Chapter 2
Xander
Idrag the stick of charcoal down the smooth paper, black coating the side of my hand where I’ve already blended the trees.
The rare warmth of the morning sun seeps through my white button-up shirt, birds chirping their melody in the background.
We rarely get sunshine in London, so when it does come out, I like to sit outside and soak it all in.
Apparently, being outside is good for your mental health; that’s what my therapist told me years ago, and it’s become a habit.
I used to hate being outside, but I couldn’t put a finger on why. When Jacques and I bought the land and built our estate, we cut down all surrounding trees and planted cherry blossoms. The grass was replaced by gravel and paving tiles. It became a lot more bearable then.
I don’t like to pretend that therapy helped—it didn’t—but I was willing to try it. Then the therapist started getting too nosy. Asked too many questions which brought back unwanted memories. So, I quit. And it didn’t make the slightest difference.
Footsteps click on the paved ground behind me.
I drop the charcoal on the glass table with a clink and pick up a damp cloth to wipe my hands clean of the dry chalk.
A red pencil skirt slides into the cushioned wicker chair next to me as I slam my sketchbook shut, the rim of my sunglasses blocking the rest of her from view.
“I’m busy,” I state bluntly.
Our assistant—Penelope—clears her throat. “I know, sir. But I’ve been asked to pass this message on to you as soon as possible.”
I fold my hands across the book, gazing out at the infinity pool attached to the end of the estate with views of the countryside.
Some may find it a beautiful sight—Jacques and our staff do—but I don’t.
Those colours are something that I try to block out of my daily life; the sunglasses help too.
Jacques once suggested we move to the city, but with the way our business runs, living so openly in the public eye just wasn’t an option.
“Make it quick.” I have a lot to be thankful for when it comes to Penelope—she’s the best assistant we’ve had—but her constant advances on me and Jacques are not something either of us are interested in. Especially Jacques, who’s claimed celibacy for years.
“Aidan Burns wants to move your meeting to tonight.”
My attention turns to Penelope. Brown hairs that have fallen out of her bun sway softly in the gentle breeze, brown eyes locked on the tablet in front of her.
“We have a shipment coming in tonight.”
“I know. But he says he needs to do it sooner rather than later. Before the Deller gang, I quote, ‘gets a whiff ’.” She looks up and smiles. Not a genuine smile, but one that says she’s proud of herself.
Penelope is a beautiful woman; no wonder I fell for her charm once.
But it was under the influence of alcohol, and I wouldn’t do it again.
She knew it meant nothing, but since then, she’s been clinging to me.
And when I’m not around, she targets Jac—and I can’t say he enjoys it either.
Though our one night got Jac off her radar for a short time.
It would be simpler to sack her, but finding someone better than her would be a headache that we don’t need, and there’s no one on our team that could live up to her standard of work.
It helped that she was already entangled with the drug world when we found her two years ago, scared and vulnerable.
She helped us track down the man we were looking for—who she was working for—and pledged she would do anything to be under our protection.
“Tell him to be at Diamond Lounge for eleven sharp, or the deal is off,” I state curtly.
She nods her head and starts tapping away at the tablet.
I rarely set foot in Diamond Lounge—a gentlemen's club we set up to cover the tracks of the dirty money we make. As a pair of idiotic teenagers, Jac and I got ourselves trapped in drug dealing, and once you’re in this world, it’s hard to get out.
In fact, there is no way out. We needed somewhere to convert drug money into clean money.
After endless amounts of research, DL was born.
Jacques was fortunate enough to inherit money from his late parents, so, at 19—instead of going to college or planning for university like normal teens—we opened a strip club.
There was no one to guide us through that.
Just two teens trying to keep themselves from getting killed.
Neither of us spends a lot of time at Diamond Lounge.
All our operations run from the estate and are closely monitored, so nothing happens without me knowing.
It allows us control. It allows me control.
Building an empire means keeping the empire standing.
Between our drug operations and the club, that responsibility had to fall to a team of loyal, trusted employees who run the club for us.
The managers, cash handlers, hackers, and guards all know what happens there.
The bar staff and the dancers don’t, but some of them suspect.
Penelope places her hand on my forearm. “Is everything okay, Xander? You look stressed.” Her acrylic nails slowly run up my arm. “Is there anything I can… help with?”
I should’ve foreseen that.
I grasp her wrist before she can get any further, and her breath catches.
“It’s Mr Warren.”
She swallows. “I’m sorry, Mr Warren.”
I don’t like to make her feel intimidated, but her relentless advances irritate me.
“And didn’t I tell you not to disturb me when I’m busy?
” I look pointedly at my sketchbook—the only thing that keeps me remotely sane these days aside from overseeing that the business runs smoothly.
Recently, I’ve been trying to draw more to keep myself occupied.
There’s a familiar itch in my brain, one that demands I find something to fixate on, but apparently drawing isn’t one of them anymore.
My brain still demands more. It’s a feeling I’ve fought hard to bury and make sure it never resurfaces again.
Aidan Burns might be the perfect distraction.
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” She casts her gaze down and clears her throat.
I let go of her wrist. “Dismissed.”
Her heels click on the pavement rapidly as she leaves, and another pair of footsteps approaches. I already know who these footsteps belong to.
Jac takes Penelope’s place, sighing and slumping in the chair, his slightly tanned face pointing towards the sun.
“What was that about?” he quizzes in his thick Cockney accent as he lets his head turn in my direction against the backrest, opening one blue eye. Brown curls that fall just past his ears flop to the side with the movement. “More sex requests?”
I scoff with a smile. “We need to be at the club tonight.”
His lips—framed by a dense but neatly shaped beard—close as his face turns up in confusion. “You having an outing with friends I don’t know about?”
I snort at his remark. Jacques has been the only friend I have ever had. The only person who showed he cared and never left. He knows me better than I know myself.
He raises a dark eyebrow, the sun highlighting his perfectly chiselled cheekbones, the piercing in his left ear glinting.
“You and Penelope are going on a date then. Got it.”
I cringe inwardly. “Did you come here just to disrupt my peace?”
He flashes me his white teeth, eyebrows wiggling. “Always.”
“We’re meeting with the networker.”
He shoots upright in the chair, the black top he’s wearing stretching over his muscled arms from years of boxing. “I thought the meeting wasn’t until next week?”
“That’s why Penelope was here. He wants to meet tonight. He doesn’t want to risk the other gang getting word of what we’re doing.”
“A bit suspect, don’t you think?” He grabs my book and starts flicking through the pages.
He’s the only one who I ever allow to look at my artwork. He’s loved it since we were kids. We used to dream about how I’d be a famous artist one day and make enough money to last us a lifetime.
The latter can still hold true.
But I don’t like anyone else looking at the way I see the world.
And especially not now that my art has declined over the years; it’s like my fingers can’t translate what’s in my head.
The lines are all wrong, and I can’t finish a single drawing.
I used to draw landscapes. But since that day…
the inspiration just isn’t there. Whether Jac has noticed or not, he doesn’t say.
“It’s a great deal. It’ll give us a profit of at least one million. He has a legitimate reason to fast-track the deal. Any other reason and I would’ve told him to wait. He wouldn’t be able to turn down that kind of money.”
His eyes widen, a low whistle leaving his full lips. Closing the book, he leans back and contemplates, folding his tattooed arms over his chest. “How much did you offer him?”
“Seventy thousand and five percent profit,” I reply smugly. That’s the lowest of the low for that kind of profit. But, since Aidan already has multiple clients in that area who offered him even less, he couldn’t pass it up.
“You crafty fucker.” Jacques smiles.
“Shipment still on the way?”
“They’re about five hours out. Everyone’s ready to go when we give the word.”
I gather my book and supplies from the table, being careful not to smudge any charcoal down my shirt, and give him a salute with my free arm.
I make my way through the warm oak and black decorated halls of the mansion towards my bedroom. Passing maids clear dust off the modern square wall lights placed an equal distance from each other. They smile at me, and I nod my head at them in acknowledgement.