Page 16 of Corrupted Union

“I think he hurt someone. A woman.” The rushed words hung between us, dangling precariously on a knife’s edge.

Keir’s nostrils flared despite the preternatural calm that settled back in place like a well-worn coat.

“Explain.”

“I was at his house with my boyfriend. I heard a woman crying—not just crying. The sounds were … soul-crushing. When I asked Stetson who else was there, he said his father was the only other person in the house. And before you say I was just hearing things or it was a television or a neighbor, it wasn’t. I know what I heard.”

Keir pulled away from me. “I don’t like it.”

“Don’t like what?” I balked.

“Any of it. That man is immensely powerful. You need to leave it the fuck alone.”

I gaped at him. “Justleaveit? Forget that some poor woman may be chained in that man’s house?”

“You don’t honestly believe that’s what’s happening,” he challenged.

I paused, unsure what to say. It was an egregious accusation. If I’d felt certain about it, I would have gone to the authorities. “It’s just a little digging into his background,” I pleaded one last time.

He shook his head. “You’re in over your head. Walk away, Miss Alexander.”

A woman’s angry voice carried over the music in the club behind him. We both turned to see a bouncer approach a man and give a menacing warning, inches from his face. The unruly customer seemed to back down, palms up placatingly, but spat at the bouncer’s feet as soon as he turned his back. The music was loud enough that the large man in black couldn’t hear it, but I saw it, and so did Keir.

He sighed. “Your time is up,” he shot over his shoulder before weaving his way around tables to where the man sat back down.

I watched in fascination as Keir calmly spoke to the man, his head motioning for the door. He was kicking him out. The man grew irritated, eventually grabbing his glass and swinging as though to hit Keir over the head with it, but the Irishman was too fast. Displaying speed I wouldn’t have thought someone so large could possess, he blocked the man’s strike, pinned the arm behind him, then gripped the back of his neck to slam the man’s head into the solid wood table three times in quick succession with such force, I cringed.

When he straightened, hardly a hair was out of place. More than that, it was as if the violent outburst had never happened. His adversary, if he could be called that, crumpled to the floor in an unconscious heap. Keir was unmoved, walking over to the woman who’d first caught our attention with her cry.

They exchanged a few words before he nodded once and turned back to me. His now empty stare collided with mine before he shot a look at the bouncer nearby. The next thing I knew, I was escorted outside, my shoes dropped at my feet, and the door slammed behind me.

I’d spentyears of my life learning to read people. The skill was an essential component of my line of work, but it also helped me keep my cool. If people didn’t catch me off guard, I didn’t get upset, and no one got hurt. My childhood was spent trapped in that series of cascading events. I refused to succumb as an adult.

So why the fuck couldn’t I get a proper read on Rowan Alexander? Never in a million years had I anticipated her walking into Moxy, let alone accepting the challenge I’d thrown down. I fully expected her to tuck tail and run. Not only did that not happen, but she owned that fucking stage. She looked like a goddamn fantasy without even taking off a scrap of clothing, and I wasn’t the only dick in the room standing salute.

Knowing everyone in the club could see her dance sent me closer than I’d been in years to losing my shit. What she did on that stage wasn’t meant for anyone but me. I wanted to plunge my thumbs straight into their eye sockets, and that was a bad fucking sign.

If I’d been thinking logically, I would have listened to her request from the beginning and avoided the entire scene. We needed her father’s cooperation. Helping her would be just another foot in the door with her father. But somehow, I’d known. Deep in my gut, I’d known that Rowan Alexander was trouble.

Now, not only did I have images of her seductive dance seared into the back of my retinas, I was also sitting outside Lawrence Wellington’s house when I had a shit ton of better things to do with my time.

I’d told her that I wouldn’t help. I’d told her to let it go, but a woman who would seek out someone like myself in a strip club wasn’t about to back down. I knew it better than I knew myself. I’d gnawed on that information for two days before I’d finally caved and done a cursory search on the man.

He was powerful enough to be familiar, but I’d never interacted with him personally. Information on him was surprisingly hard to come by, and that, more than anything, made me suspicious. People in high places with an impeccable public persona were often the worst of the lot.

Who was Lawrence Wellington?

I was on my second night of surveillance trying to find out. I’d also assigned our resident techie to do a deep dive on the web, but that would take time. Besides, plenty could be learned simply by observing. And one of the great things about living in the city was easy viewing.

Men like Wellington could tuck themselves away in a high-rise, but that was as secluded as he could get. And he hadn’t even gone to that extent. The shipping mogul must have valued prestige over privacy because he lived in a single-family mansion in the exclusive Lennox Hill neighborhood, his movements just as traceable as any other schmo on the street.

I tried to assure myself that looking into the man was strategic and had nothing to do with Rowan. Information on him might mean leverage over the governor. It was a lead worth following up. I told myself that Rowan was simply the source of my information and played no other part in my decision, but deep down, I knew that was bullshit. Her involvement created a sense of urgency inside me that I couldn’t ignore. She thought something shady was going on, and I had a feeling she would end up tangled in whatever web lay waiting.

Two hours into my night, a black Mercedes sedan pulled up in front of the house. I immediately started recording on my phone. The sun had set, but the ambient city lights were enough to keep me from needing more sophisticated recording equipment.

The driver popped the trunk, then stepped from the vehicle. I watched with an unobstructed view as he opened the back seat, pulled out two short-barreled SIG 550s, and quickly placed them in the trunk.

And just like that, everything changed.

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