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I believe her. “Sorry to drag you out here.” I’m not, though. Usually, when I go into a meeting I expect to be unpleasant, my mind is crystal clear. I know the part I plan to play and the lines I need to use to get people to say yes to me. It’s how I felt two hours ago when I was facing down a sniveling old man across a bistro table, a gun I knew he’d use against me sitting next to my plate.
But now, my mind is a fucking mess. And Iris is the one person on this planet I trust most to pick up my slack.
We walk into Cooper’s, and are immediately assaulted by the smell of the place. More specifically, the people in the place. More than a few bleary-eyed men follow Iris with their eyes, taking in her sleek, mile-long legs and striking white hair. One even makes an attempt at a catcall, which she ignores. We go straight to a private room at the back, dominated by a pool table- and already occupied.
Morgan Speare stands across the room from us, his too-tall scarecrow body drowned by a fur trimmed coat too heavy for the season. His beady eyes are black holes in the dim light, and they follow me like a starving animal sighting prey. At his elbow, the stubbled face of his enforcer, Paul Zakharov, is barely visible by the back wall. He may go everywhere with his boss, but I’ve always observed that he does so with little enthusiasm.
Iris closes the door behind me and takes a spot against the wall to my right, closer to Morgan than I am, but not quite between us. Paul moves to the opposite side of the room. Our guard dogs face each other, sizing each other up from across the pool table.
“Lovely to see you, Iris,” Paul says, with an ironic smile.
“It usually is,” Iris returns, her face completely stoic.
I step up to the pool table and rest my palms against the cool, dusty wood of the frame.
“All right, Morgan,” I say. “What’s this all about?”
Morgan’s mouth twists around his smoldering cigarette, and he plants his hands on his hips like he’s about to scold a child for running onto his lawn. His English accent is thick around his words, even after the nearly three decades it’s been since the Warwicks family emigrated to America. “I wanna know why I’m hearing shit about a certain niece of mine, who should be at home and isn’t.”
For a brief moment, I consider bluffing my way through this. I could lie and tell Morgan that I haven’t seen his niece in ten years. I could tell him the point of this truce was that the borders had finally been drawn and suited both our parties. I’d be able to convince any sane person.
Or, if I wanted to, I could give Clara up. I wouldn’t even bother using her as a hostage. I’d just return her like a cat who wandered into the wrong yard, and call it a token of my belief in the truce.
But she ran from Morgan. She ran without even having a plan for where to go, because she couldn’t stand being under his roof a second longer. I may be cold, but I don’t like the idea of returning her to that.
Besides, I fucking hate Morgan Speare, and I like pissing him off when I can get away with it. It’s why Iris said she would come with me, when she knows I can handle myself just fine.
“What makes you think I know where she is?” I ask, with naked contempt. Out of the corner of my eye, Iris’s jaw flexes, but she doesn’t take her eyes off Paul.
“Don’t play stupid with me, boy,” Morgan snaps. “You were seen with her two hours ago. Had a nice lunch, did you?”
“Not really.”
“I expect her back. Tonight. Undamaged.”
Like a switch flicking in my mind, I’m sure of how I want this conversation to go. “What use is she to you?”
“Only one use for a girl her age,” Morgan says impatiently. “You’ve got a sister, you know.”
Don’t I just. Except Raleigh would saw off every one of my limbs with a rusted spoon if I tried to make her part of a strategic marriage.
“Ah, I see,” I say. “So that’s what you meant by ‘undamaged’.”
Iris twitches, and Paul raises his eyebrows, his smile dying. For the first time, he takes his eyes off of Iris and looks at me, as if just now tuning in to the conversation. I cross my arms over my chest, exuding the same kind of male pride I showed Clara in the bathroom this morning. I can almost hear Iris screaming in my mind as I add, “I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that.”
Morgan takes his hands off his hips, and I watch them carefully.
“The fuck do you mean?” he growls.
“Well, I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but your niece is a very beautiful woman. And when a beautiful woman comes to your door in the middle of the night with a certain kind of proposal, you’d be stupid to refuse-”
Morgan is around the pool table in a flash. Iris lunges over it, a pool cue suddenly in her hands. Her swing would have caught Morgan in the temple, but Paul’s hand catches it in midair and jerks it right out of her hands. They topple to the floor in a heap of swinging limbs, but I can’t help because Morgan is on me now.
He swings wildly, and what he lacks in raw strength he makes up for with speed. I block his first punch, his second, and there’s already a third incoming. He swings more like a feral cat than a man. I see the flash of a knife and manage to catch his wrist. His other fist hits the side of my head, making my ear ring. I wrench the wrist of his knife hand, then smash it against the edge of the pool table until he releases the blade. He howls, then I catch his jaw with my fist.
Morgan crumples over the table, and I pin him there with my body. It feels good to sink my fist into the man’s jaw, once, twice, three times.
The thought flashes through my mind, I could kill him right here, and all of this would be over.
