Page 47 of Damon

“It does all seem suspiciously interconnected,” Russell pipes up, not arguing with the comment, which is surprising. Normally he would be adamant black was white if it suited him.

“Life is a web of coincidences,” Hunter interjects. “Don’t you agree, Chase?” He turns to Connor, who shrugs. “We really need to give you two different nicknames. Maybe even Chase One and Chase Two, or Happy Chase and Grumpy Chase. What do you think?”

“I think if you don’t stop speaking, you may lose a finger,” Connor suggests. “You pin him down Russ, and I’ll cut it off.” The brothers both laugh, and the quarrel of earlier evaporates.

“That won’t be necessary,” Harrison interrupts. “Plus, Hunter would skin the two of you before you found a knife. Pick your battles.” Russell and Connor grumble but don’t argue—they know he’s right. Of all of us, Hunter has the most experience in combat of any form. He grew up running London, protecting not only himself but his men.

“Do we know anything else?” Connor asks. “Any more leads that we could look into?”

The men all turn to me for information. Being the man in the police force and with personal interests above any of theirs in seeing this case closed means the responsibility has fallen mainly on me. They follow my lead much of the time.

“We’ve located a possible business linked to Brenton which is being used to launder money,” I tell them. “This is new information as of today, and mostly it’s a hunch. There is a garage by the river. Markmans.”

“I know it,” Hunter says. “The guy that owns it likes to dabble a little in low-value drugs. Wayne something from memory.” I nod. “He was found pushing drugs outside a high school. I sent one of my men to advise him the location wasn’t appropriate and to move on.”

“Did he take the hint?” I ask.

“After some encouragement, yes. He moved to supplying straight from the garage as far as I know. So, do you think he’s involved?”

“His business is. Brenton owns fifty-one percent of the company; it was signed over a month ago. No money seems to have exchanged hands, but since then more funds have been banked week to week.”

“How did you get access to his bank records?” Russell asks, surprise clear in his voice.

“You are not the only person with contacts, Chase,” I say bluntly. We stare at each other. Things have been strained and are becoming worse. He narrows his eyes. “I want Connie’s killer brought to justice more than anyone. Not just the man who pulled the trigger, but the person at the top. You of everyone here should know, sometimes we have to play the long game to get true justice.”

“Justice is best served by a blade,” Hunter mutters sinisterly. He once again starts playing with his knife, twirling it and twisting it in his hands. His eyes stay focused on the object. “Guns are suitable in some situations, but with a blade you can inflict true, long-lasting pain. It’s possible to ensure your subject has time to think about why they’ve ended up at the end of a knife.”

“I would sell my soul to the devil if I had twenty-four hours to torture the bastard who killed my wife,” I say, and he looks up. Hunter and I have become closer in recent months. He is the friend I never knew I could truly rely on.

“When we catch him, my friend,” he replies with a smile, “you will get your wish. And as for your soul, that deal was done years ago. You, McKinney, dance with hell every day, no matter what badge you wear. Once the line is crossed there is no going back.”

Chapter eighteen

Damon and Annie's Home, London

Emma

Annie sleeps soundly in her crib. Peace at last. Today has been incredibly hard—she barely stopped crying for what felt like hours. Day three of being the nanny to my own child, and I suck at it. The circumstances are senseless, and I have no idea how to navigate them. Damon hasn’t been here all day, and now he’s at Harrison’s to discuss business. What sort of business, I dread to think. Having worked in the law office and lived with Damon, I know these men don’t only work in broad daylight. Other responsibilities pull them in much darker directions, and what they are, I am determined to find out. I need to know who and what I’m involved with.

The music box stops playing for the umpteenth time. I quickly rewind the key, not wanting to wake the finally restful baby. I’m sitting beside her crib on the floor with the life-saving device between my palms. The familiar tune of a nursery rhyme I know but can’t name fills the air. Annie wriggles but doesn’t wake, and I breathe out a sigh of relief.

Upon glancing at my watch, the face tells me it is almost midnight; really, I should go to bed, but I don’t want to. I want to see him when he returns. I need to know he’s home safe. The security team surrounding the house do little to relieve my concerns. If they’re here, there’s still a very real threat to our lives.

A large fleece blanket lies folded on a storage box in the corner. It’s baby pink and covered with stars and rainbows. I crawl over, then pull it across the room before returning to my spot and wrapping the shield around my body. As I lean against the crib, my tiredness is overwhelming, and I drift off to sleep surrounded by soft toys and nursery rhymes.

“Emma.” Damon’s strong voice ambushes my dreams. “Emma,” he whispers again, “what are you doing lying on the floor?”

“Waiting for you,” I mumble back honestly, still insensible. I feel him crouch down beside me, slide an arm beneath my knees and under my back. The sensation of being lifted by strong arms is comforting, and the motion upwards is surprisingly smooth. On impulse, I wrap my arms around his neck and lean my cheek against his shoulder, desperate to absorb his warmth. He smells of whiskey, cinnamon, and pure male. “I’m glad you’re home,” I tell him.

“You should be in bed,” he replies. His breath tickles the skin on my face, and I giggle. “It’s late, almost three in the morning.”

“I can’t sleep when I don’t know where you are,” I mutter. My eyes are still firmly closed and, in my head, this is a hallucination, not reality. He feels real on my fingertips, but this can’t be happening. He would never instigate such an intimate situation by choice. “I need to know you’re safe. I can’t lose you too.”

His body tenses, and suddenly I’m aware that this scenario is not merely being played out in my mind. When I open my eyes, I’m staring into anxious, confused green ones. He stands in the middle of his daughter’s bedroom holding me like a new bride.

“How was your day?” he asks, diverting the topic of conversation from how I feel. His words are quiet and soft. He searches my face for answers. My heart hammers in my chest as we look at each other. Embarrassed, I reclose my eyes hoping to hide the guilt and shame within myself, both from my inability as a nanny and for lusting after this man who is unavailable.

“Challenging. I’m not good at this. Annie had colic according to Mrs. D. I’m so glad she was here to help,” I admit sadly. The truth is, when I was struggling to settle Annie today, all I could think of is how I was letting both him and her down. How I was letting Connie down in failing to keep their daughter happy—the child I promised to provide to them to complete their family. The one she was never able to enjoy.

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