Page 18 of The Pawn

Jet looks around as we pass a living room where a middle-aged woman is sitting by the fire, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other. She watches, her expression telling me exactly how unwelcome we are. I don’t give a fuck. We’re led down a corridor and toward a door that stands open at the far end. We enter that room.

The man who escorted us closes the door. He remains inside.

Bookshelves line the entirety of one wall, with two desks set facing one another at opposite ends. Richard Moore stands at the huge fireplace with a drink in his hand. He’s dressed in an expensive suit and casually watches us. He’s relaxed. Unafraid. And why should he be afraid? He’s got a fucking army out there.

“Cassian Trevino,” he says, his eyes giving nothing away. “What a surprise.”

“Governor,” I greet him. Richard is in his early forties. He’s the public face of the family. He currently holds the governor’s seat his father vacated just one year ago. I notice he doesn’t extend a hand to shake, but glances at Jet before turning back to me, eyebrows raised.

“You know my stepbrother, Jethro Blackstone.”

“Yes, I know the family. I’ve met your brother, Severin.”

“Lucky you,” Jet says, unimpressed.

The governor clears his throat. “Sit down. Have a drink.”

“This isn’t a social call,” I tell him. I remain standing.

Jet crosses to one of two desks set at either end of the room. He openly studies the file on it. The governor follows Jet, closes the folder and slips it into a drawer before returning to take a seat on the armchair closest to the fire. “What can I do for you?”

“Does a governor normally need soldiers armed for war at their residence?” Jet asks.

Moore looks annoyed, but manages to keep that smile on his face. “You never know when the riffraff will pay a visit.”

“Will your father be joining us?” I ask, understanding his meaning exactly.

“My father isn’t in town. He’s gone to the house in Florida. Usual for him this time of year. Old bones and all.”

“Then I’ll get to it. The Lombardi children. Where are they?”

“Lombardi children?” he asks, eyebrows raised as if he’s never heard of them.

“Amal and Daniel Lombardi.”

“Yes, of course. I wouldn’t refer to Amal as a child, though. Certainly.” I see Jet’s hand fist. So does Moore. “You came all the way here to ask me about Malek Lombardi’s children?” he continues, eyebrows high.

“I did. Where are they?”

“How should I know? And why would I care?”

“You’ll care because I’m asking you. I’ve been told they paid a visit, which I’d say is odd. I don’t suppose Malek Lombardi is here lurking in some closet or other.”

“No, I haven’t seen Malek in at least a week. But hischildren? Hmm. Strange,” he says, considering. “Now that I’m thinking about it, they were here. While I was out. My sister mentioned it. Slipped my mind.”

“Did it? That your sister in the other room?”

“It is.” He sips his whiskey. I want to slap the glass out of his hand. He thinks he’s being clever. If he’s made an alliance with Malek Lombardi, he’ll learn soon enough it’s a mistake.

“And what did she mention exactly,” I ask, playing along.

“They were here briefly. Malek sent Amal and she brought the boy with her. He wanted her to pick up some papers I had for him. I could have couriered them over?—”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“So you didn’t see them?” Jet asks.