“Hey.” He moves closer and wraps his arms around me, pulling me to his chest. I allow myself to go, to fall into the warmth of his embrace, and for just a second, I let him hold me together. “We’ll find him.”

  With a sniff, I push away from him, swiping angrily at the stray tears lingering on my cheeks. “He was dealing coke. I need you to help me find who he was working for.”

  He shakes his head. “Eden—”

  “Don’t try to dissuade me. This is all I have to go on, Ash.”

  He swipes a hand over his face and turns away. Tossing the envelope on the breakfast bar, he braces his balled fist against the top and drops his chin to his chest. “You have no idea what you’re getting into, Eden.”

  “I have no choice. Please.”

  He lifts his head and slowly reaches for a single note that’s fallen from the envelope. Tilting his head to the side, he inspects it closely. “This is fake.”

  “What?”

  He turns, those dark eyes clashing with mine. “I’d need to test it, but I’m pretty sure this is fake.”

  It looks fine. “How can you tell?”

  “The serial number.” He begins emptying the envelope and pouring over the notes. “High end though.” His eyes meet mine, and his lips twist into a grimace. “I think I know who made this.”

  Hope blossoms in my chest like a spring flower. “That’s great.”

  He shakes his head. “Look, I’ll ask around, but I warn you, Eden, if Otto is wrapped up with these people…” He lets the implication hang in the air, but I refuse to acknowledge the words. White noise fills my ears, and I suck in a deep breath.

  “I will find my brother, Ash. Whatever it takes.”

  3

  Saint

  The low rumble of heavy bass cuts through the silence of the night and is the only sign that the old church is anything other than exactly what it seems: an abandoned place of worship. The enormous building sits in absolute darkness beneath a line of towering elm trees.

  Gravel crunches under the soles of my shoes as I make my way to the front door. It opens the second I reach it, and a wall of humid air pours out, bringing the skull-splitting music with it. The bouncer nods at me as I pass the threshold. Where there would once have been lines of pews now lies a vast, empty space. Only it’s not empty. It’s full of bodies, writhing and gyrating against each other. Bright lights flash and dip, playing over the stain glass windows that would once have looked so beautiful in the sunlight. Of course, they’re now covered from the outside to hide the debauchery within. The bar off to one side has a glowing golden sign on the back wall, scrawled writing that reads: Salvation. A DJ booth sits where an altar once stood, and I know there’s something inherently sacrilegious about it.

  Salvation is far enough outside of London to draw only the most exclusive crowds, and really this club is only a front for what lies beneath. People part easily as I make my way through the church. I swipe a security card over a keypad next to the door at the back. As soon as it closes behind me, the music becomes a muted hum once more. There’s a corridor and several rooms that are used for storage. This would have once been a Sunday school and the vicar’s chambers. It’s a shame really, but such is the way of society. Religion becomes a thing of the past, and buildings such as this; relics set to be destroyed. They know not what they do.

  At the end of the hall is a door with a single security guard. No one can get back here unless they have a key card, but just in case… Seeing me, he opens the door, allowing me entrance. All that sits in front of me is a steep downward stairwell. The soft strains of jazz music travel on a cool draft from the bowels of the building. The further I descend, the colder it gets until I’m standing in what was once catacombs. You can still see it; the domed ceilings and tiny chambers linked together. Tables sit in the corners of the room, each one curtained off behind gauzy black fabric. This is what the club above hides, an exclusive club of sorts, catering to those who would prove…useful to my ever-expanding empire: Criminals, gang leaders, corrupt politicians, police working both sides of the law. They all come here, where I can watch them, use them, manipulate them.

  I make my way through the catacombs to the room at the end. Heavy double doors arch up to the low ceiling, and I push them open into a single, closed-off room. This is usually a place of solitude, but tonight a handful of people have been allowed to grace my presence. Sadly no man can stand alone, not even me. In order to achieve what I want, relationships must be formed, and business acquaintances appeased. A man doesn’t realise he’s being toyed with if you’re standing close enough.

  I cut through the small group of people, and they instantly move out of my way. I can almost see the hairs rise on the backs of their necks, the knee jerk reaction to move from my vicinity. Call it survival instinct or just intuition, but it’s always been the same. When I was a child, my mother would say I have the devil in me. And I believed her. Oh, did I believe her. I read the bible every night. I prayed. I threw myself at God’s mercy. No man can help what he is, but I have my own relationship with God now. It’s a heavy give-and-take. I sacrifice for him more than most, while straddling the fine line of my darker urges and morality. After all, isn’t it all just cheques and balances on the soul?

  My chair sits in the centre of the room, the high back intricately carved out of mahogany. I bought it because it looks like a throne. Taking a seat, I wrap my fingers around the arms and assess the scene in front of me. There’s a long tan leather couch across from me, and a couple of men sit on it, one alone, and the other with a woman plastered to his side. The lone man is focused on me, his eyes subtly taking it all in. These are members of the Armenian mafia, and this man…this is the man they sent to negotiate their deal, the highest-ranking person in the room beside me. He’s not here to enjoy my drink and women. He’s not manipulated by such things. Our eyes lock, and I fight a smile at the prospect of a challenge. The Armenians are known for being difficult to deal with. He finally cuts his gaze away from me, and I allow mine to drift around the room.

  There’s an air of drunken glee as the Armenians knock back whiskey and paw over women. Most of them paid for courtesy of my brother, Jase. The woman across from me drapes one arm around the man’s shoulders. His eyes lock on her chest, and she has him eating from the palm of her hand. A touch here, a whispered word there, and he feels wanted. She manipulates him with the greatest human weakness; the need to feel loved. Even when they know it’s false. Most people are driven by trivial things such as love, sex, or money. Their ambitions are small, their vision limited to nothing more than their need for happiness. And how do they find this illusive notion? Often in the arms of another, whether it be for an hour or sixty years.

  Understand your folly, and you may manipulate him. That is why I allow whores to sully my club. I like to feed a man’s weaknesses, reveal his sins.

  Being in the presence of these people is a necessity that I do not relish. I’m meeting with them tomorrow. Tonight is simply a ‘goodwill gesture’ as Jase calls it. Where the hell is he anyway? My brother is also my right hand man, or in other words, the person who handles the shit I don’t want to. I’ve been here ten minutes, and I’m reaching my limit. Closing my eyes, I lean back in my chair, gripping the arms so hard that my fingers start to ache.

  Bang-bang, bang-bang. My pulse hammers against my eardrums, a stark backing beat to the inconsequential chatter and false laughter that fills the room. Suddenly the jazz music from outside spikes loudly before cutting off again. I open my eyes at the sound of the heavy door latch clicking back into place.

  Jase saunters into the room in that way of his: confident, charming, inviting. His suit jacket is missing, as usual, and he wears a dark grey shirt, the top two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up. My efforts to cure my brother of his scruffiness have fallen on deaf ears. Dragging a hand through a mop of dark copper curls, he flashes a blinding smile at everyone he passes. The kind of smile that screams of authenticity — and they return it. People trust him…even hardened criminals who know better. And where he is met with trust, I’m met with fear, though my brother is every bit as dangerous as me — a wolf in sheep’s clothing. It’s this that has earned Jase his place at my side, the only person I trust. An ally in a world of enemies.

  He slowly makes his way toward me, appeasing those he passes with a greeting. I grow impatient watching him placate them, his priorities sadly lacking. My knuckle raps over the arm of the chair, counting the seconds it takes. Seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three. Seventy seconds too long.

  “Saint.” Our eyes meet and the smile on his face shifts, the mask slipping and revealing his true self beneath.

  “Out!” I snap.

  He sighs, glancing over his shoulder at the room of startled people. They freeze for a moment, some looking to him as though he’ll veto that decision. Run along little rabbits before I tear you to shreds. Slowly, I push to my feet. A single look is all it takes. They scamper away like the vermin they are, in a rush of clicking high heels and male bravado. As soon as the doors close, I drop back into my seat and rub at my temples. The incessant banging of club music from above is normally easy to ignore, but today it’s giving me a headache.

  “Nice of you to grace us with your presence.”

  Jase’s lips quirk into an amused smile. “I had to handle something. We have a problem.”

  I barely suppress the growl that wants to work its way up my throat. I’m not in the mood today, and I loathe problems at the best of times. Problems denote that somebody made an error, and my operation does not have problems. It’s perfect because I designed it to be that way. But as always, where people are involved, disappointment is sure to follow.

  Pinching the bridge of my nose, I close my eyes, fighting the tension headache that is now pressing against my eyes.

  “There’s a girl.”

  I lower my hand and stare at him through narrowed eyes. “A girl?”

  “One of my former associates brought her to my attention.” Reaching in his pocket, he removes a brown envelope and hands it to me. I part the paper, revealing a stack of notes inside, approximately ten thousand pounds. It only takes a glance at one note to know it’s one of mine. I know every batch serial number. This one is from a few months ago. “She found this… in her seventeen-year-old brother’s room.”

  I have no patience for this. “Then handle them. Why are you bringing this to me?” I toss the envelope on the low coffee table. This is why I have him, so I don’t have to listen to this menial drivel.

  “The brother is missing.” I toss my head back on a groan. Of course he is. Nothing can ever be simple. Situations like this put me on edge. There are too many variables outside of my control. A seventeen-year-old boy with counterfeit cash — my counterfeit cash, that I control and distribute very tightly and specifically for cleaning — would be bad. But, he could be removed, and the problem sorted. If he’s missing…the variable is now a growing risk with many possible other factors involved. Did he run? Was he taken? Is he dead? If so, why? Who was he working for? So many possible risks.

  “Where is the girl?”

  He jerks his head toward the door. “Outside.”

  An icy sensation works through my veins until my skin tingles. “What?”

  He shifts back a step, blue eyes the same shade as mine widening slightly. “I didn’t know what to do with her. A seventeen-year-old kid had our cash. That’s a problem, Saint.”

  “I’m aware.” It’s more than a problem. It’s a gaping leak in my perfectly watertight ship. It may already be too late. He could have spent that money anywhere, and before you know it, there’s an investigation. The likelihood of anyone being able to spot a fault in my cash is slim because there is none. It’s perfect. As good as the real thing, apart from the serial numbers. And the chance of anything leading back to me is even slimmer, near impossible, but that is not the point. I do not like anomalies, and I’m very particular in who I deal with. This means that someone, somewhere has made a grave mistake; one that will cost them their life.

  “Does she know it’s not real?” He nods, and my fists tighten so hard that my knuckles ache.

  “How?”

  “My associate. She went to him. He knew it was ours, but he’s not a risk.”

  “Then handle her, Jase.” We’re springing holes everywhere! He knows exactly what I mean, but I dare not speak the words or even think them. That is a sin that my soul can’t bear.

  “Look, I’ll handle her, but we need her brother too. She’s the best shot at finding him.”

  He’s right, but I loathe the notion that this girl knows about us, about what we do. It puts her in a position of strength that just signed her death warrant.

  I drop my head forward, thinking through the situation. My thoughts are interrupted by the clicking of the door handle. “Try not to act like a serial killer,” he says before his voice is cut off by the rising wave of music.

  What is he doing? A moment later he steps back into the room, waving someone forward. A petite figure moves behind him, sliding through the gap in the doors before they close once more. My pulse is throbbing erratically, angrily. Jase watches me, wariness crossing his features.

  “She doesn’t have an appointment,” I growl.

  “This is kind of urgent, don’t you think?”

  Urgency or not, appointments must be made. This isn’t a whorehouse. People can’t just drop in whenever they feel like it. There are rules that must be followed. Rules are control and order…rightness. Rules are not to be broken. Ever.

  “She doesn’t have. An. Appointment.”

  Jase’s eyes lock with mine, half warning, half pleading, before he steps aside, revealing a tiny girl.

  Her face is tilted to the floor, causing a curtain of wavy blonde hair to fall in front of her. She looks…reverent, humble. A loose jumper hangs off one shoulder, and jeans cover her legs in a way that’s almost shabby.

  “This is Eden Harris,” Jase says. At the sound of her name, she lifts her head, and eyes the same shade as the depths of a forest meet mine. I expect to get only a fleeting glimpse, but no, she holds my gaze in a way that very few can. Instantly, I sense something different about her, a separation from the mundane. She sweeps a strand of hair behind her ear and the firelight catches, painting the golden strands in a copper wash. Her skin is so pale, so perfect, like porcelain. She looks…like an angel. I feel something shift, a pulling sensation in my chest. I frown at the feeling. What is that?

  And still she stares. So brazen, despite the cloud of grief that clings to her like a second skin. So fractured, so innocent; it shines from her like a damn beacon. That innocence puts her far from my domain.

  “How nice. She can leave now.”

  Jase swipes a hand over his face. “Saint…”

  I can feel my blood pressure rising with each passing moment that she stands there. “Out!” She flinches and takes an instinctual step back. But then her shoulders tense, her fists ball, and her chest inflates before she takes a determined step forward again.

  “Please. I need your help.” Her voice cuts through me like wind chimes catching on a soft breeze. I can count each individual beat of my heart as we stare at each other. What is this? She needs to leave. She needs to leave. “You’re my only hope.”

  Hope. A lifeline. But she shouldn’t be here because she doesn’t have an appointment. Rules are rules. They must not be broken. And she’s good. Pure. She. Should. Not. Be here. “Then you have no hope.”

  Her chin drops to her chest once more, golden hair hiding her face. I wait for several long moments before I spot the subtle tremble of her shoulders. A single drop of moisture falls, soaking into the material of her cream jumper, marring it with that single spot. Behold they that see shall cry without, the angels of peace shall weep bitterly.

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  She slowly lifts her head, and those eyes collide with mine. I’m being judged and found wanting, I can feel it.

  “My brother is missing. The police can’t find him. Won’t,” she corrects. “They won’t find him. He was arrested for possession of cocaine, so now they think he’s just a druggie who’s run away.”

  “And is he?”

  Her brows crumple together, teeth sinking into one side of her rosy bottom lip. “No. He’s…good.” Like her. Only I don’t think he is.

  “How did he get the money?” I jerk my head toward the envelope on the table.

  “I guess from dealing drugs. I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know. Well, then, as I said, you have no hope.”

  Her eyes flash with something, and her fists ball once again. Her lips part. I can tell there’s venom on the tip of that sweet tongue. Jase shifts, half stepping in front of her. “Saint, this is more than just a missing teenager.” He points at the envelope of money. “We have a leak.”

  My temper spikes dangerously, and I grip the arms of the chair hard, forcing myself to remain seated. “You handle the distribution. You’ve sprung a leak. I suggest you handle it.” He knows exactly what I mean, and the image of him snapping her neck flashes through my mind for a second. An uncomfortable feeling settles in my gut, but I ignore it.

  Pushing away from the girl, he moves closer. “Look, I get it. She knows too much. You think she’s a risk to the business,” he says, his voice steeped low. Yes, she does know too much. She knows that we produce and distribute counterfeit money, which makes her a liability at best. “But if I kill her; the sister of a kid the police already know is missing…” I meet his gaze, and I spot it instantly: Weakness. Doubt. Though his words make sense, they lack authenticity. “Let me use her to find the kid. Then we’ll re-assess.” He’s practically pleading, and it’s so unbecoming.

  “She doesn’t know anything about her brother’s whereabouts, Jase.” I make a point not to lower my voice, looking straight past him to where she stands awkwardly.