I force a smirk. ‘Good to see you too, boss.’ He doesn’t humour me. Doesn’t ask why I’m bruised and battered. No. He just asks the one question that matters. ‘Is Marguerite Dubois dead?’
The silence stretches between us. It’s thick and suffocating. I swallow hard. I don’t have the answer he’ll like. Mr Lewis leans forward, elbows resting on his desk. My silence saying all there is to say. The moment I crossed the line of betraying him, it felt like I’d set fire to my own shadow. I was as good as dead. When I walked into his office, my heart thudded so hard, it felt like it was clawing its way out of my chest. And it still does. It isn’t courage, it’s panic dressed up as resolve. I betrayed him - the man who protects me and gives me a seat at his table. And now, it feels like I’m tearing my own flesh from the bone, layer by layer, with every breath I take.
The silence is broken only by the faint scuff of movement in the doorway. A soft click of claws on the tile draws my eye – George. The Boxer slips in like a shadow, solemn and slow, and I kneel without thinking, pressing my hand into the warm fur at his neck. ‘Hey, George,’ I murmur, half to him, half to myself. His presence familiar and grounding.
I glance towards Mr Lewis, but he’s unmoved, watching the dog with faint disapproval.
‘So, Mr Lewis does have a heart,’ I say, quietly.
The comment floats between us, unanswered. Mr Lewis doesn’t lift his eyes, instead, he mumbles, ‘I didn’t want him starving at the club. Bad for morale.’ His voice is flat, almost bored. ‘The stink would’ve put the clients off.’
He says it like logistics, like feeding George is just another operational necessity. I rest a hand on the dog’s shoulder, and Mr Lewis still doesn’t blink. Instead, his gaze pins me like a verdict, the air thick between us with the question still hanging: Is Marguerite dead?
I straighten. My mouth opens, but no sound follows. There’s nothing I can give him.
His face hardens. ‘Fix it,’ he says. Just two words laced with threat and expectation like they could rebuild a broken world, if only I moved fast enough. ‘Or I’ll fix you.’
I stand there, blood still crusted beneath my collar, hands twitching at my sides. ‘Boss, I know I failed you.’ He knows it. I know it. ‘But, I-,’ I clear my throat, straighten my posture, and try to sound like a man who is in control of his own life. ‘I like her.’
Mr Lewis raises an eyebrow. I exhale slowly, like I’m bracing for impact. ‘Marguerite – Stella. Whatever name you wish to curse her by, she’s –’ I know I shouldn’t continue...
‘Different?’ he interrupts.
Mr Lewis sighs as he reaches into his desk drawer. He pulls out my Desert Eagle. I don’t flinch, not at first, but when the cold metal presses against my head, and Mr Lewis’s finger rests against the trigger, my heart races. ‘Do you really think that means a damn thing to me, Sal?’
I swallow hard. The muzzle presses firmly against my head. The grim reaper lingers. Heavy. The air thick with his presence, like smoke coiling from the explosion – relentless, impossible to ignore.
Mr Lewis exhales through his nose, unimpressed. ‘She’s worth dying for, is she?’
‘Yes.’ I nod. Solid. Final.
Mr Lewis’s dark eyes watch me. His left hand thrusts into my groin grabbing my cock, his nails digging into my flesh. ‘Tickle your cock, does she, Sal?’ He’s waiting, expecting doubt, expecting the inevitable backtrack. I give him none. Instead, I lean in to his hand and the muzzle of the gun so it presses harder against my skin. ‘You know why you’re hesitating, boss?’ My voice is hoarse, the remnants of death still clinging to me. ‘Because you already know the answer.’
He doesn’t speak. But something shifts, so I take my shot. ‘Tarran.’
The name settles between us like an open wound.
Silence.
Mr Lewis takes his hand from my cock and runs it over his face, exhaling like he’s wrestled with the devil and came out only slightly worse for wear. The gun is still in his grip, but its weight feels different – less judgement, more hesitation.
‘Damnit, Sal. You really think you’re getting out of this?’ Mr Lewis mutters, his voice rougher, but tired of the fight.
‘I think you want me to.’
He scoffs, shaking his head. ‘Cocky bastard.’
I don’t deny his comment. Instead, I push. ‘I helped you with Tarran. No hesitation. No conditions. And I would do it all over again, if I had to.’
Silence.
Mr Lewis presses his fingers against his temples. The Desert Eagle still resting in his grip, but it’s not aimed at my head anymore. I lean back, slumping into an armchair, rubbing my head where the gun had pressed moments ago, and I breathe.
‘Where is she?’ he asks, debating whether this is still worth the headache to keep me alive. His patience has always been razor-thin, and his temper isn’t far behind.
‘She’s with Charlie Thompson and his men,’ I reply, ‘and I’ve got a plan. A plan that won’t just clean up this mess, it’ll make you very rich in the process.’
That catches his attention. His fingers drum against his desk, a cue to continue. ‘Charlie thinks he’s in control, believes I’m dead, and thinks he’s the predator in this game. But what if we tell him otherwise?’
