Chapter 2
CORDELIA
Iswung back onto my BMW and peeled away from St Xavier’s, the purr of the engine almost drowning out the disquiet clinging to me like a prickly blanket, but no matter how fast I rode, it stayed with me.
An hour later, the dove-grey sky mixed with a subtle hint of bruised purple, the first warning of sunset creeping in.
I pulled up outside my house, killed the engine, and removed my helmet.
The familiar bark of the neighbour’s dog echoed down the imperfect streets, a comforting sort of welcome home.
This definitely wasn’t the posh part of London—not even close, and most people kept to themselves. Tourists were rare in this part of town, and that suited me just fine.
The house had been cheap when I convinced Drakos to buy it for me; a "doer-upper," the estate agent had said, all hopeful smiles and optimism. Two bedrooms, a bath that needed retiling, and an open-plan kitchen-living space that tried its best to look modern. Out back, a patch of grass masqueraded as a private garden. It was far from perfect, but I didn’t need perfect. I needed peace.
This place was my haven. My anchor. The only spot in the world where I didn’t feel like someone’s weapon on a leash. My heart was here—in this rundown part of the dynamic city—it was home.
I’d begged Drakos to let me move out of St Xavier’s. Told him I was suffocating there, which wasn’t a lie. He’d agreed—on the surface—but the house was just another leash, another bone tossed to keep me docile. Still, it was worth the illusion of freedom.
For now.
I swung the bag from my shoulders and unclasped the box from the back of the bike, only to spot Frank sitting on my front steps like he owned the place.
He raised a hand in greeting as I snagged the box.
A brick of a man and onetime hardass and boxer with a nose to show for it, Frank made it his business to scout the neighbourhood for any misdeeds—he was the neighbourhood watchdog.
His dark eyes crinkled at the corners; his bright-white teeth contrasting starkly with his midnight skin.
‘Hey Frank,’ I said, trudging over.
‘You finally get that time off you wanted?’ he asked, standing and shoving his baseball cap back onto his shaved head.
‘Huh?’ I puckered my brow, digging in my pocket for my keys.
‘Ah Hells-bells… not you. I get confused with that white girl down the street.’
Gods knew how. I’m twenty-four and could break a man in half. She was five-foot-nothing and halfway to menopause. I huffed a breath and grappled with the box a little. ‘I suppose we all look the same to you, huh?’ I raised a pissy eyebrow, and he ignored the jab, as usual.
‘What you got there?’ He nodded towards the box under my arm.
‘Something I stole,’ I deadpanned.
‘D’ya need my contact?’
‘Nope.’
Frank leaned against the weathered railing, a sly smile tugging at his lips. ‘Well, if you need to see a cat about a dog, I’ll be around.’
‘That’s not how the saying goes, Frank.’
‘I don’t give a monkey’s butt how it goes,’ he mutter-grumbled. ‘Anyway, see ya around, Cordie.’ I watched him for a beat as he strode down the street before dragging myself up the steps and unlocking my door.
I dropped my backpack, duffle bag, and box onto the sofa and headed for the fridge, the anxiety about Guinn’s safety eating away at me like a starving dog, but worrying was a one-way ticket to Downsville—and I couldn’t afford a breakdown right now. I’d protect her. I would.
The fridge was nearly bare. Typical. I sighed and scrubbed my fingers through my hair. Grocery shopping could wait.
I started upstairs to shower… then stopped mid-step. ‘Damn it. I need a drink… And maybe a fight.’ After locking the items Drakos had given me in my super-secure safe—buried in a hidden compartment behind a false panel in the wall—I ditched my leather jacket and left the house.
Stepping out into the sticky summer evening—the typical mild and humid climate of London in summer—the moisture clung to my skin like a dew-kissed morning.
I walked the mile to the high street, and I welcomed the rhythmic thud of my boots on the pavement.
The closer I got, the more alive everything felt.
I loved the city—it was a vibrant, living, breathing entity which dug into my centre and thrilled me.
The city was full of history and tradition, culture and diversity, and the pleasure of being enveloped by the early evening orchestral sounds of horns honking, people laughing and chattering, and footsteps hitting the pavement, soaked into my bones and assuaged me.
Here, I was no one. Just another face in the crowd.
And for a few hours at least, that was exactly what I needed to be.
‘Fancy a fuck, wench,’ a posh drunk guy shouted from across the side street as he and his equally wasted friends stumbled towards me. He was tall, muscled, and too pretty for his own good—floppy blond hair and an expensive watch that screamed trust fund.
‘Wench? Wench? What are you? A pirate?’ I shot back, tone dry as sand. His friends guffawed like idiots while he glared at me. ‘Who raised you, pirate boy? Neanderthals?’
I’m sure crazy sparked in my eyes because he went to back away, but not fast enough, and not before I punched him in the balls.
He dropped like a sack of privileges. His mates erupted in laughter, some cheering, others filming, and I gave a small theatrical bow—I had to have a little pride in my badassery.
‘Go home, Harry, you’re drunk,’ I said sweetly to the moaning heap at my feet, then I carried on towards the pub.
This part of East London was my favourite kind of chaos: culture-rich, slightly feral, and full of flavour. International street food perfumed the air, Afrobeat music spilled out of windows, and someone was always arguing, laughing, or making out in a doorway.
Off the main drag stood O’Rourke’s—a battered Irish bar with questionable hygiene and the most miserable landlord known to the gods.
‘Hey Jerry,’ I said to the bouncer at the doorway of the pub.
‘Cordie. Not seen you in a while,’ he replied, his voice a gravelly baritone.
Jerry was built like a mountain ash on steroids and wasn’t exactly painful to look at.
We’d hooked up a couple of times; he was just what the doctor ordered in the sack, and I’d liked him, but the life of an assassin isn’t really conducive to building relationships.
‘Yeah, work stuff,’ I muttered as I locked eyes with him.
A couple of young girls strode up, giggling and fluttering their lashes at Jerry. He didn’t seem to notice, he merely checked their IDs, waving them forward. His attention returned to me. ‘If you fancy a tumble anytime, lemme know,’ he said with a wink. Gods, the temptation was real.
‘Sorry—what was that? The city was whispering sweet nothings, and frankly, I like it better than you.’ I smirked as he held the door open, shaking his head like I’d just kicked his puppy.
A guy displaying the unmistakable strut of stupidity swaggered towards me.
‘I’m not the sane type of girl, dude. Tread carefully.
’ Psycho must have glittered in my eyes because fear sparked in those muddy-brown peepers and he flinched, hard enough to slosh his drink down his front.
Smart boy. ‘Good call,’ I muttered as I strode past and plonked onto a leather high-backed bar stool.
‘Ello’ gov’na,’ I quipped in a terrible cockney accent, signalling the bartender. ‘An Old Fashioned, please… and make it strong.’ The bartender, in return, gave a surly nod. An Old Fashioned was just what I needed to take the edge off and most probably numb my face.
‘Cordelia,’ Martha said, sliding onto the stool beside me and setting her red wine on the bar.
Martha had to be at least sixty and lived on the opposite side of the green space in front of our houses.
She’d bring me home-cooked food, and in return, I’d occasionally do odd jobs for her and her husband, like mowing her lawn and fixing her dripping tap.
‘I didn’t know you were back, treacle. How was your trip? ’
‘Same old,’ I muttered, still waiting for my drink. Martha never pried, and I loved her for it. She was one of the rare few I actually gave a damn about. ‘I’m off again in the morning. No idea how long I’ll be gone this time.’
‘No worries, treacle, I’ll keep an eye on your gaff. I’ll give Frank the nod, too.’
I placed both hands on the bar and leaned forward.
‘That drink?’ I growled at the barman, who jerked backwards, dropping his phone, giving me a wary look.
Thirty seconds later, I held my Old Fashioned, taking several large gulps—the notes of the sweet vanilla of the bourbon and the spicy and sweet flavours from the combination of sugar and Angostura Bitters hit the spot perfectly.
‘He’s a bit of a Hampton wick, that one,’ Martha muttered, nodding towards the new barman. I looked at her blankly, and she sighed. ‘A dick.’
‘Oh, yeah, silly me, huh? Cockney rhyming slang. I don’t understand why you don’t just say dick?’ She sniffed in humour—or was it disdain? I couldn’t tell. ‘Where’s Mike, anyway?’ I asked, referring to the pub’s famously grumpy landlord.
‘Oh, he’s had a hernia operation. Apparently, he’s being a right grizzle guts.’
‘More than usual?’
She gave me a wicked grin. ‘Here. Have a goosy gander at me phone, will you, treacle? I can’t get on me bloody Kindle app.’
She passed me her mobile. I squinted at it, trying not to laugh. ‘Good gracious woman, get some reading glasses.’ The font size on her phone was ridiculous.
‘They make me look like an old cat lady.’ She sniffed.
‘Well, you do have four cats, Martha, and this’—I pointed to her screen—‘makes you look like an old and blind cat lady.’