Page 8 of Iris
But when I need to mete out punishment or violence, I will. With everything I’ve got.
We’re not there, yet. After all, Banton’s people are some of our best customers.
I wait until he swallows hard.
Wrong move. Even if he’s one of our best customers, we don’t need him or his business. We can always move on, find someone else.
I pull out the leather envelope and hand it to him, without counting it.
He quivers and then he takes it. “You know what, Riven?”
I sign at him.
“I, uh, think I’ll cover the risk by paying the full amount. They did want to test it out, first, but I’m betting they’ll want more. Maybe a discount then, eh?”
I offer him a smile, then I check my watch.
It takes him only a moment to walk off and return with a wad of cash in hand. When he gives it to me, I start to count in front of him.
Banton turns redder with each bill I shift over. I realize that he’s put too much in now, so I hand him the extra back. This time, I pull out my pad and paper, and scribble out three words. Then I hand him over an extra fifty.
For being honest, it says.
“Of course. Always.”
We finish the deal, and I let him think he’s still getting a bargain. Rich cunt’s are bad enough; their servants are worse. He still paid double. But normally, I leave such pandering up to Killian. He likes games. I don’t.
This is as far as I go. A fifty tip to promote honesty, money we factor into the cost.
But I’m done and so is Banton. He disappears inside, and I move away from the main house across the grounds.
It’s a nice night, full of stars, and the kind of clear sky I remember from my rural life on the mainland when I lived there. I was maybe four, Emmie’s age. I don’t remember much of that time, but I do remember a sky like this.
Shit, I’m going soft.
I light a cigarette and lean against what used to be a carriage house that’s been turned into a state-of-the-art garage/show room for the owner’s cars. Flashy dicks on wheels if you ask me.
I blow out a stream of smoke, savoring the tobacco and the nicotine hit as I indulge in the once a week—if that—treat.
Because Emmie ‘don’t like Papa smellin’ crumbly,’ so it’s once a week, max.
Now all I have to do is work out what in hell the little pint of trouble means by crumbly.
I smile.
Emmie.
That little girl who rules my heart.
I’d do anything for her and so would Killian.
That’s why I was in that room.
Emmie.
