Page 119 of Corrupt

So I stayed.

And we slept tangled together, the night folding in around us, his body warm and trusting against mine while my head stayed stubbornly awake, trying to work out how I was meant to make any of this fit into a life that had never left room for it before.

* * * *

Morning came too fast.

Grey light crept in around the edges of the curtains, London waking up whether I was ready for it or not. Tristan was still asleep, curled towards me, one hand fisted lightly in the sheet as if he’d reached for me in his sleep and missed. His face was slack with it, unguarded in a way that made my chest tighten.

For one dangerous second, I considered staying.

But I could hear the vibrating.

My burner. I’d brought it in this time. Cause fuck yeah, I’d learnt my lesson. Be on call no matter what, no matter where I was. So I eased myself out from under Tristan’s arm, found my jeans and pulled out the phone. I shoved on underwear and went out to his front balcony, desperately wanting a cigarette to answer, but they were back in my car.

So I hit answer. “Cormac.”

“Morning,” he said, too pleasantly. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

I leant back against the railing. “What is it?”

“Final tidy-up. We’ve got a buyer who wants reassurance. Face to face. Last of the Shoreditch stock.”

“You’ve got managers for that.” I’d made sure of it.

“Mm.” He pause. For effect. “I want you. I only trust you with this, Razor. You know that.

Trust. The word men like him used when they meant leverage.

“And you handle it clean,” he went on, “you can take a break. Proper one. Full pay. No oversight. I’ll give you the Spanish place. Pool. Sea view. You can disappear for a bit. Fuck your worries away. Come back lighter. Then I’ll move you higher. Never have your hands on anything again. Or… there’s a nice exit. Always has been for loyalty.”

Sun. Distance. Clean hands.

Everything I’d told Tristan I wanted, laid out like a menu item I hadn’t realised I’d ordered years ago.

“You’d like that, right?”

Would I?

At what cost?

Because if I said no, he’d hear it. Not the word. The shift. The hesitation. The half-breath men like him were trained to sniff out. And once he smelt it, he wouldn’t let it settle. He’d lean in. Start watching. Start pulling threads. And the closer he looked, the more likely he was to see exactly where I’d been when I wasn’t in his pocket. Who I’d been with. What I suddenly had to lose. And what I’d been doing to my line since Tristan had set foot back in my life.

I glanced back through the glass into the flat. Tristan’s laptop was on the table. Files stacked neatly beside it. The quiet order of his life. Then I gazed further. Past the hallway, to the bedroom door, ajar enough for me to see him asleep. Curled in on himself. Safe. Unaware.

“One last thing.” Cormac said. “For me. For the house I gave your sister. And that little baby of hers might grow up right, eh?”

And there it was again. Not the offer. The reminder.

The invisible line around my throat, tightening and making breathing feel optional. Making choice redundant. He wasn’t dangling something new, he was pulling on what I’d already taken. What I already owed. Who would pay if I decided to grow principles overnight.

I pushed off the railing. “Where?”

“Docklands. Unit by the river. You know the one. Bring the product. Cash gets handed over on site.”

That was new.

“I don’t move stock personally.” I’d bled to get past that.