Primal: London Mob Book Two

by Michelle St. James

  “There didn’t seem to be a point,” he said. “Evan is my responsibility. He can’t come home for visits, can’t even carry on a conversation for the most part. I do what I can to keep him comfortable and happy. As happy as he can be.”

  “But… he’s your brother,” she said sadly. “I would have liked to know.”

  He stopped, pulling her down onto a bench shielded by tall grasses that blew in the breeze. “I should have told you. In fact, I almost did.”

  “You did?”

  He nodded. “Just before you left for New York.”

  She swallowed her pain. This wasn’t about her. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know. And it’s not an excuse. I could have told you at any point up until then. I’d never told anyone but Leo. It was a… a big deal.” He met her gaze. “It still is.”

  “It feels private,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “Is this why…” She hesitated, trying to think of the right words. “Is it why you do what you do?”

  His eyes darkened. “No. You mustn’t romanticize this, Jenna. Or me. I am exactly who I’ve said I am all along. I do what I do because I prefer it. Because I believe in it. The financial reward… well, it does help.” He looked around at the grounds, his eyes landing on the big manor house where Evan was eating his banana pudding. “None of this is cheap. But it’s the why of what I do. Of who I am.”

  She looked down at her hands, not wanting him to see the disappointment in her eyes. What had she expected? That the revelation of Farrell’s brother would prompt confession? Maybe even remorse?

  She was a fool. Farrell had told her exactly who he was from the beginning.

  He reached for her hand, wrapped it in his bigger one. “I love you, Jenna. I won’t lie to you. I didn’t tell you about Evan because I wanted your sympathy, or because I expected it to absolve me for the way I make my living. I told you because it’s my last secret, and I don’t want to keep secrets from you.”

  “I don’t know what you expect me to do with it,” she said.

  He stood, pulling her to her feet. “I expect nothing. I simply wanted you to know.” He bent his head, touching his lips gently to hers in a kiss that all too quickly stole her breath. “Now there’s nothing between us. No secrets, at least.”

  He took her hand, led her back through the gardens to the car, his words reverberating in her ears.

  Now there’s nothing between us.

  18

  They drove past the van holding Farrell’s men and continued toward London. She wondered if the security was there because of what had happened to her and Lily in London or if it had always been there. The costs must have been enormous. The hospital, clearly the best of its kind. The expert medical attention that would be required to see to Evan’s needs. The security designed to protect Evan from the ramifications of Farrell’s lifestyle. And they weren’t temporary expenses. His commitment to his brother was a lifetime one.

  She glanced over at him, his short hair ruffled by the open window, his hands big and strong on the wheel. This was a man who would go to such lengths to care for his brother. What would he do for his daughter? For Jenna?

  She knew the answer at once: anything.

  He would do anything.

  Kate’s words drifted through her mind; it looks to me like she’s got it pretty good with Farrell — like you both do.

  She was right. They would have everything they needed with Farrell — most of all him. A man who would die for them. Who would go to any length to protect them. Did the end justify the means? Could Jenna live with the how of it if it meant keeping Lily safe? Could she learn not to think about the guards in the woods? The security systems? The panic rooms?

  She leaned her head against the window, letting the coolness of the glass seep into her forehead. They were almost to London when Farrell pulled off the road and into the parking lot of a small, dingy looking restaurant.

  “Hungry?” he asked, turning off the car.

  “Famished." She’d been so preoccupied by everything she’d learned that she only now realized it was true. They’d left the villa too early for breakfast, and she’d had nothing but coffee since.

  “This place has the best pancakes in London,” he said. “But don’t tell anyone — the place will be overrun with people next time we come.”

  She was still thinking about his words when he came around to open her door.

  … the next time we come.

  He sounded so sure they would return together.

  They stepped into the restaurant, a tiny, one room place with old linoleum tile and formica tables. The waitress sat them at a booth in the back, and Farrell excused himself to wash his hands. She looked at the menu until he returned, handing her half of a newspaper and keeping half for himself.

  “We’ll trade when you’re done,” he said.

  She hid her smile behind the paper, looking up when the waitress took their order. She had just turned the page from an article about an up-and-coming artist showing his work in London when something caught her eye at the bottom of the next page.

  She blinked, wondering if she was imagining the words swimming on the page in front of her. She focused in on the headline to avoid the photograph.

  Woman Found Dead in Croydon

  She skimmed the article first, then went back and read it word for word, her mind trying to rationalize an explanation. When she was done she had no choice but to turn her attention to the photograph. Mrs. Hodges stared back at her, smiling and happy in one of her printed tops.

  “… flight time to Amsterdam…” Farrell’s voice came to her as if from afar. She couldn’t take her eyes off the paper even as a distant voice in her body was screaming at her to get up, get to London, whatever she had to do to prove that this was a terrible mistake.

  “Jenna? What is it?”

  He pulled the paper from her hands, skimming the page she’d been reading.

  “Motherfuckers,” he said under his breath. He scooted out of the booth and tossed cash on the table as he came around to her side. He held out his hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

  She took his hand without thinking, let him pull her from the booth. He put his arm around her waist, holding her close to his side as they exited the restaurant. She was only vaguely aware of stepping out into the dreary humidity, making her way to the car.

  He set her against the car as if to prop her up while he opened the door, then took her face in his hands. “We’re going to find out who did this, Jenna. And then I’m going to kill them.”

  He helped her into the car and accelerated out of the parking lot at a speed that might have scared her if only she could feel anything at all.

  19

  He glanced over at her as he pushed the car toward the old neighborhood. She was two shades paler than normal, her expression startlingly blank. It was the way she’d looked after the attack in the alley when she’d gone into shock.

  Like she was numb.

  It didn’t fool him. He knew the reality of what had happened would sink in sooner or later. He would have to watch her closely, make sure he was there when it did.

  He circled the block around Mrs. Hodges’ flat, eyeing the police activity, making the faces — familiar and otherwise — of law enforcement going in and out of the building before pulling the car over on the next block.

  He turned to Jenna. “I need to go in. You’ll be safe here. No one will come for you with all these police around.”

  She shook her head, opened her door, and got out. He sighed, wishing there was some way to spare her the sight of Mrs. Hodges’ flat but knowing she’d made up her mind.

  He stepped out of the car and took her hand, then started for the flat. The press was long gone, and there were three police cars out front, none of them with lights on. They were already processing the crime scene then. Good. He’d have an easier shot getting inside.

  They entered the building and started up the stairs, stopping when they ca
me to the yellow crime scene tape strung across the second floor landing. A tall, thin constable with pale hair receding from his forehead approached, already waving them back.

  “This is a crime scene. Unless you live here, we can’t allow you to go any farther.”

  Farrell took a deep breath, forced himself to maintain control for Jenna’s sake. “I don’t think you know who I am.”

  “I don’t give a flying fuck who you are,” the officer said. “You can’t be here.”

  “Byron Fletcher,” Farrell shouted around him, directing his voice toward the open door of Mrs. Hodges’ apartment. “Fletcher!”

  “What the…” the constable in front of them started.

  A dark-haired man in a suit emerged from the apartment. “Is that…” A grin broke out across his features and he came toward Farrell with an outstretched hand. “What the fuck are you doing here?” He cast an annoyed glance at the constable. “What are you doing? Let the man under the tape.”

  The constable lifted the tape, and Farrell stepped under it, pulling Jenna behind him. He held out a hand. “How have you been?”

  Fletcher took his hand, noticed his scraped knuckles. “Still fighting, eh?”

  Farrell shrugged. “Still selling out, eh?”

  There was a moment of tense silence before both men broke into laughter. Byron Fletcher had been one of his biggest competitors on the street fighting circuit before he went straight by joining the police force.

  Fletcher looked around before returning his gaze to Farrell. “It’s nice to see you, bruv, but I’m in the middle of something here.”

  “We knew her.”

  Fletcher’s eyes slid to Jenna, still as a statue beside him, before returning to Farrell. “No kidding?”

  Farrell nodded. “She’s a friend of the family.”

  Fletcher shook his head. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “What can you tell me about it?” Farrell asked.

  Fletcher looked around again, then pulled Farrell and Jenna aside. “Officially? Nothing.”

  Farrell cast a worried glance at Jenna before turning back to Fletcher. “And unofficially?”

  “Blunt force trauma, back of the head,” Fletcher said. “Quick. Dirty.”

  “Forced entry?”

  “Yeah, but quiet like. Middle of the night when the neighbors were sleeping.” He narrowed his eyes. “You know something about this?”

  “Not a thing.” The lie came easily. He had no loyalty to Fletcher. No loyalty to anyone but Lily and Jenna. The last thing they needed was the police sniffing around them, scaring off whoever was behind the Marburg virus. “But I’d be happy to help you deal with the bastard when you find him.”

  Fletcher shook his head, ran a hand through his hair. “Whole world’s going to shit.”

  “It’s always been shit,” Farrell said.

  “Still a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” Fletcher asked.

  “Just telling it like it is.”

  “Your specialty,” Fletcher said.

  “Have the woman’s relatives been called?”

  “She didn’t have any relatives,” Jenna said softly.

  Farrell reached into his pocket and removed a card, wrote his cell on the back of it. “Contact me when the autopsy is done. I’ll arrange for the funeral and burial.”

  Fletcher put it in his pocket, then studied Farrell with knowing eyes. “Why do I have the feeling you know more about this than you’re letting on?”

  “Because your instincts are shit,” Farrell said. “Always have been.”

  Fletcher held out his hand. “Always a pleasure.”

  Farrell shook it. “I do what I can.”

  He guided Jenna to the top of the stairs, stopping when she looked back at the open door to Mrs. Hodges’ flat.

  “I’m sorry we can’t go in, love,” he said.

  “It’s okay.” Her voice was small, so small it broke his heart. Not at all like the Jenna he knew — fearless and in control. “There wouldn’t be any point.”

  He wanted to say something — anything — to bring the light back to her eyes, the smile he’d seen her hide at the restaurant in the moment before she’d covered her face with the newspaper that had rocked her world.

  But he knew better than to think it was that easy.

  He could only shelter her. Get her out of London. Take her mind off what had happened until she had time to process it. Be there to pick up the pieces when she finally did.

  They headed down the stairs, passing the constable who’d tried to deny them entry to the second floor. The man scowled, and Farrell wondered how long it would take him to figure out that Farrell controlled all the organized crime in England.

  They stepped onto the street and headed for the car. Farrell helped Jenna in, buckled her seatbelt.

  “This is my fault,” she said. “They were looking for papers. Or looking for me.”

  Farrell shook his head, putting a hand on her chin to force her to look at him. “This isn’t your fault.”

  “I should have known they might come here,” she said. “I should have warned her.”

  “If anyone should have known, it’s me,” he said, swallowing his guilt. There would be plenty of time for self-blame later, after Jenna was taken care of. “I have men on your mother, had a pair of men on Kate before she came to Italy. I didn’t think they’d come for Mrs. Hodges. I’m sorry.”

  She reached up and touched his cheek, her eyes clear for the first time since she’d read the article in the newspaper. “No apologizes between us, Farrell. Not anymore. We’ve both done what we can.”

  He nodded, touching his lips to her forehead, trying to stifle the emotion clogging his throat. Was this forgiveness for Cornwall?

  Absolution?

  He didn't know, and he didn't have a right to ask. Right now he had only one priority: keep Jenna and Lily safe.

  Mrs. Hodges murder was a message. Whoever was behind the Marburg research couldn’t possibly think Jenna would hide the papers in her babysitter’s flat. No, they came after her only because Jenna’s mother and sister were under his protection. Mrs. Hodges had been the only other person Jenna cared about. Her murder was designed to shake Jenna’s resolve, to show her what awaited if she didn’t leave well enough alone.

  He hated them for it, but he understood it. What he didn’t understand is how they could assume he wouldn’t come after them. How could they think he wouldn’t stand between them and the woman he loved? Did they think him a common street criminal? There was no doubt whoever was behind it was powerful. Did they think him incapable of challenging that power?

  If so, they had underestimated him. And they had done so at their own peril.

  20

  The sun was sinking into the horizon by the time they arrived in Amsterdam. Farrell had tried to get Jenna to sleep on the plane, insisting she lay down in the sleeping cabin. But she’d been unable to let go of the image of Mrs. Hodges dead and alone in her flat.

  Dead because of Jenna.

  It was true, whatever Farrell said. Jenna had been naive to think she would be able to go on living as if nothing had happened when her father had been mixed up in something as dangerous as the research at the Stafford Institute. She should have taken Lily and run. Isolated them. Stayed far away from anyone who might be hurt.

  She’d lain in the sleeping cabin, listening to the hum of the plane’s engine as it carried them above the clouds, away from their daughter in Italy and the horror of London. Toward something she couldn’t begin to imagine.

  By the time they arrived in Amsterdam, she was back to being comfortably numb. She couldn't quite process that Mrs. Hodges — dear Mrs. Hodges who had been like a mother to her and Kate, who had cared for Lily with such joyful devotion — was really gone. It would hurt like hell when she finally allowed herself to feel it. She let it fall away instead, focusing on forward movement.

  Unbuckle her seat belt and stand.

  Put one foot in front of the other
to exit the plane.

  Descend the stairs to the tarmac.

  As always, a car was waiting for them. Someday Jenna would have to ask Farrell about the mysterious workings of his life. The properties seamlessly run all over the world. The perfectly maintained cars that appeared whenever and wherever he needed them. All the little details such a life required. It was like a kind of alchemy, and she settled into the passenger seat of the car, letting the magic of it sweep away her remaining horror.

  They headed away from the airport and toward the center of the city, criss-crossing the bridges that spanned the city’s many canals and waterways. It was quaint and beautiful, with cobblestone streets and brightly colored row houses that stood shoulder to shoulder, the setting sun lighting them up like so many rainbows. There were almost as many bicycles as there were cars, and Jenna craned her neck as their riders expertly navigated around cars and over the bridges.

  Finally they pulled up outside a beautiful old building that straddled a corner between two waterways. It was modest in size, but Jenna knew as soon as the valet opened her door, holding out a hand to help her from the car, that its size was no indication of its luxury. She should have known. Farrell did nothing by half measures.

  They entered a small but beautiful lobby with marble floors and dark wood. The furniture was old but simple, art plentiful on the walls. Jenna wasn’t surprised when Farrell skipped the front desk, heading straight for the elevators. She didn’t know how he’d gotten a key to their room, but the rules never seemed to apply to him.

  They took the elevator to the sixth floor and emerged into a quiet central lobby. Farrell led the way to a door at the end of the hall and removed a key card from his pocket. He slipped it into the slot and the light on the knob turned from red to green. He opened the door and stood back, gesturing for her to enter ahead of him.

  She stepped into the room, surprised to find herself in a kind of circular sitting room. Four doors opened from the room, and from where she stood she could make out a bed in two of them. It was small, intimate, but understated luxury seeped from every corner. The furniture was simple: a diminutive sofa with clean lines and midnight blue upholstery, two chairs, a rectangular coffee table and end tables that looked like they might have been constructed in the 50s. It was so different from the elaborate furnishings in their hotel in Madrid, and yet she knew instinctively that it was every bit as expensive.