Page 111 of Corrupt

Fuck.

I didn’t have it in me for this. So I didn’t explain.

“Tyler’s at St Thomas’s.” I took the cash from my pocket and put it straight into Courtney’s hands. Thick. Folded. Heavy enough she glanced down despite herself. “Bring him home. In a cab. Then don’t let him leave the house.”

Courtney looked up at me then, eyes wide.

I held her gaze to hammer it home. “Until I say.”

She nodded. No questions. No bargaining. Then closed her fingers around the money and stepped aside to do what needed doing. Courtney had always been good at surviving the practical stuff.

Shanice wasn’t.

She stepped in front of her, blocking the doorway. “What’s going on?”

“Not now, Shanice.”

She huffed a laugh, bitter. “It’s always not now with you.”

I shot her a look and turned away before she could dig her hooks in. I didn’t trust my temper. Or my guilt. Or the fact she knew too much about how I ran when things got hard.

She called after me, sharp as broken glass. “One day, you won’t be able to walk away!”

I didn’t answer.

I got in the car and drove.

The next part was worse.

The stupid part.

I drove through the borough and stopped outside the terraced house where Kyan lived. With his family. Parents. A younger brother. A fucking life that had nothing to do with warehouses or drops or men like Cormac. And I sat there longer than I meant to, watching the curtains. The dark upstairs window. Trying not to imagine who was inside, waiting for a knock that would split their world open.

Then I opened the car door and threw up into the gutter.

When I was done, I wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve, grabbed another wad of notes, and shoved them into a plain envelope. Hood up. Head down. I ran to the door and pushed the money through the letterbox.

That was everyone who mattered.

Then I got back in the car and rang Cormac.

Short. Direct. No emotion.

Told him I’d handle distribution personally until Tyler was back on his feet. Told him Pretty Poison would move fast, quietly, and cleanly. No noise. No fuck-ups. And as I ended the call, phone still warm in my hand, I didn’t let myself name the thought pressing hard against my ribs. This wasn’t tidying up. It was contingency.

Just in case I didn’t get the chance to come back and do it later.

Then, I went east.

Shoreditch wasn’t unfamiliar territory. It was polished chaos. Brick warehouses turned into clubs, neon bleeding into damp pavements, queues full of kids who thought they were untouchable. Bouncers who knew exactly when not to see things. We’d seeded it months back with the Trentham deal. Private rooms. Introductions. Doors only opening if your name was known.

I’d circled it long enough, not daring to step in.

Because I knew the second I did, there’d be no stepping back out. No clawing my way clear. This had my fingerprints all over it. Every route led back to me. How the fuck was I supposed to walk away from something built to carry my name?

So I didn’t.

I started with the managers I trusted. No owners. Managers. The ones who knew where the cameras didn’t quite reach, who understood that discretion paid better than questions. Pretty Poison didn’t get sold hand to hand. It didn’t get pushed. It got invited. I told them I was running a short line. Invite only, no repeats without approval, no phones, no dealers visible.