Page 6 of Harry

“So Richard left instructions then?” I ask because no one has reached out to us. It’s been twenty hours since he was shot. Almost an entire day has passed with no news. No one has come forward about the shooter, or who may have hired him. His sons aren’t here yet, I don’t even know if they know. Or how they are going to deal with meeting the American side of the operation. Then there’s the little fact that the Grants are still here, so tensions will be high when the Cordezes do land since both families have been in a feud since fuck knows when.

This is a mess.

“No instructions as of yet,” Philip says looking bored. “But I’m his brother, and I’m going to take the reins until his will is read, and probably continue to do so afterwards.”

His meaning is clear. He is the boss now no matter what Richard’s wishes were.

“What about his sons?” I ask, wishing that the British worked more like the Italians for the first time in my life. I’ve always loved the more relaxed style of working with Richard. We weren’t heavily bound to traditions. There was always an air of Robin Hood with what we did. Yes, we steal, but we steal from the government and that money goes back into the economy via the girls in this club.

It’s what goes on in Sindicate Towers that has kept America afloat for the last few decades, that’s for certain.

Philip snorts.

“What sons?” he asks, and for the first time my schooled features dissolve into confusion.

“He has three sons, in the UK,” I say slowly, as panic begins to bubble in my stomach.

Philip laughs. Huge guffaws that sound as ugly as he looks.

“He has three daughters, you moron.” He continues to laugh, holding his wobbling belly. Only stopping when there’s a knock at the door. He wipes a tear from his face.

“You can get out now,” his voice is steely. “And if you ever point a gun at me again, I’ll have you skinned alive.”

I look him over one last time, his shirt is still unbuttoned and untucked, and sweat stains the pits. Nodding slowly, I turn and open the door to find James waiting. He narrows his eyes at me. It’s no secret that we never saw eye to eye. Richard paid James to work between the US side of his businesses and the UK side, but something never sat right with me, he always seemed a little too weasely. So seeing him here is no surprise.

“Come in, James, my man,” Philip bellows. James looks like he has been caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing, which fits another piece of the puzzle together for me. His tall frame is a little on the thin side, showing me he doesn’t spend enough to pulling his own weight. God knows he has never gotten his hands dirty in the entire time I’ve known him.

I push past James and just as the door closes, I hear him say, “They’re here.”

Julian and Vaughan are waiting for me at the bar of the club, both looking up as I approach, but I signal for them to follow me down to the basement levels of the Tower.

Beneath the ground floor of Sindicate Towers are five more floors, each dedicated to the nefarious goings-on of the mafia, mob and other gang-related activity. To say this is the hub for criminal activity would be an understatement. But it’s also a safe haven for us. While we are on the property we are supposed to be safe.

“Any news from Philip?” Vaughan asks as we settle into a private booth in the underground bar.

“Other than that he is the complete opposite of Richard and I caught him raping one of the girls?” My jaw clenches as I force out the words. “Oh,” I add. “And the small fact that Richard’s sons, Harry, Jack and Brig – I believe their names are – are actually daughters.”

Julian’s mouth falls open.

I give them a moment to digest what I just told them.

“Philip believes that we work for him now,” I finally say, shaking my head from side to side.

Three glasses are placed in front of us, along with a bowl of fries, and I nod my thanks at Fish, the barman. I wonder for the millionth time where he got his name from.

Vaughan brings the glass to his lips and takes a mouthful, swallowing it down and sighing. He runs his hand over the fuzz on his head. “I can’t do it,” he finally says.

“Can’t do what?” I ask, since we haven’t actually been given any orders yet.

“I can’t work for that utter prick.”

I force the handful of fries down my throat, knowing I need to eat something, but hating how hard it is to swallow anything solid.

“What do you know, that we don’t?” I ask.

He shakes his head and looks into his glass. “Richard asked me to look into something before he was shot. It’s what he was going to talk to you guys about last night.”

Vaughan gulps down what’s left of the scotch and places the glass back onto the old, scarred wood of the table.

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