it harder for a woman to run.
Except I wasn’t running. Not anymore.
“Thank you.” I reached up for the chilled glass he handed me. I didn’t react when his fingers purposefully brushed mine, the subtle scent of his cologne wafting into my nostrils.
“You’re welcome,” he replied politely, sitting on the sofa he’d offered me, watching as I took a sip.
The vodka was ice-cold and felt good going down my throat. I knew that Gregory wasn’t going to drug me. He considered himself too civilized for something like that. If he wanted to rape me, he’d do it the old-fashioned way, with pure brute force.
Not that I suspected he would do that either.
Though it wasn’t out of the question.
Rape was a crime of control. More often than not, men did it when they felt powerless, not turned-on.
And I was about to make Gregory feel pretty fucking powerless.
“I’m happy to see you back where you belong.” Gregory leaned back to cross his ankle over his knee. “It has been difficult trying to work with others. They don’t have your skill. We’ve gone through many … less than competent replacements.”
I sipped my drink again. This time it was not soothing going down. I did not show that, though. Didn’t even blink at the insinuation that they’d likely killed the last person who tried and failed to do my job.
This was how Gregory spoke. In expertly veiled threats, designed to catch those not paying attention.
I was always paying attention.
I placed the glass down on the table beside me. “I wish you luck in finding someone as competent as me, because I am not back.” My tone was sure, confident, not an ounce of hesitation. My back was straight. “I understand it was a … disrespect, resigning so abruptly.”
Gregory watched me carefully, his posture still casual, as if he were enjoying drinks at a beachside bar.
“I will admit, I was disappointed at the turn of events last year,” he sighed. “But I understand that even though you are not like most women, you still have female sensibility.” He waved his hand. “Hormones and such.”
I tilted my head, now smiling. “I understand that hormones are more of an issue for men of a certain age with rapidly disappearing testosterone, resulting in them not feeling powerful or motivated and unable to get hard. It tends to make them angry. Unreasonable. The male sensibility is the more volatile one, Gregory.”
His eyebrow twitched as he regarded me before he chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, Calliope, how I’ve missed you.” He drained his drink then got up to pour another. “Not even my most trusted and ruthless men have the courage to speak to me like that.”