2. SAMUEL

I hadn't noticed anything missing at first. I thought I'd taken my wristwatch off in the bathroom, or I'd misplaced my wallet. I hadn't seen either of them since yesterday. I knew someone had stolen from me. I knew it wasn't anyone who worked for me, people valued their employment too much, and most of them knew the monster behind the smile.

Sat in the comfort of my leather office chair, I stared out of the window onto the street below. I had a vague recollection of bumping into someone yesterday, but he was just a kid, and kids these days were always so clumsy, their faces in their phones. They were all going to be part of the generation that required the use of neck braces after augmenting their posture to an inoperable position.

It angered me. My jaw clenched. I feared for whoever was on the receiving end of my words.

"Your coffee, sir," a soft voice spoke. Kelly, my office assistant walked in, carrying a white cup, filled with black coffee. "Two sugars, like you asked." She smiled, her teeth digging into her thick bottom lip. Kelly was nice, not my type at all, but she appeared to flirt.

"Have you had more filler?" I asked, wondering if the swelling in her lip was from this new excessive biting or filler.

"It's just a little," she said. "A new aesthetics clinic opened. I wanted to try it out."

"Aesthetics clinic?" I asked. "A Maxwell one, right?"

"Yes, your cousin came in and gave me a coupon. She told me you knew, but she also told me to keep her visit a secret," she continued. "But I—I thought you knew. Do they—do they look bad?"

"They look good," I said. "Next time Rebekah visits, I want to be told, even if she asks you not to tell me."

Kelly nodded, flashing a plump pouty smile at me. "Got it."

"And close the door on the way out."

My office was in Mayfair Place, a prestigious and expensive building. We didn't do much here, it was where all our businesses were registered. My father was the head of the business, but in recent years, he rarely left the family home, hooked up to an oxygen tank, pretending like he was still in control, even after putting me in charge as the head of the firm.

I took the cup of coffee, sipping it from the rim as I turned in my chair to look out on the street. I needed a name for the person who'd stolen from me yesterday. Whoever it was, they'd find themselves come to understand why I garnered the nickname, Samuel ‘Stabby' in my late teens and early twenties.

Finishing my coffee, I buzzed for Kelly.

"What can I get for you?" she asked.

"Security footage from the street," I said, gesturing to the street below. "Check with the businesses to see who has street-facing cameras. I want to see it from twelve to two, yesterday."

"On it," she said.

The Maxwell name had sway in the area, both through fear and awe. Depending on who you were talking to would depend on how they felt toward me. Newer businesses were in awe and wonder about how we'd become so successful. But those who knew, they feared the name. We hadn't always been associated with art galleries and million-pound trades. Back when my grandfather got his start, it was smuggling and trafficking precious gems and stones, but those wells dry quick. The Maxwell firm was once associated with protection racketeering, loan sharking, counterfeiting, and more unsavoury types of crime. Now, all our legitimate businesses were fronts. However, it was much more professional now. It allowed for me to wear three-thousand-pound tailored suits.

A knock came at the frosted glass office door before it swung open.

My younger cousin, Preston, sauntered in. He had an uncontrollable smile on his face and a light wiggle of a shimmy as he walked over.

"What's got you excited?" I felt forced to ask.

He laid himself on the sofa. "Just checking out the office space," he said. "You know, for when I take over."

"Don't piss me off." I couldn't deal with his smug riddles today. "What do you want?"

"It's no secret that your father is on his way out," Preston said, getting comfy. "I mean, you can't be serious to think you'll take over, right?"

"My father has a couple more years, at least," I told him. "And yes. I will take over once he's dead. So, let me ask again little cousin, what are you doing here?"

Preston chuckled, sitting upright, he adjusted his suit. "You get to sit up here all day, doing nothing. I'm on Savile Row watching over our assets."

I stood, pushing the chair out. "Same could probably be said for Elias, he's on Park Lane, watching over assets. What do you want? A medal for working?"

He stood, face-to-face with me like we were squaring off for a boxing match. "No," he said. "I just don't want you in charge."

"I've been in charge for two years," I told him. "Why do you suddenly have an issue with who takes over once my father is dead?"

Preston stepped back, like I knew he would. We had one rule, don't fight family, you only had one family, and it was always best not to see their blood on your knuckles, because sometimes you couldn't take back the damage. And we had a legacy to secure. "Well, we have my father, or Uncle Reuben, both could take over," he said.

"Your father is always drunk, and as for Uncle Reuben, well—" I couldn't control the smile on my face at the mention of him. "He's lucky we even consider him family, or don't you remember him stealing fifteen million?"

"Fifteen million we all had claim to," Preston said as he walked around my office. "What's the point in having the money if we don't get to spend it?"

"And that is why you can't take over," I said. "You don't look or think of things as business, you look and think of them as something to spend to get a little gratification from. You have money, you're paid a salary, and if you took over, we'd all be fighting each other within months for scraps."

Preston grabbed a glass paperweight from my desk. "You really think you're smarter than the rest of us, don't you?"

A rhetorical question, surely. "I went to university, remember? I'm the most qualified to run everything."

"You killed your professor, remember?"

"That man was a prick."

He grinned at me. "I want more control," he said. "I want us to expand. We have the money."

I shook my head; this wasn't a negotiation. We were talking hypothetical. My father was alive. "I won't make the same mistake our fathers did," I told him. "They had the police on them for years for growing operations too fast. They still try audit us constantly; we have an on-site accountant in an office out there making sure everything looks legit. And sometimes they have questions, and I don't think you'd have the slightest clue how to answer them." I grabbed the paperweight from his hand. "But if you want more assets to manage, let me know what you think you can handle."

The cogs turned in his eyes. "I could handle the diamonds."

"No, you can't."

"Fine. What about opening somewhere else to launder money?"

I shook my head. "Our aesthetics clinic opened recently. Your sister is cleaning money there. And no, we're not opening another yet." I wanted to bite my tongue and not say anything else to him. Preston had one of the easier jobs in the firm. He watched over a couple tailors on Savile Row, it was a business, but it was also a money laundering operation, alongside selling drugs to wealthy clients. Once we realised rich people abused drugs as much as poor people, they were an easy mark to get hooked, plus, they had the money to pay.

"You know, Elias isn't happy either," he said, approaching the door to leave. "And the reason I came," he chuckled. "I heard you got robbed."

My smile dropped. I don't know how he heard. I kept it between me and Kelly. "What?"

"Yeah," he said. "Some guy is out there trying to sell your watch." He gestured with a hand to his wrist and looked at mine. "Oops."

As he opened the door, Kelly stood with an accomplished grin on his face, or perhaps she'd had Botox with her filler. "I got word from a man named Derek at a small pawnshop, he has your watch, and he knows who stole it."

Preston rolled his eyes, beaten to the punchline. "Good talking to you, cousin," he grumbled before leaving.

I sat back at my desk, relaxing into the leather. "Who?" I asked her. "Do you have his name?"

"That's the thing," she said, approaching me. "The man wants to speak with you, directly before he'll give you a name."

"In person?" I asked, wondering if I'd recently sharpened any knives. I wasn't going to be had by some small-time pawnshop owner, and he should know better than to even try anything like that with me. "Or over the phone?"

"I'll call and ask," she said. "He said he bought the watch for two grand. I think he might want you to pay him for it."

I couldn't be mad at a man doing business, but that watch was worth ten times that amount. Whoever had stolen it from me must've been desperate to only take two grand for it. "And you're sure he has the name of the man who stole it?"

"He seemed very sure," she said. "I'll call back and double check."

I didn't mind paying him for what he'd bought it for, but only if he had the name. I'd get that money back, and then I'd take interest payments out on his skin with some nice delicate, yet painful slices. It was only fitting for theft.