Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
NICHOLAS
Ashcroft’s manager on duty brings me a steaming cup of coffee while I wait for Victoria to return from X-ray. The doctor who examined her within three minutes of our arrival, didn’t think her cheek was fractured, but he’d need the X-ray to confirm.
Xan had blown up my phone, first with demands to know where the fuck I was, considering I’d darted from the casino without telling him a thing, and then with messages asking after Victoria. Imogen must’ve called him from the car and told him what had happened. The timing looks about right. I text him back with what I know so far, if only to stop him bombarding me with even more messages demanding answers.
The only answer I’m interested in is who the fuck dared to punch my fiancée.
Whoever it was, he’d better enjoy his last few hours thinking he’s some fucking big man. I’ve already sent a message to the manager asking him to pull every security feed and scour it for the incident. As soon as I’ve dropped Victoria home to her parents, I intend to return to Noir, see the footage for myself, find out who this fucker is, and deal with him.
Stupid bastard doesn’t realize a storm is coming. One he’ll be lucky to survive.
First Elizabeth, now Victoria. The two incidents aren’t remotely connected, nor are they of the same severity, but that doesn’t mean I won’t act. The guy who punched my fiancée probably hasn’t a clue who she is, nor who she belongs to, but that doesn’t matter to me either.
He put his hands on her without her permission.
He thought he was owed her time and attention.
He dared to hit her.
Let him try to punch someone more his size and see how far he gets. I have many faults, as do my family. We’re far from perfect, but one thing we all have in common is respecting a woman’s boundaries. It’s probably because of what happened to Annabel. Trauma in childhood tends to form strong beliefs. It’s why we do what we do, why we punish those who hurt and maim and kill women and kids. Xan started his quest for revenge a few years after those animals raped and murdered our sister, and me, Christian, and Tobias support him whenever he needs us.
We keep Saskia out of it. The urge to protect, or probably overprotect, her runs through our veins.
I drain the coffee, then pace while I wait for news. Ten minutes later, Victoria enters the family room, followed by the doctor. She opens her mouth, but the doctor beats her to it.
“No fracture, just bruising. It’ll be tender for a few days, but I’ve given her some painkillers which she can take if the discomfort becomes too much.”
“I can speak for myself,” Victoria grumbles.
“Concussion?” I inquire, ignoring the combative note to her voice. Even after a punch to the face, she can’t help arguing.
“No, although I’d advise keeping an eye on her for a few days. If she shows any signs of nausea, blurred vision, or headaches, bring her back and I’ll run a few tests.”
“Thanks.” I grip her elbow and guide her outside to the car.
Barron climbs out to greet me. “Everything okay?”
I nod curtly, my palm on Victoria’s lower back as she gets into the car. I follow, and Barron shuts the door before joining Sol up front.
“Victoria’s home, please, Sol.”
“Sure thing, Mr. DV.”
Victoria’s gaze shifts in my direction at the nickname, but I ignore the unspoken question in her expression. We spend the hour-long drive to her house in silence, both of us on our phones the entire time. She’s probably updating her friends, or perhaps telling her parents what’s happened. I spend the time poring over a couple of emails Noir’s manager sent me, the first one confirming he’s located the security footage of the moment Victoria was punched in the face, the second email telling me that he thinks he knows the assailant.
Good. Saves me a few precious hours of running his image through face recognition software.
Sol pulls into the driveway of Victoria’s family home and cuts the engine. She’s out before Barron can exit and open the door for her. I follow her to the front door and enter the house without an invitation.
“You can go now,” she says. “I’m home.”
I ignore her, instead walking past her and into the living room where the TV is on, and Victoria’s parents are sitting together on the couch watching what looks like a crime drama.
“Laura, Phillip.” In unison, they glance over their shoulders, eyes flared in surprise.
“Oh.” Laura gets up, nudging Phillip with her foot when he stays seated. “What are you two doing here? I thought you were out with your friends, Vicky.”
“There’s been an incident,” I say. “An altercation at the club.” I raise my palms. “It’s fine. She’s fine. A little bruised and battered. I’ve had her checked out by a doctor, and there’s no permanent damage.”
“This talking for me has to stop.” Victoria pushes past me and flops into the chair closest to the front window. “It’s nothing. Some joke of a guy got a little handsy and didn’t like it when I told him no.”
A surge of rage floods my bloodstream. She’s being incredibly stoic about the incident, whereas I want to rip the guy’s head off his shoulders and put it on a stake at Oakleigh to warn others what happens when they touch what doesn’t belong to them. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all about sending a message that you don’t cross swords with my family. Whether it’s as serious as the perpetrator who blew up Elizabeth’s taxi or an over-sexed jerk chancing his arm.
“What happened?” Laura asks.
“Some random guy punched her,” I say.
Laura gasps. “Good God.” She takes a step in Victoria’s direction.
Her hands immediately come up. “I said I’m okay. Will you all just stop fussing?” She hauls herself out of the chair and heads for the stairs. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”
Laura’s gaze follows her daughter while Phillip looks at me. “She’s finding all this a little challenging,” he explains. “She’ll come around.”
Yes, she will. With the right… encouragement.
“The doctor suggested keeping an eye on her for signs of concussion, although I would say he didn’t appear overly concerned at the prospect.”
“We’ll make sure she’s fine.” Phillip walks me out. “Thank you for bringing her home.”
“She’s my fiancée,” I point out. “What would you have had me do?”
He looks a little startled at my curt response, and his mouth opens and closes before saying, “Well, goodnight.”
I return to my car without a backward glance. As soon as I’m situated in the back, I give Sol the instruction to return to London. I’m anxious to view the security footage for myself and find out who this dead man walking is, then pay him a visit.
The manager is waiting for me in his office, his computer screen turned at an angle, the frame frozen on Victoria and her friends on the dance floor. I motion for him to play it for me.
A few seconds pass by as the three women dance. I note there’s no sign of Imogen or Saskia. Presumably they were using the bathroom, or sitting down, perhaps.
I find myself transfixed by how happy Victoria looks. During my entire courtship of Elizabeth—such that it was—I can’t remember a single time where Victoria smiled or laughed so freely. It changes everything about her, and a warmth spreads through my groin—the first sign of any kind of attraction toward my future wife.
Maybe being married to the little firecracker won’t be such a chore after all, although she’s going to need to curb that mouth on her. Every time she sasses me, the composure I take pride in threatens to snap. If I think about it, Victoria has always had that effect on me, and I don’t know why. Whatever the reason, it will have to stop. I despise how reckless and out of control she makes me feel.
One of the girls she’s dancing with leans in and says something. Victoria nods, and the three of them turn and file off the dance floor. Victoria is trailing behind when a guy grabs her arm. There’s a brief exchange, and I can tell by her expression that’s she’s giving him a piece of her mind. My lips twitch. Not just me, then.
Seconds later, he swings. His fist connects with her left cheek, and she goes down, hitting the floor with a hell of a thud. Andrew and Max lurch into action seconds too late, and while I’m fucking fuming at the fact they let it happen, I’m not sure what they could have done differently. The entire exchange happened in less than ten seconds.
Doesn’t mean I won’t make it abundantly clear what the consequences will be if they ever allow anything like this to happen to Victoria again.
“Send a copy of that to my phone,” I say. “You mentioned in your email you think you know the guy.”
“Yes, I thought I recognized him, so I looked him up. He’s a regular. His name is James Ditchfield.”
A regular? Not anymore, he isn’t.
“Got an address?” I’ll be pissed if he doesn’t. Noir is a members’ only club, and while we allow members to bring a guest from time to time, their details are also logged.
“Yes. I’ll text it to you.”
He taps on his screen, and my phone pings a few seconds later. I check the address came through okay, then slide my phone into my pocket.
“Thanks for your help. Cancel his membership. He won’t be needing it.”
“Of course, Mr. De Vil. And can I say how sorry I am for the trouble. I take full responsibility.”
“Not on you,” I reply gruffly. “Only one person is to blame.”
I climb back into my car and give Sol the address. Ten minutes later, we pull up outside one of London’s newer apartment buildings. I check the address once more. Ditchfield lives on the eleventh floor in apartment 1136. A security code box is mounted on the wall by the lobby entrance. I could crack the code, given time, but buzzing apartments is a far easier way to gain access. On the seventh attempt, a buzzer sounds and the door clicks open. We slip inside and take the lift up to Ditchfield’s place.
“Wait here,” I say to Barron. “If I need extra muscle, I’ll shout.”
His brows knit together in a way they always do whenever I suggest something he doesn’t agree with, but Barron’s been my shadow for long enough now to know I won’t change my mind. Victoria is my fiancée. This is my fight, my role to defend the woman who will be my wife in seven days.
It’s one in the morning when I rap on the door. No answer. I knock again, louder this time. “Police, open up, please, Mr. Ditchfield.” Calling him mister makes me grind my teeth, but shouting “Open up, fucker, so I can pound your face into mincemeat,” won’t encourage him to open the door voluntarily. Not that it’d make much of a difference to me. I’ve kicked more than my fair share of doors down.
“Coming,” a faint voice shouts. “If this is to do with earlier, Officer, I?—”
He draws back the door. I don’t give him a second to realize I’m not the police. I’m his worst fucking nightmare.
I plant my fist in his face, getting in an early shot. He stumbles back, and I follow him, slamming the door shut behind me. Blood spurts from his nose, and he clasps it as the unmistakable scent of iron fills the air.
“What the fu?—?”
I hit him again, and again, and again. He goes down, and I follow, straddling his hips while I continue pounding his face until he’s a bloody mess, and my knuckles are bruised and cut.
Blood oozes from his mouth, and he moans. I clamp my hand around his throat and squeeze. I could easily kill him. The urge to do exactly that engulfs me, but like I said to Xan when I brought in Patrick Mahoney, the head of the Irish mafia, to kill that piece of shit Edgerton who kidnapped Imogen: every death leaves a stain on our souls. Just like Edgerton wasn’t worth leaving a stain on Xan’s, this piece of shit doesn’t deserve to leave a stain on mine.
“Let this be a warning to you. If you ever hit a woman again, especially my fucking woman , I will not only kill you but take the lives of every single person who means something to you. Mother, father, sisters, brothers, friends. They’re all fucking fair game.”
He gurgles and lets out another pained moan. When I climb off him, he rolls to the side, curling his knees into his body. Speckles of blood hit the legs on the coffee table in the center of the living room as he coughs. For shits and giggles, I kick him in the kidneys.
“Remember what I said. I don’t make idle threats. Oh, and in case you’re thinking of reporting this to the police, I’ll make it easy on you and on them.” I drop to a crouch, my face mere inches from his, and condescendingly pat his cheek. “Tell them Nicholas De Vil came calling.”
I leave him groaning on the floor and head into the hallway to meet Barron.
“All okay, sir?”
I rub my sore knuckles and nod. “Yes. Let’s go home. I’m fucking exhausted.”