Page 2 of Redemption
“You are not privy to that information. No one is. No one will know you are involved. Just as you will know no one else who is involved.”
He turns to his partner, whispering to him.
I place a tablet in front of him, the contract ready and waiting. “All you have to do is sign. One signature and all your problems go away.”
I lean back in my chair as I watch the two of them argue. Sweat drips down Riley’s face. I know he will sign. I’m not worried about that. They always do. Whether to save their own asses or because the power they feel from doing something illegal is so magnetic. A power that I always promise can lead to more.
But it rarely ever does. I only know seven people in the last ten years who have moved up through the ranks. And only twelve in the last twenty. I clench my jaw as I try not to dwell on the past. Of the things I’ve done, the lives I’ve destroyed. I never had a choice. This life was always meant to be mine. But I ruined many in the process. Broken friendships beyond a state of repair. My mind flickers to Bastian Montford. A friend whose life I ruined again and again. I destroyed his family. And I am still picking up those pieces. Still trying to right what I did wrong.
I dig my nails from my curled fist into the palm of my hand. Pulling myself out of the memories. Putting the mask back in place. Letting the man with no soul take over the room.
* * *
I hate New York City. Despise it. I never understood why. The first time I came here I thought maybe it was because of the bitter cold. It’s cold at home in London and in Ireland. But something about the way the cold seeps into every crack of your marrow has always made me repulsed by this city.
Of course it could be the people, the rats, the trash. I could go on and on about the things that make me hate coming here. But when I sold my soul to my father, to The Partners, I gave up all the choices I could have in my life.
I stare off into the crowd as I sit in a dark corner of an upscale bar. I thought about going to a dive like the pubs I frequent in London and Dublin but in my bespoke suit I would stick out like a sore thumb. And that is not the kind of attention I want while I am here.
I watch girls in fake designer dresses dance on the dance floor. Their desperate need for attention not something I miss as they bat fake eyelashes at the rich men in the bar.
Not that I am much different from those rich men. It doesn’t really matter where I am, either here with the fake girls or at a pub with the normal ones. If one of them catches my attention I’ll be sure to take them back to a hotel for a good time. To give myself some type of pleasure while I live in hell.
I don’t know how many drinks I’ve had but I begin to grow bored of this scene, not one girl catching my attention. I pay my bill and walk toward the exit when I do a double take of a woman with an hourglass shape, dark luscious curls, and dark eyes. I shake it off, my mind playing tricks on me. But then she bumps into me as I try to leave. She is not who I thought she was. I gave up on finding her years ago. But she reminds me of that girl I knew. The one that made me believe in something other than the destiny that was laid out for me.
“Excuse me,” she says with a Brooklyn accent. “I didn’t mean to run into you.”
The sound of her accent nothing like the one in my head makes the magic of the woman fall away. But the carnal need in my body, the whiskey that’s creating a fog in my brain has a different idea of how the night should turn out.
“My apologies,” I say to the woman as I wrap an arm around her waist. “I feel like I ran into you.”
She giggles and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “I like your accent.”
Of course she does.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
She smiles at me, revealing brilliant-white teeth. “Please.”
I guide her to the bar and order another whiskey for myself. She orders a sex on the beach and I wonder why I am even bothering with this one. I know she will be easy. I know she will give me the release I need with no questions asked but something inside of me is tired of this game. I’m forty-one years old. I should be like my brothers. Married with kids, running the legal investment business my family owns. But I’m not. I am the one stuck in the black market, running the syndicate that made us billions.
The woman whispers in my ear, giggling as her tongue slides down my neck. I’ve already forgotten her name but as she not so subtly glides her hand over my dick, I give in.
I throw cash on the bar and pull her arm roughly as I direct us outside.
“You didn’t ask if I wanted to go anywhere with you?”
I smirk at her then grip her chin. “Baby, I don’t need to ask.”
She gasps just as I press my lips against hers. She gives in immediately and it almost takes the fun away. I like when they have a fight in them.
I pull away from her then drag her across the street to my hotel, avoiding the copious amounts of traffic on the busy streets of the city at this time of night.
She is all over me in the elevator on the way up to my room. I’m disappointed but not surprised when I grip her tits and find them fake. Everything about her is fake.
I scan my key card and pull her through the door. She gasps as she takes in the presidential suite, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan. But I don’t let her admire it for long. Instead I push her to her knees and unbuckle my pants.
“Do I need to ask?” I say as I grip her chin.
