Page 3

Three

Simon’s former life wasn’t ready to let him go.

He knew that because it came after him frequently.

In that life, he had been a punisher. James Brody, the man who ran Whitechapel, had paid him to bend people to his will.

Often those people were far from innocent, but their guilt wasn’t something Simon had been allowed to question.

For a long time it hadn’t even occurred to him to question it.

Brody had been like a father to him, the only one he’d ever had.

Questioning him had been akin to questioning God.

Except, in many ways, Brody was higher than God.

God had left him and Mary to die on the street. Brody had fed and sheltered them.

His body still aching from last week’s fight, he gingerly made his way through Whitechapel’s warren of alleyways.

Memories of the phantom woman he’d encountered in the club’s corridor pushed at the edges of his mind.

That’s how he thought of her…a ghost or an angel, because he remembered so little about her.

She might not have been real, except he’d asked Dunn about her and the man had indeed confirmed her existence.

Simon had no idea who she was, and Dunn couldn’t remember if she’d given her name.

She had dark hair and pale skin and she fit nicely under his arm.

Trying to pin her down more made her dissipate like vapor, which was as it should be.

His life was too complicated for a woman who smelled like roses and felt like heaven in his arms.

The pub with a wooden sign of a faded red rooster and a lamp hanging from a hook at the bottom loomed ahead.

A hollow opened up inside him, pushing all thoughts of the elusive woman aside.

That bloody rooster used to signal home for him.

It meant security and acceptance. Now it meant the opposite.

Every time he went in, a small part of him wondered if he’d ever come out again.

The lantern gave off an oily light that only barely managed to penetrate the thick and humid night.

The air here was cloying in a way it wasn’t in Bloomsbury where Montague Club was located.

Simon hadn’t noticed the difference until he’d been away from this part of the city for a few weeks.

The moment he’d returned, he’d felt the air heavy around his legs and wrists, seeping into his pores as if identifying him as one of its own and attempting to reclaim him.

Inside, the pub was dimly lit by lanterns and a low fire in the stone hearth.

A long rectangular bar joined the two rooms that made up the main area of the pub.

Simon recognized the man working behind it and nodded a greeting.

Smith raised his chin and indicated the door at the far end of the room. Brody was waiting for him.

A bruiser he recognized as one of Brody’s personal men sat near the door.

No one was getting through there without his say-so.

He nodded, and Simon took a deep breath and stepped through the passageway.

The door opened to a narrow and uneven hallway.

It had a distinct downward grade that led under the street and to the cellar of the building there.

Brody liked to brag that the room had served as a dungeon a few hundred years ago, but it was now an office of sorts where the man conducted his business out of sight.

The ceiling was low and the walls felt like they closed in around him, though it did feel strangely like coming home.

If home was a dungeon where vipers waited to tear their fangs into your flesh.

“Cavell.” Brody sat at a desk scattered with papers.

A long table was set off to the right. Men usually sat there divvying up opium, whisky, or vodka…whatever vice Brody was selling at the time. Tonight it was empty.

Simon’s gaze automatically went to the other corner behind the desk. He and his sister, Mary, had spent many nights there as children, huddled under a shared blanket, trying to sleep on the stone floor. His stomach churned uncomfortably at the memory.

“Brody,” he said, and forced his attention back to the man.

Brody wore a bespoke suit that fit him well, and his hair was greased back.

His hairline had receded some from when Simon had first met him.

His usual cigar was clamped between his teeth.

He might have been handsome in another life, in another place.

He might have been a decent person. Here there wasn’t time or space for such niceties.

Beauty withered and died before it ever had a chance to bloom.

“I expected ye hours ago, lad.”

“Came as soon as I could,” Simon answered.

Simon made the trip to Brody’s hideout on the first of every month to make good on his debt. Lately, a suspicion had begun to creep in that maybe he’d never be able to pay it off.

“That’s right. Yer a bleeding working man now.”

Brody’s eyes held a challenge that Simon refused to accept.

It was a point of contention between them that Simon had chosen to walk away.

The fact that he would rather work a shift for bleedin’ blue bloods than stay with Brody had very nearly got him killed in the early days.

They had since come to a stalemate about it, but it was tenuous at best, and it was the reason Simon was here with money.

Brody reasoned that Simon owed him bucketfuls to repay him for taking him and Mary in off the street.

If Simon wasn’t going to pay him back by fighting for him, then he’d take his payment in cash.

Reaching into a hidden pocket inside his coat, Simon pulled out a roll of banknotes and tossed them onto the desk.

“A little more than a hundred quid.” All of his winnings from the fight and the extra he’d been able to add in from his pay.

He kept only what he needed to clothe himself to Montague’s high standards as the club’s manager.

A small portion went to the care of Mary’s daughter and the rest went to Brody.

He nodded toward the roll and waited as Brody untied the twine and counted the rumpled bills.

“Good.” Brody pulled out the ledger he used for recording personal debts and made the proper notations with a pencil. Lines of payments on Simon’s sheet stared back at him. Money that Brody gobbled up like a greedy piglet.

Every time he saw the notations they made him angry.

He had already paid thousands of pounds on a debt that was bollocks.

Simon had no choice but to pay it, however, because Brody kept Daisy a hostage to his greed.

Daisy, Simon’s niece, who had done nothing other than be born to the wrong mother.

When Mary died, Simon had already been detaching himself from Whitechapel.

Brody had wasted no time in using the girl to his advantage to attempt to lure Simon back.

“How much is left on my debt?”

Brody arched a brow. “Some.” He closed the ledger and sat back in his chair. He had no intention of answering the question.

The bloody bastard was too arrogant for his own good. He could drag this out for years, and there was little Simon could do about it if he wanted Daisy.

“Then I’ll bid you good night,” he said, unwilling to play the groveling victim for Brody. He knew from experience it never got results.

“Wait. Ye look to be healed enough from the last brawl. How ’bout ye sign up for another?” Brody’s eyes glittered from across the desk. He was a predator who came alive at the scent of blood.

As a matter of fact, Simon wasn’t healed from the last fight. It had only been a week ago. His ribs were wrapped and bruised. His face still showed signs of the brawl. He needed at least another fortnight to recover, but he knew that showing weakness to Brody would be a mistake.

“Thorne is away and I’m in charge of the club. Now isn’t the best time.”

“Heard he’s in Paris. Sounds like the perfect time to go out. Yer guv’nor won’t be the wiser and ye’ll be at least a hundred quid richer…well, a hundred quid plus the gambling take closer to paying yer debt and the little girl’s freedom.”

Pain darted through his chest. Brody knew she was his weakness. She should not be a part of Brody’s games, but she was the only hold the man had over him and they both knew it. The quicker he got her away from Brody’s clutches, the better.

“I want double.”

“Double would be ’alf of my take.” He did not look pleased.

“I deserve more than half your take.” Simon did the work in this arrangement, after all.

Sensing he might have gone too far, Brody raised a hand, palm up, for peace. “Ye want more? I’m working on something bigger.”

“Bigger? How big?”

“Big enough that the winnings will more than cover your debt.”

Simon’s heart pounded at the base of his throat. “And you’ll let me have Daisy?”

Brody nodded. “If all goes to plan.”

“When? What’s the plan?”

“I’ll let ye know when the time’s right. All’s not been settled yet, but it will be soon.”

“But I’ll need to—”

“Not yet, Cavell.” His voice had gone hard, as it often did when he was pushed too far. “I’ll send word when I’m ready to talk more.” He sat back down at his desk and Simon was dismissed.

Simon’s hand fisted at his side as he made his way back through the corridor.

Mary had died not long after Daisy was born, from a fever that had been relentless as it ravaged her body.

Daisy’s father was a miscreant, so she only had Simon.

His entire life was dedicated to getting her out of this pit and away from Brody.