Chapter 19
MAGGIE
The death meeting is the very last place I want to be. Not that that’s its official name, but what else should I call it?
The council of serial killers?
Contract killers ’R’ us?
Jeepers creepers it’s the human grim reapers?
If I had any sense, I’d have hidden under the bed when Eliza came to drag me away from keeping an eye on Roman and forced me down to the meeting room. And now I’m sat amongst familiar faces, looking older than the last time I saw them, and their heirs eager to fill their footsteps.
Not me, obviously, but the rest are chomping at the bit.
Eddie is here, of course, with his dad and younger brother.
Priscilla’s son, and my soon-to-be-step-brother, James, sits on the other side of Eliza.
The Smiths, still looking loved up as ever, even though they are well into their sixties, with forty years of blood-filled marriage between them.
Then there’s Monsieur Tremblay, a dab hand with bombs, and perhaps the least sleight of hand of everyone, and his long-term rival and lover, Bianchi.
A cold-blooded fucker if ever I’d seen one.
Even looking at him gives me the heebie jeebies.
The Irish lot are there in force, Jack Kavanagh and his band of sons, most of whom are eyeing up Eliza like dogs on heat.
Conversation mumbles, and Dad goes through the list of people who have excused themselves from this month’s meet.
As usual, I feel like a sheep amongst a party of wolves.
The room looks exactly as it always has, not changing an iota since as long as I can remember. The huge, gleaming mahogany table, looking more suited to a war room than a home, takes up most of the space. Matching chairs, which I assume are deliberately uncomfortable to keep everyone on edge.
Across from me, Eddie licks his lower lip, his finger dancing around the top of his water glass.
Barf.
He gives me a slow smile that makes my skin crawl.
To his right sits his father, equally as discomfiting as his son. The apple rarely falls far from the tree.
Hector Stewart.
He’s like a great coiled snake, those beady eyes always assessing everyone around him.
The network has always been a little fraught, but new tensions run through it. Because someone’s been undercutting everyone, going behind the scenes to steal contracts out from the others and upsetting the carefully constructed balance the families have long tolerated.
‘It’s not a coincidence,’ Tremblay says in his light French accent. ‘Three contracts in two months, all intercepted before completion.’
‘Intercepted?’ Eddie scoffs. ‘Or stolen.’
‘Stolen,’ Eliza says, not that anyone pays her much heed. Outside our family, it’s rare for daughters to be invited to meetings or to be involved in the darker side of our world at all. Lucky me, having a father who believes in sibling equality in the one place I could really do without it.
Someone is walking into their territory and disrupting things.
A deadly pastime, for sure.
They never really talk about the marks like they are living people, and while most are scum, not all families are so discerning in their selection of contracts.
‘It’s sloppy,’ One of the Irish lads says, ‘No pattern or signature. Pure disruption.’
‘Or it’s deliberate,’ the Italian counters. ‘Carefully designed to look messy. It’s what I’d do if I were in on it. To throw you all off.’
‘Well, it’s working. Because right now, it looks like none of you can hold on to your contracts.’ Hector lifts his brows and relaxes in his high-backed chair.
Multiple gazes fall on my dad. Poking at egos never goes down well among so many big ones.
Dad hasn’t moved. Barely even blinks.
‘I don’t recall losing any contracts,’ Mr Smith says.
‘No.’ Mr Stewart grins. ‘But others have. Repeatedly.’
He looks squarely at Eliza before settling on my father. Hmm… She hasn’t mentioned this to me. I know contracts are being stolen out from under people, but I didn’t realise Eliza was one of them.
Damn, whoever it is can have all of mine.
The air seems to crackle as Dad and Hector hold eye contact.
Oh boy, I really want to hide under the table like a five-year-old. I don’t feel equipped for this cock slinging match at all.
‘Evan, your girl seems to be having a bit of trouble keeping hold of things lately.’
The way he says girl has me gripping my thighs. Eliza’s hand goes to her thigh, where I know she keeps her knife strapped. Oh fuck.
Dad’s jaw tightens, and he leans forward, like he’s about to rest on the table.
There’s a blur of movement as he sends a flash of silver spinning through the air, landing with a violent thunk in the chair back about half an inch from Hector’s head.
Eliza looks almost miffed as her hand drops from her own weapon.
Hector lets out an almost comically kitten-like yelp, prompting Tremblay and Bianchi to exchange suppressed smiles.
No one speaks as we wait for Hector to retaliate or my dad to escalate. Both men breathe through flared nostrils, and I shrink back into my seat, the tension making me feel like my lungs might explode.
I stare at the knife. It could so easily have been lodged in Hector’s eye. Or throat.
A tiny, tiny bit of me wishes it had hit Eddie.
Dad waits another minute before lowering himself to his seat, his voice calm as can be. ‘We will find out who it is, and kill them. But no one mocks my family or me in my own home. Understood?’
Hector reaches up and tugs the knife free of the chair, sliding it back across the table. ‘Fair doos, Evan. My bad.’
It’s the closest to an apology I’ve ever heard from a Stewart.
The conversation resumes as if being threatened is just a regular occurrence. Maybe it is these days.
‘If it’s internal,’ Mrs Smith says, ‘then we have a bigger problem.’
‘No one here would be stupid enough to do that,’ Eddie adds.
‘Wouldn’t they?’ Glances are exchanged at the Frenchman’s words.
Suspicion creeping in.
‘It’s not me, my work is clean. Always has been.’ Eliza isn’t one to sit back crapping her pants like me.
James leans back, folding his arms. ‘That depends on your definition of clean.’
Eliza’s eyes sharpen. ‘It depends on nothing.’
Oh boy. The idiots are begging for another knife to be thrown. But Eliza wouldn’t aim to miss.
‘I can’t deny you have flair, but you’re too showy.’
‘I’ll make no apologies for panache,’ she replies.
The two of them have been at each other for months, always trying to outdo each other. Exhausting.
‘Enough,’ Dad says. ‘After the wedding, we’ll track down the fucker and cut him into cubes to give anyone else considering it pause.’
I sigh and slouch down in my seat, wanting to get back upstairs to make sure my captive hasn’t made a run for it.
The dress is Eliza’s idea.
It’s deep green silk, cut to skim my curves. I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s clothes. It’s so low at the front that I keep tugging it up, convinced that everyone can see my tits. If that’s not bad enough, the back dips low enough that I worry someone might see my arse crack.
Eliza beams. ‘You look incredible, Mags. Stop faffing with it.’
‘I feel half bloody naked.’
The dinner party is already in full swing.
Filled with music from the string quartet and the chinking of glasses.
I only half-recognise most of the people, all looking utterly chic, like they’d just tumbled off Savile Row.
Amongst the strange faces, I see some I know.
Friends of my dad, work associates, politicians and other people with more morals than money.
And then, like a god descending from Olympus, Roman appears on the stairs.
In a tux.
It’s dark and fitted and panty-wettingly snug around his muscled thighs. He looks fucking delicious. My brain feels like it glitches with every step he takes towards me.
He catches sight of me and stops for half a second, just long enough for his eyes to travel over me in a way that’s utterly salacious. By the time he’s in front of me, I may as well have flaring heart eyes jumping out of my sockets.
‘You look incredible, Princess.’
I laugh, because if I don’t, I might melt into the carpet. ‘You’re not so bad yourself.’
There’s a subtle shift between us. An ignition.
The night wears on in a thousand dull conversations, no one quite sure who they can talk openly with in a roomful of people.
Roman leads me to the dancefloor. The band is good, and being pressed up against Roman is even better.
We’re close enough that I can feel his breath against my ear as we talk.
Close enough that the line between pretending and not pretending becomes fuzzier with each sway of his hips.
I can’t deny the attraction I feel towards him.
This man who I yanked out of his life and dragged into mine.
This man, who, despite that, doesn’t look at me like I’m broken.
It’s kinda nice.
Then Eddie cuts in.
He doesn’t ask. He just steps between us and pulls me into his arms.
‘My turn,’ he says and, before I can object, he’s guiding me around the floor, his fingers hard against my spine.
I stiffen. ‘Eddie—’
‘Relax, my sweet pea,’ he murmurs, leaning in as if I want to dance with him. ‘People are watching.’
Of course they are.
‘I’m not your fucking sweet pea, Eddie.’
I catch sight of Roman, who stands to the side, Eliza’s hand firmly on his chest as she talks harshly into his ear.
I dance because causing a scene might upset my father. Eddie’s grip tightens, and I feel sick when he shudders against me.
‘You know this is inevitable,’ he says. ‘You can play at being difficult, but we both know where this ends.’
‘No, we don’t. You don’t even want me. You want what I represent. The company. My father’s business. It’s never been about me.’
Eddie steers me off the floor and through the sea of people and shoves me into a shadowed alcove. ‘It has always been you, Maggie. You can’t run from who you are.’
‘I will never be yours.’
He doesn’t seem to hear it, his hands roaming down my spine and gripping my backside.
‘Stop it,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘Get off me.’
‘I don’t think I will. What are you going to do about it?’