Six

Chapter Six

Tam

I LEFT HALLIE UNPACKING her belongings. The last thing I wanted was makeup and shit all over my bathroom, and her cute little picture frames and blankets cluttering up my room, but I wasn’t going to give her the breathing space of a room of her own. Besides, despite the intense hatred I had for her family, at least she was good to look at. I held back a chuckle at the knowledge Harvey hadn’t fucked her. What had he been thinking? Clearly too busy with other birds to lay claim to what should have been his.

I wouldn’t make the same mistake. I was doing this shit for everyone else, so I planned to at least get some pleasure out of it. While she was in my house, she would do as she was told, and if that included sucking my dick, then so be it.

I’d have been perfectly happy to stay alone forever. I couldn’t even picture being married, the thought of it repelled me. It didn’t matter—this wedding wouldn’t happen.

Making my way back down the stairs, I clenched my jaw as every step I took sent pain jarring up through my leg. I reached into my pocket for my bottle of tramadol, unscrewed the cap to tip a couple out, and dry swallowed the tablets. I was going to need something stronger soon, though normally the tramadol combined with a couple of hefty shots of whiskey was enough to dull the pain to a tolerable level.

I went to grab a drink. My kitchen was rarely used. I ate out, or I ordered in. The fridge was for booze, and that was about all. Was that going to have to change with a woman in the house? Was she going to get all domestic on me and expect us to have romantic, candlelit suppers together? I snorted at the idea. That wasn’t how I worked. But she was going to expect to eat. Did that mean I’d have to take her out with me when I went out? Would she see that as a date? I hadn’t thought about this at all.

Would Hallie want to please me? I pictured her on her knees, desperate to do whatever it took to ensure this wedding went ahead. I couldn’t pretend I didn’t feel the swell of power inside me. She could always flip things on their

head and make life so unpleasant for me that she forced me to be the one to call things off, but even in the short time of meeting her, I could tell that wasn’t something she’d do. She was a classic good girl, and it would be up to me to send her running. But in the meantime, I fully intended to have some fun with her.

She said she and Harvey hadn’t had sex, but she hadn’t said she’d never had sex at all. Could the girl up in my bedroom be a virgin? If so, it would be an easy way to scare her off. I could make her first time as rough as possible, forcing her legs apart, entering her dry, pinning her down by her throat and choking her. I could disturb her enough that she’d be terrified of it happening again and would run back to her daddy.

Though this seemed like a sensible plan, it also felt like a terrible waste. I had a girl who would do whatever it took to marry me in my bedroom right now. I could have her on her knees with my cock down her throat whenever I wanted and tell her to spread her legs while I slid my dick into that sweet virgin cunt at any time of the day or night.

My mobile buzzed, and I took it out of my pocket and swiped to answer. “Sly,” I said, already knowing it was my cousin. “How’s tricks?”

“The Foxtail is landing at three a.m. We’re good to go.” “Excellent.” I hung up again.

Despite the constant rage and grief that I carried around with me at the loss of my brother, business still had to be done. The Cornells might be at the heart of everything, but we had so many moving parts that relied on us, that it wasn’t as simple as telling people we were taking time out to grieve for our lost loved one. In our kind of business, people lost those they cared about all the time. Death was simply a part of the job. If we called time on things whenever someone died, nothing would ever get done.

Harvey hadn’t just been a someone, though, I reminded myself. He’d been a Cornell, and because of that I knew he would have wanted things to continue as usual. One thing Harvey had loved was money.

A large shipment of forged bank notes was being landed at a port on the Thames in the early hours of the morning. We washed the money through the legitimate businesses we owned in the city, such as one of my nightclubs, to put the cash safely through the books. Physically moving the money around was the most dangerous part of the job. A container full of bank notes would get the wrong kind of attention if it was seen, but the moment we picked it up

and divided it out between us, it was far less likely to raise any eyebrows. A few hundred grand for a night’s work. I wasn’t going to complain about that.

Movement came in the doorway, and I turned to find Hallie standing there. Her long red curls fell over her shoulders, and she’d changed into skin- tight black leggings and a white cropped top that exposed her taut stomach and made her tits look even bigger than they were. Her feet were bare, and I fought a sudden urge to push her onto a chair and suck her toes into my mouth.

“What are you doing?” I asked her.

She shrugged and pouted prettily. “Nothing. I was done upstairs so I wanted to see what you were up to.”

I hoped she wasn’t going to follow me around. I didn’t need some girl interrupting me all the time.

“One thing we’re going to need to get clear is that you’re going to need to give me some space. I don’t want to have to entertain you all the time.”

She glanced around as though I’d bored her. “What is there to do, anyway?”

“TV, internet. Just the usual.” I jerked my head at her. “Now turn around.”

“Why?”

“I want to see how your arse looks in that getup.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Fuck off.”

I smirked. She’d probably tell me she’d changed her clothes for comfort, but there must have been a tiny part of her who’d known exactly what parts of her body she was showing off and who’d they’d be shown off to.

“I’m going to be working later tonight so you’ll have the house to yourself. Remember, until we’re married, this is my property. Don’t go poking around my stuff.”

She crossed her arms. “I’m not interested in your things.”

I didn’t tell her I had hidden surveillance cameras around the place. I hadn’t installed them because of her—they’d been here for years. Working in the business I did, I couldn’t ever trust anyone fully, and if I ever returned home to find something was out of place, I’d always be able to scroll back through the footage to make sure no one had been in here without my knowledge. Now, though, I thought I could have a little fun with them. I wondered what she’d do if she thought she was here alone.

“Can I invite a friend around while you’re gone?” she asked.

“No. This is my house. I never told you to treat it like your own.” “So, I’m supposed to just sit around by myself?”

I pouted for her. “Aww, you going to miss my company, sweetheart?” She scowled. “Never.”

“Watch television, read a book, listen to music. Whatever it is you like doing.” I thought of something. “Why not take a bath and make yourself pretty for when I get back? I’m always horny after a job. Would be good to come home to a sweet-smelling pussy.”

“You disgust me.”

“How old did you say you were? Twenty-one. So young. I bet you’re tight as fuck down there. I’m going to need a whole tube of lube just to get my cock inside you, and then I’ll tear your pussy up.”

She twisted her face away and blinked back tears. An unaccustomed pang of remorse struck me. Had I pushed her too far? If a few words was all it would take to send her running back home, I wasn’t even going to need to lay a finger on her. That would be a shame. I might as well get what’s been put on offer to me before she scurried back home like a frightened puppy.

“There’s wine in the fridge,” I told her, changing the subject, “and takeaway menus in the drawer. Order whatever you want on my account.”

“I have my own money. You seem to forget who my father is.” “How could I possibly forget, sweetheart? Isn’t that the whole reason

you’re here? And by the way, when you say you have your own money, what you’re really saying is that you have your father’s money.”

She bristled. “Can’t you say the same thing?” “No, I work for my money. What is it you do?”

Her shoulders slumped. Did she really think she was going to outlast this?

That she’d survive spending the next month with me, and then we’d get married? What did she think would happen then, that we’d somehow become a happily married couple and go on to have a life together? Or was she hoping something would happen to me, like it had Harvey, and she’d be free once more and yet still be seen to do her duty. That was what lay at the heart of this, after all. It was duty to our respective families that held us both here.

“I need to get ready.”

I left her standing in the kitchen. Had she expected for me to wine and dine her? As Marlon Wynter’s daughter, she’d been pandered to all her life. She’d probably thought that she’d come here and have me fawning all over

her, grateful to be blessed with her presence. She was going to get a wakeup call pretty bloody quickly.

I took a shower and dressed in my usual attire of a black suit and a black shirt underneath. I owned numerous identical outfits. Clothing wasn’t something I cared too much about. While I wanted it to be of the best possible quality, and so it looked like I always meant business—which I did

—I didn’t want to have to waste any time or thought on what to wear. Plus, black was good when it came to moving around, unnoticed, at night. Paired with my dark hair and eyes, it could make me nearly invisible, and I’d learned a long time ago that black hides any blood spatter.

When I walked back downstairs, I caught a glimpse of Hallie curled up on the sofa in my living room. She had her bare feet tucked up under her body and held a glass of chilled white wine in one hand. The television was on, and curiously I checked out what she was watching. I was expecting some crappy documentary about celebrities, or a chick-flick, but was surprised when I saw that while she might be watching a documentary, this one appeared to be about the serial killer, the Yorkshire Ripper.

Maybe I’d misjudged her in that department, at least.

THE DRIVE FROM GREENWICH to the port only took an hour, but I wanted to grab some food on the way, and then I needed to meet up with the others on my crew. There was a lot of sitting around, but it was important that we made sure there was no chance either the police or a rival syndicate had got wind of the drop-off. We’d get there first and spread out, then lay low, watching anyone who came or went. If the police were staking out the place, we’d spot them fast enough. We also had a number of Met cops who were dirty as fuck and more than happy to spill the beans should they get wind of a sting being put out on us in return for some extra cash in their pockets.

I took the A13, past Barking and Dagenham. The port was at the mouth of the River Thames and would have been one of the greatest ports in the world back in the day, when the old-school gangsters of the nineteenth century were around. Those were the days when extreme violence was expected, and they didn’t have to worry about little things like DNA evidence or being caught on a mobile phone camera. It must have been a simpler life, though perhaps even more ruthless than the one I lived now.

Unapologetically violent. I was envious of them.