Page 120 of The Devil's Torment

ChapterForty

CHRISTIAN

The unique atmosphere of my favorite restaurant is usually a cause for celebration, or at least anticipation of a great night ahead. Excellent food, delicious wines, maybe the company of a beautiful woman—or two.

Tonight is different.

I’m not a man who suffers from anxiety, but as the maître d’ leads me to my usual table I find myself continually twisting the ring on my right hand. I’m far more powerful than the man I’m here to meet, even if he is the Secretary of State in charge of, among other things, health and safety. When I’m far from blameless, and mine and my family’s reputation is on the line, though, it changes the dynamic.

Fortunately, I have an ace up my sleeve—one I’m not afraid to play if I have to.

Thomas Bartholomew, an old Etonian in his fifties with a long family history in politics and a penchant for Scottish whisky, as evidenced by his ruddy cheeks, rises to greet me. I shake his hand, unfasten the button on my suit jacket, and sit down.

“I ordered the wine, old boy.” He guffaws, motioning to the server to pour me a glass. “Château Lafite. I heard it’s a favorite of yours.”

‘Old boy’ is a phrase that makes me want to cut off my ears and put my brain through a cheese grater. It’s steeped in patriarchy and rampant in certain upper-class parts of British society. If I could, I’d cut out the tongue of any man who uses it. I clench my jaw and remind myself that it’s better for me if I can keep this meeting on friendly terms.

I shake out my napkin and place it in my lap. “Château Lafite. Good choice, and one I’m sure you made knowing I’m picking up the bill.”

Thomas’s eyes flare then narrow as he tries to figure out if I’m joking. I’m not, but I allow one corner of my mouth to lift anyway. He lets out another belly laugh, unconcerned that he’s drawing attention to himself—and me.

“Good one, old boy. Almost had me going there for a minute.”

He opens the menu, poring over it. I leave mine closed and take a sip of the wine. He’s right, it is one of my favorites. As it should be for the price.

“I heard the steak is good here.” He snaps the menu shut and motions to the server. “Two steaks.”

The server cuts his gaze to me. “Mr. De Vil.”

I hand over my menu. “I’ll have my usual please, Evan.”

“Of course, Mr. De Vil.” He takes Bartholomew’s menu and sweeps away to place our order.

“Not a fan of steak?”

“Not a fan of having my choices made for me,” I deadpan.

The man sitting opposite me falters for a second, then emits another of those annoying as fuck laughs.

“So, old boy, what can I do for you?”

I take a deep breath and grip my wine glass extra hard, anchoring my hand to the crystal goblet instead of around the neck of the man on the other side of the table.Chill. This is the right approach. Until it isn’t.

“Hartley isn’t being as cooperative as I would like.”

Daniel Hartley is head of the Health and Safety Executive. Bartholomew is his boss, hence this meeting. Ever since Nexus collapsed, Hartley has been a thorn in my fucking balls. A jobsworth who plays things by the book, he’s too low in the pecking order to understand how the real world works.

Shame for him that the book he’s reading from is an illusion.

“I see.” Bartholomew grazes a hand over his smooth chin. “Terrible business. That poor family. Two children, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” Pangs of conscience press down on my chest. I keep that shit locked up tightly and my gaze steady.

“Terrible,” he repeats, shaking his head, pretending to give a shit about two young adults he doesn’t even know. “The preliminary report is… not good news, Christian.”

Understatement of the fucking century.

“No.”

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