Page 7 of Corrupt

No one corrected Lord Wolfe, though.

People bent themselves into whatever shape made his life easier.

The server approached and Wolfe didn’t glance at her. His eyes stayed on me as he ordered the most expensive bottle on the list. Never once looking away. It felt like a fingertip trailing down my spine. Eight months single and, apparently, I’d forgotten how to deal with such intent.

Or maybe I’d forgotten how to stop seeing Razor every time someone looked at me like that.

Wolfe’s intent was… rather a lot, though.

Still, I’d heard the food here was good. And the wine expensive enough to sand down my nerves. I was going to need it, especially with the rumours about Adrian not limiting his interests to anything legally obtainable. Though I suspected most of that was myth. A man like Wolfe didn’t get his hands dirty. He dirtied other people’s hands and called it strategy.

“I must say, Tristan, your father undersold you.” Adrian nodded at the server to pour after tasting from the bottle she’d brought up from the cellar, then lifted his glass towards mine. “I’m rather glad I asked him to arrange this. I prefer forming my own opinions.”

I clinked his rim. “Why? Did he tell you I’m a complete rogue?”

Adrian’s chuckle was aged in oak and arrogance. “He did mention how you like to sway out of the lines a little.” He trailed his gaze gradually over me. Unhurried. Clinical. And hungry all at once. “And I must admit, I’m rather curious how far out of those lines you go.”

“Not too far.” I set my wine down before I downed it. “It’s a weeknight. Imogen won’t be thrilled if her pupil turns up at court hungover.”

“Ah, yes. Imogen Barrett KC.” Wolfe’s smile sharpened. “Your father must be proud. Imogen doesn’t take just anyone.”

Seven months into pupillage at Temple Crown Chambers, drafting case materials, shadowing trials, interviewing clients who pretended not to recognise the Hale-Fitzroy surname, I should have felt as though I’d finally clawed free of Mayfair’s gilded chokehold.

But I knew better.

My father’s shadow stretched even here. It always had. I wouldn’t even be in pupillage this year if he hadn’t found me one late and leant on me to take it, to quit the Master’s I’d enrolled in for a man who’d since cheated and vanished, leaving me exactly where my father had always predicted I’d end up. Drifting.

I cleared my throat and sat forward an inch, trying to restore some kind of… boundary and ignore the heat creeping up my neck. “My father said you’re working across several government advisory panels?”

“Several?” Wolfe lifted a brow. “Try nine.” He waved a hand, modestly immodest. “I chair three of them. Cabinet oversight, economic reform, that sort of thing. A fair bit of select committee work in the Lords as well.”

He didn’t even bother to make it subtle.

“And.” He swirled his glass. “I’ve recently been asked to consult on a new financial crime initiative with the Home Office. Proving to be… quite involved. The underground economy is a hydra. Cut off one head, and two grow back.”

“That’s interesting,” I tried to steer this conversation to the point of me being here. “I’ve been doing some research for my chambers on a laundering case, actually—”

“Oh, I know.” Wolfe leant forward. “Your father mentioned it. He’s very proud. Says you’re thriving.”

Proud? Father’s only genuine show of pride had been the day I moved out of the Clerkenwell house share, after Henry and Zara scattered to their own corners of London and took up residence in the Barons Court flat he paid for.

Apparently, adulthood was defined by proximity to a postcode he approved of.

“And how are you finding the work?” Wolfe asked. “Drafting briefs, interviewing clients, reading late nights at Temple Crown…” He quirked a brow. “Keeping yourself busy.”

“I like to be busy.”

“I can see that.” He swept his gaze over me again. “Productive men are… compelling.”

I shifted in my seat. “Anyway, about the advisory work, my father said there might be an opportunity for barristers—”

“There might.” Wolf’s eyes glinted. “For the right candidate.” He pointed a finger at me from around the wine glass. “And you, Tristan, are very right in very many ways.”

My pulse stuttered.

But he continued as if he hadn’t insinuated how my sexuality benefited him. “I work directly with two cabinet ministers, the Met Commissioner, and half the senior CPS board. When I want a door opened, it opens. When I want a name removed… it disappears.”

“That’s… impressive.” Though, not really to me.