Chapter 2
Chapter Two
NICHOLAS
Victoria fucking Montague.
If looks could kill, I’d be well on my way to joining Elizabeth in the cold, damp ground. Victoria is the kind of woman whose emotions are written all over her face, and she makes no attempt to hide her hatred of me. In her mind, I sent Elizabeth to her death that night.
Screw. Her.
I know the truth, and I’m not to blame. The bastard who planted the bomb is the one at fault, but Victoria doesn’t care about that. Having lost my own sister, I understand where she’s coming from. She’s hurting so badly, she’s desperate to put all that pain somewhere. But if she thinks I’m going to sit here and take her hostility without fighting back, she’s about to learn a painful lesson.
There’s no convincing Victoria of my innocence, despite the fact I told her what had happened, and she basically called me a liar.
A fucking liar.
I have a lot of faults, too many to count, but I am not a liar.
You know what? I’m done wasting my breath pleading my case. I have zero shits to give about what the irascible Victoria Montague thinks of me.
My attention is, and should be, on figuring out why Elizabeth left the club alone and got into a strange cab. No matter how many times I run through the events of that night, it makes no sense.
All I care about is finding the culprits and making them pay, show them that no one takes on my family and lives to tell the tale. In our position, it’s critical for us to maintain a show of strength in the face of adversity. There’s always someone waiting in the wings to steal our seat on The Consortium.
My phone buzzes. I break my stare-off with Victoria and dip inside my coat pocket to take a look. Xan nudges me, no doubt in an attempt to draw attention to the inappropriateness of my action, but I ignore him. And when I read the text, I’m glad I did.
“Gotta go,” I mutter, already turning away as Elizabeth’s mother steps forward to throw a white rose on the coffin.
“Jesus, now?” Xan hisses out of the corner of his mouth. “Can’t it wait until the ceremony is over?”
“No.”
That’s a lie. I could go after the wake, but truthfully, I’m glad of an excuse to get away, to feel like I’m doing something to progress the investigation.
Besides, if I stay here much longer, Victoria’s fiery stare might just take a few layers of skin off my face.
Spinning on my heel, I stride through the graveyard, sidling between the gravestones of hundreds of my ancestors. It’s confusing to me that Dad insisted on burying Elizabeth here, especially as we hadn’t actually gone through with the wedding. Dad’s a traditionalist, though. He’ll always see Elizabeth as family even though we never got as far as saying, “I do”.
Barron, my bodyguard, is waiting outside the front entrance to the chapel, with the rear door to my armored car open. Sol, my driver, is ready with the engine running.
“Let’s go,” I order Sol as Barron climbs in beside me and shuts the door. Snapping my seatbelt into place, I re-read the text from the lead investigator I’d hired to track down and question every single witness who was either inside the club that night and might have seen Elizabeth leave, or was outside and witnessed the explosion.
With the help of state-of-the-art technology, along with good old-fashioned investigative work, his team has done an exemplary job. Only one man had eluded them, and finally, he’s turned up. Seems he left England for a holiday the day after Elizabeth died and was the kind of eccentric who left his phone at home to go off-grid. Because of that, he wasn’t aware we were looking for him until he arrived back in the country yesterday and listened to the multiple voicemails left on his phone.
Even if I wanted to go off-grid like that, I couldn’t. Given my position in the world, and the dangers that surrounded a family as powerful as ours, contact at all times is part of the deal. The ever-present danger for our safety is the main reason my brother injected a tracker into his wife—without her knowledge, I might add. Although Xan has always occupied the extreme end of the security pendulum.
Would I have insisted on a tracker for Elizabeth if we’d gotten as far as the wedding? Perhaps. It’s a question I’ll never know the answer to, therefore it’s pointless to dwell on it.
My phone buzzes again. I glance at the screen. Dad. The preview reads: What on earth do… with the rest cut off. I’ll have to click into it to get the full message, although it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what it says.
I open it. Yep. My assumption was correct. What on earth do you think you’re doing? You’d better have a good reason for leaving the graveside before the poor girl was laid to rest.
Sighing, I reply. I do. Trust me. I’ll be back soon.
He must have been waiting for my response because his reply comes immediately. You’d better be. You have a wake to attend.
Lucky me. Maybe I should apply some sunscreen before coming face to face with Victoria again. Factor one million ought to do it.
I tap Sol on the shoulder. “Step on it, would you?”
“Sure thing, Mr. DV.”
A smirk tugs at my lips. Sol has been my driver for years, and from our initial introduction, he’d called me Mr. DV. I’d often joke with him that if he ever swapped those letters around, we’d have a problem, to which he’d grin and say nothing.
Twenty minutes later, the car stops outside a house on a new-build estate, where each dwelling looks exactly the same as the one next to it. How anyone finds their way home without stumbling into someone else’s living room is a mystery to me. Even the garage doors are painted the same color—white—and the front doors have identical frosted glass.
Once Sol brings the car to a complete stop, I climb out. Barron has beaten me to it and is already scanning the estate for any threats, as he’s trained to do. I appreciate his diligence… and the gun he carries beneath his suit jacket.
It’s illegal for civilians to carry weapons in the UK, but we don’t pay attention to such rules. Even if he were stopped by the police, nothing would happen. We’re in charge, just as the other Consortium members are in charge in their respective countries. Governments rule, but we are above them, above the law, and above any kind of retribution, other than that which might come from the Consortium council, or pretenders to our crown.
Hence the need for armed bodyguards.
Barron tracks just off my left shoulder as I make my way to the door. I could have ordered the guy to come to me, and normally I would have. I’m not in the habit of chasing after others. In this instance, however, I want him relaxed. A relaxed mind recalls far more than one on edge, and I’m aware my broody, daunting demeanor doesn’t exactly put people at ease.
The door opens before I can knock, revealing a tall, lanky guy, his hair shaved close to his head. He looks as though he’s dressed for the occasion, the blue suit a bit too large for his reedy frame. He takes one look at me and begins to play with the cuffs of his shirt, his fingers nervously plucking at the cotton material.
I try for a reassuring smile, but it must come off as more menacing than friendly given the way he takes a step back and pales. Wherever he’s been on holiday, it wasn’t anywhere sunny, unless he spent the entire time inside.
“Mr. Joss. I’m Nicholas?—”
“I know who you are, Mr. De Vil.” He tucks his chin into his chest and moves away from the door, gesturing to us. “Won’t you come in?”
He leads us into a bright living room with magnolia paint still fresh on the walls. Caught between needing to get back before the wake is over and putting this guy at ease is a tricky line to walk. I refuse his offer of coffee and take a seat on the couch. He chooses the chair, flashing the odd sideways glance at Barron’s broad frame blocking the entrance.
“I don’t have a lot of time, Mr. Joss. If you could tell me what you know, what you saw that night.”
“Of course. I’ll try.” He clears his throat and proceeds to relay pointless information about what he was doing there that night. I give him a little leeway, but as I’m about to prod him to get to the point, he shares the news I’d hoped for. “I saw the driver. I saw your lady climb in the back. The driver caught my eye because he was wearing an Arsenal cap, and I’m a huge Gunners fan.”
Football. More of a rugby fan myself. The cap is interesting. The guy was clearly trying to hide his identity, but if he was a professional, he’d have chosen something neutral without a recognizable insignia. It’ll be a good detail to include in the sketch, although any cap makes identification more difficult. Right now, though, it’s all I’ve got to go on. If I can find the driver, I’ll have a lead on exactly who is responsible. There’s no chance the driver is the brains behind the operation—it’s more likely he’s the hired help, and a poor choice, too—but from there I’ll have a much better chance of finding the one who ordered the hit.
And end him. Or them. Slowly. Painfully.
“Do you think you could describe him to a sketch artist?”
His tongue sweeps over his lips as though he’s thirsty. “I’m happy to try.” A frown pulls his eyebrows inward. “Would that be to the police?”
I shake my head. “My family are dealing with this. I’ll have someone sent over.” Standing, I smooth a hand over my tie and refasten my jacket. My father may think this was a wasted journey, that I could have sent someone else to question Joss, but I disagree. By turning up here myself, I’ve shown him I’m personally involved. Knowing that may sharpen his mind and help to ensure he recalls as much detail as possible, no matter how small.
Barron shadows me back to the car. Once inside, I make a call to have someone sent over to Joss’s place immediately. We’ve lost too much time. His memory will have already degraded. I could kick myself for not trying to track him down earlier when he didn’t answer our calls. Even a check of his name against flight manifests would’ve at least given me a location. Why didn’t I fucking think of that before now?
By the time I make it back to Oakleigh, more than half of the mourners have left. Dad spots me and beckons me over, not bothering to hide his displeasure or his irritation.
“Care to tell me what was so important that you thought it acceptable to leave Elizabeth’s funeral?”
“I found a witness. Someone who can identify the driver. The sketch artist should be with him now.”
“And you couldn’t have waited until the funeral was over to go to speak with him?”
“We’ve already lost three weeks. I thought it best to both act quickly and attend myself to show him how seriously we’re taking what happened to Elizabeth.”
Dad’s mood lifts a little. He straightens his spine and squares his shoulders. “Fair enough. Let’s hope you get to the bottom of this.”
“Oh, I will.” If it takes me a decade, I’ll find the fucker responsible.
“Go and apologize to the Montagues for your rudeness and disrespect.”
I scan the room, my gaze alighting first on Laura and Phillip quietly sipping champagne on the far side of the room, then on Victoria, her fearsome, murderous gaze boring through me.
A tremor runs down my spine, unexpected yet oddly welcome. Maybe sparring with the elder Montague sister—the only Montague sister now—will take my mind off the pressure of finding the culprit who planted the bomb.
Give me your worst, sweetheart. I’m ready for it.