Page 22 of Ruthless Vengeance
“No, you can go.” I set the envelope back down onto the sticky tabletop.
He hesitates, his eyes flicking to the folder, no doubt knowing that whatever is inside is going to send me into a blind rage. But he also knows better than to ask questions.
Without another word, Liam pushes himself up from the table and disappears into the crowd of rowdy drinkers.
I let the silence settle around me before I reach for the file.
My fingers tighten around the edges as I flip it open and scan the first few pages.
It seems like Ben is a career criminal. He has a record longer than my arm, with various charges, including assault, armed robbery, drug trafficking, and arms dealing. The list is never-ending but one thing is abundantly clear—he has no allegiance, no loyalty.
Career criminals like Ben can be useful contacts. Andre and I have had our fair share on the books in our time as sometimes, it’s best for us not to be the ones to get our hands dirty. But when we do, we’re careful to make sure their allegiance is to us. It normally means a thick stack of cash is exchanged, but it’s worth the investment to ensure we won’t be stabbed in the back.
It’s clear from Ben’s record that he’s been in the game for a long time, moving between crime syndicates like a fucking ghost, taking whatever work he could find.
I flick through a few more pages and pause when I read of his most recent conviction, the one that landed him with a hefty prison sentence five years ago.
A series of drug offenses led to him being locked up for at least fifteen years, yet somehow he managed to break out with two other inmates, both of whom were found and shot dead within days of their escape. Yet somehow, Ben managed to get away…
I continue to read on and from the looks of Liam’s research, Ben’s two accomplices were heavily tied to Tommaso.
“You fucking idiot…”
This prison break was no accident. It looks to me like Ben didn’t just stumble into Tommaso’s business. He was part of it. But there has got to have been a price. No way in hell would Tommaso risk being linked to a prison break if it wasn’t worth his while.
Something about Ben must have caught his attention, but from what I’m reading in his file, he seems no more special than any other one of Tommaso’s men.
There must be something I’m missing, something that made Ben more useful to Tommaso than anyone else…
I turn the page, scanning through his financial records, old addresses, and known associates that Liam managed to track down, desperate to find something that must have sparked Tommaso’s interest.
Liam has been thorough, that’s for sure, which is exactly why I pay him so well. If I’m to go up against this guy, I don’t want any surprises. But still, I find nothing that stands out.
As I delve deeper into the file, I scan information on Ben’s childhood including school records and exam results.
He was clearly a very smart kid. It seems a shame that he got caught up in the wrong crowd. Who knows where he would have ended up if he chose a different path.
Toward the end of the file, there are a handful of photos including a few mugshots, snapshots from surveillance footage, and a few candid shots taken over the years. Some clearer than others, but my eyes linger on one grainy image in particular.
It’s of a younger Ben, maybe seventeen or eighteen. He’s smirking at the camera with his arm slung over a girl’s shoulders. A girl with blonde hair and bright green eyes…
“No…”
I must be seeing things. There’s no way in hell that’s Clara.
I flip back to the first page, my pulse pounding as I scan it for more details on Ben’s family. That’s when I see it, clear as fucking day—the name listed under siblings.
Clara Peterson,sister, aged twenty-four.
Manager at Nox bar, Soho.
Mother to Zoe Peterson, aged seven months (father: Marco De Luca)
I freezeas a cold wave of realization washes over me, knocking the air from my lungs.
The alcohol threatens to come right back up as I look down at the photo of the two of them together, smiling at the camera.
She knew who he was. She knew, and she fuckinglied.
