8. Helen
CHAPTER EIGHT
Screams echoed off the grimy walls, only interrupted by frequent electrical bursts and the humming of the generator in the center of the room.
Banjo held the jumper cables, waiting for my signal before applying them once more.
Gizmo stood with his hands clasped behind him near the warehouse door.
I picked at a chip in my nail polish, briefly contemplating a trip to the salon later in the day.
The screaming stopped when Banjo removed the jumper cables from the man tied to the metal chair. I glanced up from my nails, grimacing at the blood dripping from the man’s nose and the thick layer of sweat and grime on his pallid skin. His chest puffed with each ragged breath.
“Are you ready to talk?” I asked, crossing my arms with disinterest.
“I don’t… I don’t know anything,” he sniveled. Drool and snot dripped from his orifices, and I took another step back out of any potential splash zone.
My heels clicked on the concrete flooring, echoing through the largely abandoned space, making the man flinch.
Only stacks of metal crates and plastic drums spread haphazardly around the warehouse, absorbing the sounds of pain within.
But we were isolated enough that I wasn't worried about interlopers.
“You’ve admitted to creating the masks already?—”
“I did! I confirmed that!” he interrupted.
I snapped my fingers, and Banjo zapped him again. When the man’s shrieking tapered off, I sighed.
“Don’t interrupt me again.” Stopping in front of him forced the mask maker to tilt his head up in my direction.
He whimpered. My smile stretched wider.
“You work with this material to create masks. You created these masks. You will tell me who you sold them to,” I repeated the demand.
“I promise I don’t know. They sent the money through someone else. A… A third party. I followed the specifications as they were sent to me, and money entered my account at intervals.”
“As you’ve said.” Leaning infinitesimally closer, I examined the fright and anguish in his eyes. The rush of power flowing through me lit me up from within like a Christmas tree. “But I know you’re lying.”
Another gesture and Banjo returned to sending painful electric currents through various parts of the mask maker’s body. He jerked and writhed against his binds, causing his chair legs to scrape over the ground. The next bout of agonized screams filled the warehouse.
Banjo halted when I lifted my hand. The mask maker slumped in his seat, whimpering. I didn’t have all day to watch him cry and wet himself.
“Tell me what I want to know, Jeremiah, and we can put an end to all of this. You want that, don’t you? You want the pain to stop?”
He nodded rapidly, then coughed from the effort.
“I know you’re lying because your assistant already told us that someone delivered the money to you in person. Someone handed off a bag of cash each time you finished an order.” If possible, he paled further. “You’re going to tell me what the handler looked like and how many masks you delivered.”
Jeremiah began sniveling and blubbering. Unintelligible responses flew from his lips. A subtle vibration in my coat pocket diverted my attention. The mask maker continued mumbling as I withdrew my phone and glared at the screen.
“Bordel de merde!” With a groan, I answered the call. “Yes, Mother?”
“Tell me why it’s been a week since Drake Graham was dismissed from your office.” Her cold irritation through the phone sent an unpleasant chill down my spine.
“I don’t need help to handle the situation, Mother. I told you that.”
“It’s not just some lowly help, Helen! This idea you’ve gotten into your head that you won’t have to marry him if you solve the case is beneath us. You will marry him regardless. It’s a good alliance for our family.” Her voice lowered to a frightening level. “Do not make me repeat myself, darling.”
“I don’t see a ring on my finger,” I snipped back, instantly regretting the retort.
A beat of silence was my only warning.
“Get to the office. We’ll talk about this in person.”
“Mother—” She ended the call before my apology fell from my tongue.
Banjo and Gizmo held their positions, knowing not to interfere when I spoke to Mother. They gave me several moments to reel in my anger with nothing but the mask makers’ soft crying to fill up the room.
“Again.” I nodded to Banjo. He lifted the jumper cables, aiming for more of Jeremiah’s tender spots.
“Wait. Wait—WAIT!” He kicked his legs, but the zip ties around his ankles simply made the chair rattle under his shifting weight. Banjo paused at my signal, and the mask maker blew out a relieved breath. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything.”
“Good boy.” A glance and Banjo set the tools down. He grabbed a notebook from the leather bag on the table. “Give all the details to my friend here.”
“And you’ll release me?”
“If your intel is good enough,” I said. He began rattling off information to Banjo as I walked to the exit. As I passed Gizmo, I instructed, “Once the intel is cleared… kill him.”
Blue. The bastard was weaponizing the color. How did someone wield a sharp, three-piece suit as one might wield a gun? It was perfectly tailored to enhance the planes of his body, sculpted by years of rugby and whatever the fuck else he got up to.
It didn’t help matters that he seemed to have had another damn growth spurt after graduation, and he loomed over everyone in any room he entered. Arrogance oozed off him in waves.
My heart raced as I watched him lounge in the chair across from my desk. The fluttering stemmed from frustration, naturally. Nothing else. And if my underwear grew damp during my assessment of his frame, it was only a natural physical response to visually semi-pleasing stimuli. No other reason.
I still hated him with every fiber of my being.
After an unpleasant dressing down from my mother where she voiced her disappointment, I caved and had our assistant arrange a follow up with the bastard.
Charlene was overjoyed to be useful, even batting her lashes as she recounted seeing that handsome devil (her words) the first time he snuck into my office.
She was loyal as an assistant, if a bit excitable for someone of grandmotherly age.
Ten years separated what I knew of Drake from what was true of him now.
Rumors persisted in our circles of his exceptional skills.
Every bit as trained by his dad as I was by my mother.
In the past few years, whispers arose of Graham family enemies referring to him as The Dragon after some unfortunate event with a fire.
I’d rolled my eyes at the egregious cliché.
However, his reputation preceded him. I begrudgingly admitted that he was at least skilled at what he did.
Assignments handled quickly and swift squashing of his father’s enemies.
There was a mountain of bodies rotting in his shadow.
He wasn’t the same boy I knew at school.
He was a well-honed weapon now—a killer.
The very thing that tormented him so long ago, and now it was his bread and butter.
None of that told me what he got out of this arrangement now, or why he’d agreed in the first place. He had made it abundantly clear he didn’t want me in that way.
Marriage wasn’t on my list of topics to discuss.
Not with him if I could help it. Bad enough my mother grew so frustrated with my feet dragging she’d decided to plan the entire event without me.
For the time being, I’d pretend it wasn’t happening at all.
It wasn’t important if more masked men were potentially in the shadows, biding their time.
Besides, I knew Drake didn’t want me—not like that. His actions proved that years ago, and his response to my dress popping open last week reflected that lack of chemistry on his part. My breasts were spilling out and he couldn’t run from my office fast enough. It was always a farce with him.
Drake said nothing. He simply installed himself in the chair, legs crossed, poised as he watched me work.
I replied to emails, answered calls, jotted down notes on my documents, firmly pretending he didn’t exist. Between sips of hazelnut coffee, I felt his eyes on me, unabashedly analyzing my every move until the tension stretched into a taut, brittle thread.
At one point near noon, he abandoned the chair to explore the books on my shelves. The hairs on my neck rose, aware of his presence in my space. He prowled like a wolf in the woods on the trail of his prey, running his fingers over the spines of my favorite books intimately.
My hackles raised and my skin bristled, instinctively aware of the predator in my private space. His presence in my office peeled the Drake-shaped bandage from my chest until the pain bled between us. Time heals all wounds, but the cut he inflicted remained tender.
He stepped out of sight, just behind me where the bookshelf wall met the windows at the corner. I swallowed, holding my breath with anticipation of his next move. All morning he’d simply existed without breaching the long list of subjects on our itinerary.
A fumbled clatter jolted me upright. I jerked around in my chair, heart hammering as I seethed at the dumb, tall bastard. “Putain de merde! What are you doing?”
A grin lifted the corners of his mouth as he slipped a thick book back into its cozy nook. He cut his eyes to me, and my core twirled. That damn blue suit brought out the amber undertones in his brown eyes and the fucker knew it.
“Ah, so she speaks at last,” he drawled. “Thought you were going to ignore me all day.”
“I was doing my best.” I spun my chair back to my desk, determined to return to ignoring his existence.
Drake set a hand on the back of my chair, moving so close the warmth of him kissed my shoulder and his expensive Chanel Egoiste cologne teased my nose. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath—only to steady myself.
“We need to talk, Monty.”
“I told you to stop calling me that,” I gritted out.