Page 7 of Harry

“Philip is trafficking women – well girls really – into the US and selling them. Some he is forcing into the club. Apparently, that’s what the whole Grant thing was last week, they’re in on it too.”

I blink a couple of times, trying to assimilate this new information.

Trafficking?

Richard never touched trafficking. Prostitution yes, but only with women who came to him because they wanted to. Those who had to earn money but didn’t want to hook just stip instead. And Richard never touched the women that worked for him. He didn’t let us, either.

“We need to figure out a way to get him off the fucking premises,” I growl, before throwing back my drink.

Harry

James hailed us a cab as soon as we were through security and whisked us off to Sindicate Towers. I’m bone tired, from travelling or the grief, I don’t know. It’s late, I’m hungry, and I don’t know where the fuck to start.

The opulent foyer is large and open plan, and a fountain sprays water at a leisurely pace, creating a calm and tranquil ambience that I wish I could make myself feel.

Instead, I am frayed inside, like every nerve ending has split apart, the slightest move or sound jolting me. It’s all a bit too much. By the time I’m stepping into the shower in my hotel room, the too-hot water is welcomed as it thrashes my skin.

I’d give anything to wash away this day. Start it over. Call my dad and tell him to be safe, to not leave the building.

James took me aside from my sisters when we landed and told me I’d have to identify my father's body. The thought of him lying on a cold metal slab inside a fridge is enough to make me retch. Human life is warm and I can’t convince myself that my dad is dead. I keep imagining going to the morgue and finding that it isn’t him after all, that it was all a horrific mistake and really my dad is here somewhere. Maybe in his office, maybe in his apartment. Two places James has told us we can’t go, because of an investigation. But I sincerley doubt the police are involved in a place like this. A place where criminals rule.

Wringing the water from my hair, I step out of the shower and begin my routine. If there’s one thing that’s going to keep me sane throughout this, it’s keeping a routine. Only none of my stuff is here. Between receiving the letter from the solicitor to calling the airport to book the first available flights, I left with what I was wearing and what I had in my handbag. Which is yesterdays shade of lipstick and my credit cards.

Fuck.

I’m about to call my sisters and ask them for some toothpaste when someone pounds at the door causing me to jump. I wrap the fluffy hotel robe around me, leaving my hair hanging in limp tendrils, and move to the peephole.

The distorted image shows me there’s a man, tall and broad, with sad eyes and days-old scruff on his face. Seeing him makes me nervous. I don’t recognise him, why would I? For all I know this could be the man that killed my dad and he is now coming after me. That’s how it works in the films. The Mafia like to wipe out families.Right?

“Can I help you?” I say, fixing the deadbolt as quietly as I can.

“My name is Aidan, I worked for Richard Cordez.”

I flick through my memory of the letter, my father's words reforming in my mind. I don’t know why but I expected a scruffy gangster, someone shorter, skinnier, with tattoos on his face and neck. Instead, I’m faced with broad shoulders and a well-fitting suit that accentuates a sharp jawline and dark eyes. He is darkly handsome, and I wonder how many women have got themselves in trouble for this man.

You can trust Aidan and his men.

“Give me a minute please,” I say, taking a deep breath and hoping I’m not making a mistake.

Opening the door, the stranger looks me in the eyes, a tick in his jaw tells me he doesn’t like what he sees and I want to make a comment about losing my father and a nine-hour flight, and that I’m not here to impress him, no matter how good looking he is.

“You look like him,” he says and it takes every ounce of will to not let myself cry in front of this stranger.

“So I’ve been told,” I finally manage to say, opening the door a little wider and letting him in. “My name is Harry. Harriet.” I extend my right hand and he takes it firmly in his own.

“Do you always let strange men into your room at night?” he asks as he strides past me with an air of aggravation that sets my teeth on edge.

“Only the ones dressed like escorts,” I quip back.

He looks over his suit before lifting his eyes to mine, mirth making them twinkle. Then he frowns.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “About your father.” He looks sad, and weary, and I feel so connected to this stranger that I close the gap and give him a hug. He stiffens against my embrace and I back off.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I don’t know what came over me.”

He looks at me, confusion creasing his brow, his dark eyes narrowing as he contemplates something. “No, it’s okay, I’m just not used to it.”

“My dad, he said I could trust you, said to find you when I got here…” I trail off, realising I sound crazy or desperate or both.

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