Chapter three
City of London Cemetery
Damon
The men I consider to be brothers surround me.
The five of us stand beside my wife’s grave, staring down at the oak coffin which has been lowered into the bleak hole prepared for it.
Harrison Waite, one of my closest friends, lifts his hand and squeezes my shoulder as the first shovel full of dirt hits the wood.
“Goodbye, Bubbles,” I whisper, hoping no one hears, but he glances at me, so I know he did.
“We will find them, McKinney,” he says firmly. “And they will pay for this.”
Before I can answer, Russell and Connor Chase, brothers who own one of the most successful law firms in London alongside Harrison, mutter their agreement. Finally, Hunter Devane, arguably the most powerful man in the city—head of the Irish mafia—steps to my opposite side.
“I promise you, Damon,” he says. I feel his eyes focused on my face, which is lowered to the damp ground. “Revenge will be served. Connie’s death will be avenged. The man who pulled the trigger will have his body dismembered, and the bastard who ordered it will die a slow, painful death.”
The five of us stand in a circle. We’re all from very different walks of life but firmly a team. These men whom I see as similar to me, walking the line of good and bad while trying to do the right thing, have become my closest confidantes. They’re the only people in the world I truly trust.
“Shall we go and get drunk?” Russell suggests. “The Connie I knew would be extremely disappointed if we didn’t break out the most expensive whiskey in her memory.”
I chuckle. It’s true. My wife loved to celebrate, and she treated these men as extensions of our own family.
Being the only steady woman in our group, when we had something to be celebrated, Connie would insist they come to our home and drink our best liquor.
She would provide a five-star meal and smile as we congratulated each other on a job well done.
“Connie always deserves the best,” I say as tears fill my eyes. “A true angel. The only woman I’ll ever love.”
“I think it may be time to open the liquid gold, Waite,” Connor says with a smirk. “You know, the one you’ve been saving for a rainy day.”
“Today is torrential,” Harrison agrees. “I’ll collect it from The Level and meet you back at McKinney’s.”
We all nod, then my friend walks off in the direction of his black Ferrari that sits in the cemetery parking lot.
The four of us watch him as he lowers himself down into the seat then speeds off on his errand.
“You ready, McKinney?” Hunter asks, his voice soft but firm. “It’s time to go.”
I nod but don’t speak. Walking away means leaving her lying here under the cold soil—the girl I loved and cherished since we were both teenagers. As my friends start to move, I follow them on auto-pilot, my body moving but my mind still firmly with Connie.
The woman I’ll always love.
***
“So, what are we drinking?” I ask as Harrison refills my glass once more with the second bottle of insanely expensive whiskey we’ve opened this evening.
“This,” he says, his words slightly slurred as he holds up the clear glass bottle with an aged label.
“Is the Bowmore Queen’s cask Golden Jubilee 1980. A single malt whisky from the Isle of Islay in Scotland.”
We nod and pretend to listen intently; really, all of us are completely pissed.
“This is one of only 648 bottles produced and…”
He lifts the bottle, screwing his eyes up as he searches for a piece of information.
“This is number fifty-six. It cost me ￡52,000. I would say it was worth every penny.”
“And the other bottle we drank?” Connor prompts.
“Oh that was only a budget option, merely ￡25,000.”
“Bubbles,” I shout into the room. “We’ve drank ￡75,000 of whiskey in your memory. Is that celebration enough for you, or should we consume more of Waite’s retirement plan?”
My friend grins at me. “One more bottle,” he says, “the old girl deserves for us to break the ￡100,000 barrier in her honor.”
The evening continues quietly. We sit in my living room and reminisce of times past—the days when the coffee table was filled with freshly made cookies and soft classical music played in the background.
Connie thought of everything. My friends listen to my stories, that they’ve heard one thousand times before, with smiles on their faces.
Never rushing me along, always allowing me the time to speak of her. I never want to stop talking about her.
Connor is sitting opposite me as he has been for hours.
His gaze rises over my shoulder, focusing on something.
I turn in the direction of his stare. Emma steps into the room still dressed in her simple black dress, however, her feet are bare, and she walks silently across the wooden floor.
Every man in my company stops speaking at once.
All focus moves to the young woman sharing my home.
“Can I get you anything?” she asks, her voice low and her nervous eyes glancing at me then returning to the floor. “Before I go to bed.”
“No, thank you,” I reply shortly. Internally, I wince at my harsh tone.
The last thing I want is this woman here.
Any woman except my lost wife. Emma is an inconvenience, another responsibility I don’t need.
Before there was a buffer between her and I—my spouse.
Connie dealt directly with her, ensuring her needs were met while she grew our child.
For Connie, it felt like she was part of the pregnancy; now, I need to be that person.
I’m not sure I want to be, especially after the conversation with my father-in-law.
“Okay, good night.” She turns to leave, then reverses. “It was a beautiful ceremony for an incredible lady. I’m sorry you didn’t attend the wake. There were a lot of kind words said.” Before I can respond, she walks away, carrying my child in her womb.
“There was a wake?” Russell snaps.
“Yes, but I wasn’t invited.”
“But you told us there wasn’t one.”
“We weren’t invited,” I repeat as a way of explanation. “Emma went along with my mother. Connie’s family places the blame for her death firmly at my door. Her mother called me and asked that I stay away. My presence was not welcome.”
“That’s bullshit,” Hunter snarls. “Who the fuck do they think they are? Banning you from your own wife’s wake.” I shrug. “Connie was your partner; you should have been there.” He jumps to his feet and pulls a small, concealed blade from his waistband. “I’ll skin the bastard alive.”
“Calm down, Devane,” I mutter. “Put the knife down. With the volume of alcohol in your blood, it will be your own fingerprints you’ll remove.”
He rolls his eyes but replaces the knife in the discreet holder and sits back down with his drink.
“With the idle gossip circulating amongst the family, it’s probably best I wasn’t there.”
“What gossip?” Harrison prompts.
“About me and Emma.”
“What?” he snaps. “What fucker said that?”
“My father-in-law.”
“Gerald Blackmore?” Russell says, clearly stunned, and I nod. “But you two were tight. What the fuck happened?”
“He appeared here yesterday, shooting his mouth off and accusing me of having a relationship with Emma.”
The familiar fury builds as it has every time I rerun our conversation in my head.
Gerald is a man I thought of as a father figure.
He’s been in my life as long as I’ve known his daughter, first as a neighbor, then as family.
His allegations had been hard to take, and unanticipated.
Our shared family’s support is something I’m used to being able to count on.
Not anymore, except for my own mother, who continues to be a rock in my life.
“What’s the situation with the girl? It certainly is a unique scenario,” Connor asks. His question sits in the air between us all. A few moments pass before I speak as I consider what to say.
“Nothing changes. She can have the baby then move on once our contract is up.”
“And do you have a plan for how you will care for a child on your own?”
“My mother will help.”
“She’s offered her services, or are you assuming this?”
Connor continues to pick at the already-open wound.
He watches me intently for signs that I am lying.
It’s a lawyer trait—my three friends who practice in the city all have shrewd eyes and a never-ending list of questions, which they often ask at what feels like inappropriate times.
“She is my mother. This is her grandchild. If I need a nanny eventually, I’ll get one.”
“And the girl?”
“As before, she will have the child then move into alternate accommodations. After six months, her obligations are complete, and she can finish her studies with my financial support.”
The men all stare at me as if waiting for more information.
“Waite has kindly agreed to take her on as an intern around her studies to provide her more on-the-job experience. I will fulfill my end of the arrangement, then we will go our separate ways.”
“That’s it?” Connor says.
“Yes,” I snap. “That was always it. Stop looking for something that isn’t there. For Emma and me this is no more than a business contract. She does not want a child, she assured us of that, and the last thing I need is a friend like her. Connie was the one with an interest in the girl, not me.”
“Noted,” Harrison mutters, his tone conveying skepticism.
“It’s fucking true,” I insist.
“Caring about her isn’t an issue, Damon. She’s pregnant with your child. It’s understandable. Don’t be an asshole because you’re hurting.”
“I’m not being an asshole.”
My friends all stare at me. Russell raises an eyebrow.
“You just were,” he tells me.
After a further hour of drinking Harrison’s rare whiskey collection, my friends leave my home. They each embrace me in turn, then walk down my garden path toward the two waiting black cars.
Harrison, Russell, and Connor climb into the first car; their driver has stepped out of the vehicle and opened the door for them.
A second man, their security I assume, stands, surveying the area until his bosses are safely inside, then moves into the passenger side.
The three men all have apartments in one of the most expensive buildings in Canary Wharf.
They own the top two floors called The Level.