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His question brought me back to the conversation. “Yes.”
The second he got the answer he wanted, his eyes softened a bit, like he’d just proposed and I said yes.
11
BARTHOLOMEW
I sat at a table in the museum, a drink in my hand, listening to my world come crumbling down.
“The Prime Minister of Belgium has determined the substances have come from our border. In order to remain cooperative, I have to increase border restrictions. I’m sorry, Bartholomew.”
“We had a deal.” The room was full of obnoxious people in obnoxious suits, and I had the prime minister’s full attention because I knew all his dirty secrets. I knew about the prostitute he’d knocked up. She had the kid, and now he was paying her every month to keep her mouth shut. His wife had no idea—for now.
“But you decided not to be discreet and flooded the market with more product than they could handle. I’m not to blame for this.”
“Don’t add the restrictions.”
“If I don’t, I’ll look complacent.”
“Youarecomplacent, Prime Minister.” And not just because he’d fucked a whore without a condom. He was guilty of othershit, like money laundering and extortion. My old friend Fender had shared the goods. “If you won’t open the borders, then you need to find an alternative route, perhaps the train system.”
“That train is for passengers.”
“The cargo is irrelevant.”
Frustrated, he looked away, watching the other people in the room mingle. His own wife chatted with their eldest daughter, a girl who had just started university. What would she think if she knew she had a one-year-old baby sister? “My hands are tied—”
“The only way your hands are tied is if I tied the rope. And right now, your hands are free.”
He continued to look away.
“Figure it out. Or you know what the consequences will be.”
I headed across town, and the driver dropped me off in front of the bar. It was a quiet night, few people on the street and even fewer people inside. Some of the tables were occupied, and light music played overhead. A couple TVs in the corners showed the twenty-four-hour news cycle.
I spotted Silas across the room, sitting at a table with a couple guys I didn’t know. They were drinking beer on tap—like pussies. I visited the bar first and grabbed my drink before I took my time crossing the room, making eye contact with Silas before I arrived.
He held my stare with a stone-cold expression.
I took a drink, my eyes locked on him.
Once the guys recognized the tension, they looked at me over their shoulders.
My eyes were reserved for Silas.
He finally dismissed his guys with a subtle head nod.
When they took his silent order and disbanded, I realized this man had a life outside of the Chasseurs.
I took an unoccupied seat across from him.
He stared.
I stared.
A silent standoff.
He took a drink.
