Page 125 of Corrupt

Neither did I.

But something passed between us anyway. Silent. Helpless. Devastating.

And we held each other there, across the measured distance of dock and gallery, of statute and blood and everything that had been taken from us. Across the line between the life I understood and the one he’d been trying, and failing, to escape.

For a heartbeat, the law receded.

There was only him.

And me.

And the terrible knowledge that this was the last time I would be allowed to see him.

The dock officers moved in, hands closing around his arms. As they turned him away, his gaze finally broke from mine, the moment snapping shut as if a door had been slammed in a storm.

Then a voice breathed close behind me.

“Well. That was rather a good one, wasn’t it?”

I turned.

Lord Wolfe stood in the aisle behind me. Had he been there all along? Or had he slipped in during the confusion, when my attention was fixed entirely on the dock? His expression was composed, almost pleasant. The faintest curve of satisfaction touched his mouth.

“It’s a good day in court when people are reminded that the system does eventually give everyone what they deserve.”

His hand closed briefly around my shoulder.

Not a grip.

A claim.

I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t even tell him to go to hell without shattering whatever was still holding me upright. Then Wolfe released me and turned away, merging with the flow of solicitors and clerks and black gowns, disappearing as if he’d never been there at all.

The courtroom emptied.

The law carried on.

And I sat there, hollowed out, knowing two things with absolute, devastating clarity.

That Razor was gone and Richie wouldn’t return to my window.

Epilogue

Razor

HMP Pentonville.

They called it the Ville inside, as if the nickname might dull the blade.

North London remand. Victorian brick and rot, a place built to hold men while the system decided how much of them it planned to take. I wasn’t guilty. Nor was I innocent, either. I was just here. Waiting.

I woke to noise.

Not the low hum of traffic outside my flat, not bass bleeding through club walls at dawn. Not even thwack, thwack, fucking grunt. This was shouting. Metal slamming metal. Someone coughing wetly down the landing. Boots cracking against concrete with no hurry and no mercy. And for half a second, my body didn’t know where I was. My hand twitched, reaching for a phone that wasn’t there. For warmth. For silk sheets.

Tristan’s heat pressed into my back.

Then the smell hit.