18. Chapter 18
Ruthless. Faceless. Bell was a name whispered in hushed tones, a specter that haunted the tales spun by weary cops over stale coffee and cold donuts when a case closed without satisfaction.
He was Detroit's boogeyman, a phantom that lurked in the shadows of the city's underbelly.
Half the department didn't believe he was real, while the other half feared the chilling truth of his existence.
Over a decade, Andre had pieced together an image from the nervous laughter and hushed whispers of his colleagues.
A towering figure, perhaps six and a half feet tall, with shoulders as broad as a docked freighter.
A voice that echoed like a low rumble of an engine at idle, the kind that resonated through a room, leaving an unsettling chill in its wake. A man who was dangerous, frightening.
Yet, standing before him now, the actual Bell barely reached Andre's collarbone. He was a diminutive figure, perhaps five-five in heeled boots, slender through the chest. His pale blond hair was long, almost to his elbows, and his features were doll perfect. Except for the obvious; there was an old scar that ran from the corner of his right eye all the way to his jaw. Any red had faded from it, so clearly it was from his youth, but it was still a wicked mark on a face that was otherwise perfect. His attire was an eccentric mix of a frilly black poet’s shirt and a black and red corset cinched over it, paired with a leather kilt and boots that looked lethal enough to have claimed lives.
If the rumors held even a shred of truth, they probably had.
He carried an unusual scent, an intoxicating blend of gardenia and lavender with an undercurrent of sweet orange that wafted towards Andre each time Bell leaned in over the arm of his throne.
His words were laced with an unexpected humor as he referred to Marcus's ex-boyfriend as a detective with the casualness one might use to describe a golden retriever.
"Come in, come in." Bell beckoned them further into the room without rising from his throne, one hand idly smoothing the black lace at his cuff in a gesture akin to checking a watch he already knew the time on.
"Don't just stand there looking like you've stumbled upon your grandmother in a compromising position.
Well," his grin was wicked, a flash of white teeth against the dim light, “If your granny was fortunate enough to be half as deviant as my fine self, anyway.” His laughter filled the room, a sweet, airy sound that seemed to dance around them.
Marcus moved first, stepping into the room with a measured stride. Andre followed a half-step behind, his gaze darting around the room, taking in the details.
A small creature stirred at the base of the throne.
Hairless and pink-skinned, it blinked up at them with an expression of flat, unbothered judgment that only cats could master.
The Sphinx wore a little white sweater with ‘Daddy’s little angel’ knitted in black and a collar adorned with what appeared to be…
actual rubies. The ostentatious display of wealth was staggering.
It clambered up Bell's leg and turned twice in his lap before settling down.
Bell's hand moved to it instinctively, scratching under its chin in an absent-minded gesture.
"This is my baby, Princess," Bell announced, as if that single statement explained everything. His gaze returned to them, golden eyes glinting with an unreadable emotion as he studied them in silence.
"You said trouble." Marcus's voice was a low growl, his stance rigid.
He didn't sit, and Andre could sense the tension radiating off him.
Sitting would have been a sign of submission, of asking for something, and Marcus was not in the habit of asking this man for anything he didn't absolutely need to.
"I said rumor of trouble." Bell's voice was a soft purr, his hand moving in slow, rhythmic strokes over Princess's back.
His golden eyes held a glint of amusement, a spark of malice that danced in the dim light.
It wasn't directed at them, Andre realized, but rather at the situation they found themselves in.
"Rumors are polite. You want to give me the ugly version, or should I tell you what I know? "
"Drakov." The name fell from Marcus's lips like a curse, his voice flat and final. It was a tone Andre recognized from years of watching him close out arguments with a single word.
"There it is." Bell's voice was smooth as silk, his expression unchanging. He didn't sound surprised; rather, he sounded like a man confirming what he already knew. "Go on."
"He's a rot in this city." Marcus's words were sharp and biting, his gaze never leaving Bell's face.
"The law had its chance at him. It had years. I want him gone, permanently, and I'm asking if the Crimson Company is willing to be part of making that happen. He’s started targeting my people… Reaper’s people. "
Reaper? Andre felt a chill run down his spine at the mention of the name.
He had heard the rumors of a cadre of killers in masks all named for Death.
No one had ever gotten a single description or MO…
The existence of him, them, was another myth.
But now, standing in this room with these men, Andre was starting to understand that he now walked among such myths, and they were so much more than stories.
Bell looked at Marcus for a long moment, his golden eyes unreadable. It wasn't a performance, or if it was, Andre couldn't find the lie in it. It felt like being weighed, like being measured for a suit that might not fit.
"I've had people on that ugly man since he started making noise again," Bell said finally, his voice carrying a hint of satisfaction. "Months now. I was waiting on you, sugar, not the other way around."
A muscle twitched in Marcus's jaw, the only sign of his surprise. His eyes narrowed slightly as he met Bell's gaze.
"You knew I'd ask." His voice was barely above a whisper, but it filled the room with its intensity.
"I knew you'd get there." Bell's voice was a soft murmur, his thumb tracing a gentle path behind Princess's ear, finding that sweet spot that made her lean into his touch with a contented purr.
"A man like you doesn't go looking for a war.
He waits till the war's already inside the gates, and then he goes looking for the fastest way to end it. I've been ready a while."
"Why?" The question slipped from Andre's lips before he could stop it. Both men turned to look at him, their gazes sharp and assessing. He swallowed, but made himself finish the thought instead of retreating. "Why do you care? You could sit this whole thing out and lose nothing."
Something flickered behind Bell's eyes, a shadow passing over his golden gaze so quickly Andre almost missed it.
"Sovriegn called me the night that ugly man put his hands near Reaper's boy.
" Bell's voice remained light, but his hand stilled on Princess's back.
"Apparently, the cold-eyed prince was in a state over it, and Reaper doesn't get in states, so that told me plenty on its own.
You don't get to be a murdering billionaire with a fleet of guard dogs and operate loose in my city.
That's reason enough, though I have plenty more and I owe you, Andre Jefferson, none of them. "
"Is there another kind?" Andre asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Bell's smile didn't waver, but something beneath it shifted, like tectonic plates grinding against each other.
"I don't much care for men who buy and sell people," he said, his accent thinning around the edges, all the honeyed charm burned away to reveal something raw and hard underneath.
"Traffickers. The men and women who arrange them.
They doing get to breathe the same sweet, Goddess given air I do.
And before you ask, no, I'm not going to tell you why, and yes, you already know why, you're just too polite to say it in my house. "
The room fell into a heavy silence. Even Princess had stopped moving under his hand, as if she too sensed the shift in the atmosphere. The air seemed to thicken, the tension winding tighter and tighter until it felt like the slightest movement might shatter it.
He'd walked into the room prepared to face a monster.
Instead, he'd found a man who had clearly survived one, a man who had spent every year since transforming that survival into a weapon aimed at men like the ones who'd made him.
Andre didn't voice these thoughts. There were certain things you didn't say aloud in a man's own house, regardless of whether he'd invited you in or not.
"So," Bell began, his voice returning to its full honeyed richness within a single breath, as if he'd never allowed the darkness to surface at all.
"Tech. Bodies on the ground when you need them.
My people go where I point them and they don't question why.
But that's the only promise I make about how this gets done. "
"And what's the price?" Marcus asked, his voice steady despite the weight of the question.
"Not a single dollar." Bell's eyes met Marcus's, gold and unwavering.
"I don't do this for money, darling, I do this because it's mine to do.
This city belongs to me, even if sweet Sovriegn might pretend otherwise.
But don't mistake free for cheap. You'll owe me.
Not now. Not on any schedule. But you will.
And when I come collecting, you'll pay it… I think we both know that."
"I know," Marcus replied, his voice carrying an acceptance that was almost serene.
"You don't even seem worried." Bell tilted his head, a genuine curiosity in his gaze as Princess resettled against his stomach with a small, disgruntled sound. "Smart men worry about open debts to me."
"You've never once asked me for something I couldn't give," Marcus said, his voice steady and sure. "I don't expect that to start now."
Bell studied him for a long moment, his face softening in a way that the affected warmth hadn't managed. It was less polished, more genuine.
"No," he said, his voice mellow and easy, almost fond. "I suppose I haven't."
His gaze then shifted to Andre, sliding over as if he was only now remembering there was a second man in the room.
"You're quieter than I expected, detective. Word was you talk more."
"Word was you were seven feet tall and ate men for breakfast," Andre retorted, his voice carrying a hint of humor.
Bell laughed, a sudden, delighted sound that echoed around the room. Princess startled at the noise, resettling without ever fully waking. "I like him," he said to Marcus, as if Andre wasn't standing right there. "Keep him."
"Working on it," Marcus replied, a hint of warmth in his voice that spread low in Andre's chest, absurd as that was.
"Well." Bell's fingers paused in their rhythmic stroking of Princess, scratching her once more under the chin with a fondness that seemed at odds with the sharpness returning to his gaze.
His gold eyes flicked between them, the softness that had briefly warmed them now replaced with a keen, predatory focus.
"Go on home, both of you. I'll be in touch when I have something for you.
My Sable was left wanting and I can't have that. "
His voice was a rich tapestry of sound, the honeyed tones dropping out for just a moment as he addressed Andre directly.
"And detective," he said, the word slicing through the air like a blade sliding between ribs, precise and deadly.
"You tell that pretty captain of yours she still owes me.
I watched her silly Persian for a whole, agonizing weekend.
That cat is nothing but fur and hatred. She needs to take my sweet Princess for at least that long. "
A chill swept over Andre, starting from his collar and seeping down his spine like icy water. Bell knew about Reyes. His reach extended into corners of Andre's life he'd always assumed were safe, sealed off from the world of men like Bell.
"How do you know about her cat?" Andre's voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of unease threading through his words.
Bell didn't answer him directly. Instead, he turned his attention back to Princess, his fingers resuming their gentle stroking of her.
"I know everything, darlin'," he said, his voice a low purr that echoed around the room.
He was already dismissing them, a king done with his court. "That's the whole point of me."