Page 96 of Claim

“I don’t handle goods anymore.” I paused, choosing my words. “I’d moved up. Handling gear wasn’t my job.”

“What was?”

I glanced at Tristan without meaning to. His eyes were on the notes he’d written.

Imogen’s voice cut in, calm but firm. “Mr Slade, remember this conversation is privileged. Everything you say here is for your defence. Nothing leaves this room.”

I wasn’t bothered about the people outside this room hearing. Most of the people outside probably already knew it anyway. It was saying it in front of Tristan. Of laying it bear. Telling him who he’d had in his bed.

“I ran things.”

Silence. They all looked at me waiting.

I sighed. “Lines. Clubs. People. Movement. Who goes where. What goes where. When. Who gets paid. Who don’t. Or won’t. Who needs reminding.”

Imogen peered up over her notes. “Enforcement?”

“Yeah. That too.” I gave a short nod. “If something slipped… I fixed it.”

“How?”

I held her gaze. “Depends what needed fixing.” I shrugged. “Sometimes it’s a conversation.” I flexed my fingers on my knee, feeling the old scars stretch. “Sometimes it ain’t.”

I realised then, as I laid out all the bad shit I’d been doing for years without flinching, that this was where they decided how hard they were willing to fight for me. If I was even worth all the hassle. But the biggest sledgehammer to my skull right then was how I finally got what Tristan had meant. That no random brief would fight for men like me in a case like this. I’d get represented, sure. Like the last lot. But fight? Risk anything? Stick their neck out? Nah. I weren’t worth fighting for.

Unless they thought I was.

Unless…they cared.

Not about winning or the outcome. But about me.

I peeked at Tristan then and my heart clenched.

“And where were you when that call came in?” Imogen glanced up from her notes.

Shit.

Didn’t see that one coming.

And after what had just clicked into place, there was no way I was dragging Tristan any deeper into this than I already had. Every instinct I’d ever learned—street, survival, self-preservation—kicked in at once.

Don’t answer.

Say nothing.

No comment.

But Tristan spoke anyway. “With me.”

Mercer stilled beside me. Imogen leant back in her chair, eyes on Tristan, tapping her pen on the file before she set it down.

“I declared the relationship.” Tristan stared her down, unflinching.

“You declared a prior relationship, yes.” She closed her eyes. “You did not declare that he left your bed and was arrested the same day.”

“I said it had ended. Which it had.”

I glanced down at the table, unsure what the fuck to say or even feel about that. Tried not to feel anything at all.