Page 5 of Corrupt

“Don’t care how. Just gone.”

Tyler nodded and moved off towards the bar where the maître d’ was chatting to Elliot Crane, the so-called owner and front man. He handled menus and wine pairings and pretended this place wasn’t just a laundry with tablecloths. I watched Tyler lean in and mutter something, obviously favouring the quiet method. Elliot’s smile faltered. And he looked at the table Tyler pointed at, then back at me. A flicker of… was that fear?

Good.

I didn’t break eye contact as I slid back into the booth.

Trentham watched me settle, knife in hand. “Problem?”

“Not one that can’t be solved.” I poured a finger of whisky into both glasses, forcing calm into mine.

A moment later, a shadow loomed across the table.

“Apologies for intruding.” Elliot’s smile stretched thin. “But I’m told you’d like one of my regulars removed.”

Regulars.

He didn’t mean Tricky. I’d have noticed him. He meant the date. Which somehow made it worse. That this was a routine night for him. That my Tricky was another boy on the list.

“S’right.” I cut into my steak. Let the blood smear the plate and pictured it dripping from the bastard’s throat.

Elliot darted his gaze around the room before adding, “Lord Wolfe is… a very important client here.”

He said the name of the prick as if I was meant to know it. Even Trentham’s eyebrow twitched. Probably the Lord part. But I couldn’t give a fuck. A title didn’t mean shit to me. I could cut a Lord like anyone else. And I didn’t give a flying fuck who or what he was, only that he was sitting opposite something of mine.

Even if I hadn’t claimed him in eight months.

Elliot cocked his head. “May I ask why you want him removed?”

I looked up, chewing, drawing it out. The steak bled on the plate. So did I.

Three reasons I was primed to snap: First, Tricky. His heat was everywhere, humming under my skin, messing up my pulse. Second, that smug prick across from him, swirling his wine like a performance and winking at Tricky as if he owned him. And third, Elliot. Standing there, questioning me. In front of Trentham, who I’d been working to impress, and Doyle, who’d just strolled back in with smoke curling off his jacket.

For a man who didn’t want to make a scene, I was doing a piss-poor job of it.

“I don’t like him,” I said. Flat. Final.

Doyle sat. Trentham leant back, whisky swirling, waiting to see if I could make good on the reputation he’d been promised.

Elliot tried for another smile. “I assure you, he has very deep pockets and enjoys your particular brand of dessert.”

Meaning: Wolfe bought my gear and used it when he fucked blokes like my Tricky.

My blood boiled up hot and fast.

I leant back, glare sharp. “He’s cut off from that too.”

Elliot breathed a laugh and glanced towards Wolfe again, frowning as if trying to puzzle out why this client rattled me so badly. “Is it… the gay thing?”

I laughed. Loud. Sharp.

Elliot blinked.

“Look.” I rubbed my thumb across my eyebrow. “We can do this quiet. Everyone goes back to their tiny, overpriced amuse-bouches. Or I stroll over there, carve him with a steak knife, and you can mop up the entrails. Put them in a soup or what’s that fucking stuff that’s mostly froth?”

Elliot inhaled sharply. “I’ll ask them to leave.”

He turned, but I stopped him. “Only the old bloke,” I called out. “No drama. Whisper something that’ll get him away from the table, then toss him out the back. In the bins, preferably. Make his pretty little thing think he bailed on him.”