by Geneva Lee
As I walked through the unlocked door, things got stranger.
Chapter 5
ALEXANDER
I didn’t ask where we were going. I suspected I didn’t want to know. I’d meant it when I said I would do anything and partner with anyone to see Clara safely home. My body felt hollow as though some vital life force had been torn from me. In its place a flame flickered to life. I didn’t know where the spark had come from but it fueled me now. It drove me forward when most of me wanted to crumble from the loss. Perhaps, it was denial. Maybe it was love. I didn’t care as long as nothing extinguished it.
“Let’s take mine. The press will follow your cars,” Smith advised as we neared the private car park where a half dozen Range Rovers and a few other employee vehicles waited.
“You’re probably right,” I agreed. They would be camped out and more vicious than usual after news of my grandmother’s death leaked. “The last thing I need is an over-eager paparazzi to catch a photo of me meeting with a criminal.”
“How do you know I’m taking you to see a criminal?” Smith asked pulling keys from his pocket.
“I assume the devil isn’t a saint,” I said flatly.
I didn’t have to ask him which one was his. Another day I might have been impressed by the black Bugatti. Today, the ostentatious display of wealth didn’t register.
I was fire and ice—burning and numb at once.
“This won’t get noticed?” I asked, suddenly uncertain of his plan’s wisdom.
“It will get noticed,” Smith said with a hollow laugh. “But people will be staring at the car. Not you.”
It helped that the windows were tinted far beyond any legal limit. The engine roared to life as I slid into my seat. We left out a back gate, Smith pulling into the morning traffic smoothly. I averted my eyes, but I felt them there: the reporters, the gawkers, the tourists. They all wanted a glimpse of me—of my life.
A gate. A fence. Castle walls. They weren’t enough. I hated the lack of boundaries. I hated that every move I made had to be choreographed to avoid speculation. I hated that I’d assumed the throne to protect my family.
I hated the glass crown I wore—invisible but heavy, powerful but impotent. It meant nothing. None of this did. I’d chosen a life of duty and fate had rewarded me with pain.
Smith didn’t attempt conversation. We’d bandied theories and strategies with the others for hours. I needed time to be with my own thoughts. I suspected he did, too. But as we drove further, leaving the city behind, I was no closer to understanding what had happened.
When we reached Surrey, I expected to find myself at a quaint old estate. Instead, Smith turned down a long drive. The tree-lined path was broken only by a small guard station. There was no house in sight.
Smith stopped the car and rolled down the window. “Smith Price.”
“Is he expecting you?” The guard asked.
“I believe I’m on the list,” Smith said dryly.
A moment later, we were on our way. The trees grew denser for a moment, shielding the home that lay beyond and when we finally passed them, I found myself staring at a home that rivaled the grandeur of most crown estates. Unlike my family’s holdings, this was clearly a newly built residence. The circular drive was paved with smooth stone and a fountain gurgled in its centre. The villa beyond belonged in Italy not outside London with its terra-cotta shingled roof and sprawling mass.
I didn’t have to ask him where we were. I’d seen this house before in briefings with MI-5. It was burned into my brain.
“So this is hell.” I said absently.
“Were you expecting more flames?” Smith asked. He pulled to the entrance and parked the Bugatti with a familiarity.
He’d been here before. Of course, he had. He’d worked for Hammond and a number of other unsavoury London businessmen.
“Strangely, no.” If there was a hell on earth—or, at least, England—it was the DeAngelo family estate.
The DeAngelos were one of London’s primary crime syndicates. I’d been briefed on their activities on a number of occasions. They murdered, plotted, laundered money—and I’d just driven into the belly of the beast.
Two massive wooden doors loomed ahead. Once I walked through them, there would be no turning back.
“Do we knock?” I asked Smith as we reached the doors.
As in answer, one creaked open and a security guard motioned us inside. He was dressed in a black suit that did nothing to hide his paunch or the gun holstered under his left arm.
“Please.” He motioned for me to spread my arms and legs.
My eyebrows shot up. I couldn’t remember the last time I was frisked. In fact, I might never have been frisked. “I don’t carry a weapon.”
That fact didn’t matter to him. If he knew who he was, and the chances were minuscule that he didn’t, he acted oblivious as he swept his hands under my arms and up my legs.
When he turned to my companion, Smith handed the man a small pistol. “Here.”
This must have engendered trust because Smith escaped the pat-down. It didn’t surprise me that he carried a gun.
“This way.” The guard tipped his head and we followed through a marble lined corridor.
“You should carry a weapon,” Smith advised.
“I left the guns in Afghanistan,” I muttered. The thought had occurred to me, too, but I’d clung to the idea that something in my life could be normal. I couldn’t have been more wrong and my blind arrogance had cost me.
“Whatever this game is,” Smith continued in a low voice, aware that the guard was probably listening to every word we said, “the stakes have gone up. You should be prepared, especially now that…”
He didn’t finish the statement, but I knew what he was driving at. With Norris missing, I was vulnerable in a way I’d never been before. He’d carried a gun. Everyone on my team did.
I’d pretended for a long time that my place in the grand scheme was different. I was a father, a husband, a king. I’d let myself hover in the shadows on the board while I moved the other players, gambling their lives in exchange for my protection.
For the Queen’s protection.
And someone had outplayed me.
They might again. I couldn’t be caught unprepared next time. “I’ll have Brex get one.”
“That would be wise.”
The man showed us into a large sitting room where two men in suits occupied seats parallel to one another. Outside the picture windows, a rolling green lawn stretched to the edge of a forest. It was the picture of civility—and it was a lie. Nothing about the DeAngelo family or their associates was civil.
“Are we interrupting?” Smith asked.
“No.” The older man brushed off his concern as they both stood. “Mr. Ford and I are finished with our business.”
The two shook hands, exchanging farewells with such ease, I might have thought they’d simply had afternoon tea.
“Your Majesty.” The younger man, Ford, nodded as he passed but didn’t seem ruffled to discover that the King of England was meeting with a mob boss. He also didn’t display a hint of humility. Instead, he prowled past us, exiting the room and returning to whatever dark world he inhabited.
“Smith Price. I didn’t expect to see you walk through my doors.” Marcus DeAngelo’s eyes skimmed over me, tightening at the edges before they skipped to my companion. It was the only sign of surprise at my presence. “I’d hoped you came to accept my job offer, but it looks as if you’ve found another organisation in which to invest your talents.”
“I’m retired,” Smith said.
“So I’ve heard.” DeAngelo paused to pour himself a drink. Each moment of delay irked me. We were wasting time while playing at niceties with a known criminal. “But here you are—and with such auspicious company. It seems you’ve found a new family.”
“I suppose I went legit.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” DeAngelo said. He lifted the crystal decanter in offering.
I wanted a drink, which was why I shouldn’t have one. I needed to keep my mind sharp, especially in the presence of a wolf.
“No, thank you.” I shifted on my heels. It was difficult to be polite to a man who actively worked against my country, who ran weapons and controlled drug trafficking. It was hard to ignore that those were the least of his sins.
DeAngelo waved to a set of leather cigar chairs. “Sit, gentleman.”
He wasn’t the type to use my title. I wasn’t the type to take an order.
“He asked nicely,” Smith said under his breath, sensing my dilemma.
And I was the one who’d agreed to come.
“What trouble brings you to my door?” DeAngelo swished his bourbon thoughtfully while he waited for us to respond.
“Why do you assume there’s trouble?” Smith asked nonchalantly. He might not practice anymore, but he was still a lawyer.
“If you came to me for help, I assume there must be trouble. Particularly, given…” DeAngelo leveled a long look at me.
It was an odd game we were playing, skirting around the fact that he and I were connected by more than this spontaneous meeting. DeAngelo didn’t seem interested in keeping that information close to the vest.
Smith had obviously been expecting a different reaction. He looked between us, his eyebrows drawing together. “What?”
“He must be new to your circle,” DeAngelo drawled, “if he doesn’t know.”
“It’s not common knowledge that you provided the gun that killed my father,” I said coolly. If he was going to show his hand, I might as well. The king beat most cards, after all.
“That complicates things,” Smith said, shooting me a look.
It wasn’t my fault that I hadn’t told him. I didn’t know where we were going. But I was lying to myself if I pretended that I hadn’t suspected where he was bringing us.
Smith had been part of the investigation that had led from Jack Hammond to Oliver Jacobson. He knew more than most about my father’s assassination, but I’d never shared the information about the gun. It hadn’t seemed important. Then again, I didn’t know he associated with the DeAngelo family.
“Does it?” DeAngelo said, his lips twitching. “It was a business transaction. Much like the one I expect we’ll conduct this afternoon.”
“MI-5 would rather nail him for something larger,” I explained to Smith, my eyes remaining on DeAngelo. Smith was wrong. This man wasn’t the devil, but he’d sold his soul to him—and hell would come to collect eventually. No man could play with fire forever without getting burned.
“Yes, they would.” He didn’t seem the least bit ruffled by this fact. Maybe he always knew he was on borrowed time. Maybe that’s why he did it.
“There’s been a security breach,” Smith said, “and we’re wondering what you know about some recent events.”
“The bombing of that symposium, I assume?”
Ice trickled down my neck. It couldn’t be coincidence that he would bring that up. Not now that we knew that there was so much more to that day than a failed attack. It took effort to keep my voice measured. Almost as much effort as it did to stop myself from grabbing him and pounding the information out of him. “Yes. We believe there might be a group plotting against the crown.”
“When isn’t there?” he snorted.
I slammed my fist on the side table, barely aware of the jolt it sent bursting through my nerves. “This isn’t a joke.”
Silence fell over us for a moment as we regarded each other. On one side, I sat: the very symbol of this nation’s law and order. Across from me, DeAngelo stared back at me like a mirror: the opposite of me—chaotic and self-serving. And between: a man who belonged to neither of us, who acted in his own interest according to a moral compass I didn’t always understand. We were a spectrum of morality that twisted back on itself like a Mobius strip. I was as capable of selfish action as DeAngelo. I would do anything and hurt anyone to get Clara back. I could only hope the same was true for him—that he was capable of benevolence.
“Who did they hurt?” Marcus asked shrewdly. He still hadn’t take a drink. It was a clutch, a prop to hide some nervous tick or behaviour. Like me, he has no interesting in dulling his faculties in mixed company.
“An advisor,” I said quickly, exchanging looks with Smith. He hadn’t clarified why he was involving London’s reigning mob boss, but telling him that Clara was missing had the potential for disastrous consequences.
DeAngelo abandoned his drink on the table and leaned forward to rest his palms on his knees. “Lying to me will only get you half the information you need.”
“You don’t need to know more than that,” Smith said firmly, stepping into the role of my counsel once more.
“Fine.” The older man settled back, looking nonplussed by this refusal. “Be that as it may, it won’t help me determine who finally acted.”
His words landed on my chest and I felt a hollow pang. There were always groups plotting against the government. This was something more. This was personal. I felt it deep in my bones. This wasn’t terrorism of anyone but me. A series of events had been set in motion that served to punish my family, but I couldn’t understand why.
“You’ve shaken things up a bit since taking the throne. Now, I wholly approve,” DeAngelo added.
“Is my approval rating affected by the lack of charges brought against you?” I asked flatly. I’d questioned once what my father would have done with the information we had about his involvement. It was telling that the murder of a king rated lower than the other crimes he’d committed. I didn’t know if that said more about where the royal family stood or more about his sins.
“Others aren’t quite as thrilled,” DeAngelo continued, “I wouldn’t be surprised to find out the Council of Ghosts was involved.”
“They aren’t,” I said curtly. There was no reason for them to act—not in this fashion. If the Kingmakers, the secret council of MPs that deposed monarchs according to their whims, wanted to take action, it would have been against me. Not Clara.
“If you’re that sure, you must have met them.” When I didn’t respond, he shrugged. “There are other groups—domestic terrorists, foreign terrorists. I still can’t help but wonder why you’ve come to me.”
He knew something. It was why he kept returning to that fact. He knew what we didn’t, and he wouldn’t be happy until we admitted.
“Did you have something to do with it?” Smith asked bluntly.
DeAngelo barked a laugh, shaking his head, as though he’d just heard a good joke. “You’re going to hurt my feelings. I harbour no ill will against the Crown. Why would a powerful man concern himself with an impotent dog?”
That’s what he thought of me. Of us. Our inaction was a sign of weakness. “The monarchy has been more than willing to overlook your involvement in the King’s assassination. Perhaps that decision should be reversed.”
“Will MI-5 allow it?” he asked coldly.
“They’ll do as I instruct,” I countered.
“Are you sure? Don’t you do as they instruct? The king might be an impotent cur, but he’s well-trained.”
I was on my feet before the last insult left his mouth. “You’ll find I’m not like my father. I don’t send other men to do my dirty work.”
“And that’s why you’re here.” DeAngelo shrank a little in his chair. “Sit down before my guards come in and misinterpret the situation.”
“I’ve been shot before,” I reminded him in a low voice. “I’m betting I could crush your windpipe before they hit me more than twice.”
DeAngelo blinked, then a catlike smile carved across his face. “You aren’t like your father. That’s good. You’re going to need some piss and vinegar in you if you plan to keep upending the country. Now sit down and let’s discuss this trouble. I don’t deal with men who aren’t willing to fight their own battles.
He’d been testing me, and I’d passed. A quick glance at Smith confirmed that he�
�d known this all along. I wondered if either of them knew how close I’d come to acting on my threat.
“You’ll help us,” Smith said as though nothing had happened.
“For a price. Everything comes with a price,” he said, “especially information.”
My mind immediately went to money. I had money. It turned my stomach to consider paying the man that had been integral in my father’s death—the man whose actions had brought me here.
But Smith was a lawyer, who specialised in dealing with men like DeAngelo. “Would you consider a barter?”
“If there’s information of value.”
“I could insist the same,” Smith countered.
“I suppose one of us has to gamble,” DeAngelo said. “I might be able to help you. You might be able to help me. But only one of us came looking for help.”
“The name of the man working with MI-5,” Smith offered, “if you have something of value.”
He’d just signed someone’s death certificate without blinking. I knew the name. Smith must have guessed based on our early conversation. It wasn’t a difficult leap to make, but it was a bluff all the same. How else could I have known about the gun or that MI-5 was actively investigating DeAngelo?
DeAngelo’s shoulders locked, his eyes darkening to black beads. Finally, we had his interest. “I can give you a theory and point you in a direction. You’ll want to talk to MI-18 for the rest.”
“There is no MI-18,” I said quickly.
“It’s an insult to both of us to lie,” DeAngelo said.
“That’s not enough to buy a name.” Smith didn’t concern himself with debating the existence or nonexistence of a military intelligence department.
DeAngelo clucked, dropping his rigid shoulders. He knew he had us, which meant it was only a matter of time before we turned over what he wanted. “I haven’t laid out my theory. What do you know about the Colony?”
“That was pointless,” I muttered, throwing open the Bugatti’s door and earning a sharp look from Smith. I suspected he would betray me in a heart beat if this bloody car was in jeopardy.