25. LEO

Waking to a headache, I remembered what had happened. There was still something over my head and as I moved, I felt my wrists together with something sharp jagging into my skin.

I stayed as quiet as I could. This was different from the last time. At least I wasn't being beaten.

There were voices. I tried my best to listen to what they were saying. I didn't know if they worked for Sam, or they worked against him, and this is what he warned me about.

"He's awake," a voice spoke.

My eyes adjusted to the light as it hit me. Disoriented, my head wobbled.

Fingers snapped in front of my face, like a camera and sound crew trying to synchronise their shot.

"Hi." A woman walked toward me.

We were inside a living room, the walls were beige, no pictures anywhere. A couple of cardboard boxes by the wall. And in an armchair across the room, an older man sat, his body strapped into the chair with rope.

"I'm Layla," the woman said. "Speak then." I focused on her; she was a younger version of the woman who'd been walking with her dogs. She wore a deep red lipstick, her hair in curls, and she wore in an elegant black dress with gems on the shoulder.

"I'm—I'm Leo."

"Right, Leo Conroy, pickpocket, and assistant to one of London's famous old mafia families," she said. "You know, Samuel Maxwell, they don't look like the criminals but they are."

"Are you the police?"

She threw her head back in laughter. "The police. Wayne. He wants to know I'm with the police."

A man in a farmer's cap and a tweed jacket walked into the room, cleaning blood off a knife with cloth. "No," he said. "We're not the police. We're people interested in teaching someone a lesson. Obviously, it didn't have to be like this, but we've got no choice left." He looked like someone who'd been brought up shooting clay pigeons on some fancy country estate.

"You're not police, then do you work for the Maxwell's?" I asked

The man in the chair chuckled. "They are Maxwell's," he said. "By blood, not by name." He turned his head to me, sighing out of breath. "These are my niece and nephew. And I don't know where my sister's got to, but I'm sure she'll be in here to tell you what they told me."

Layla snapped her fingers. "No, this one is different," she said. "He's not a Maxwell, he just works for one, and sleeps with one." Her mouth turning into menacing smile. Of course, the family resemblance was there.

Wayne approached the knife in his hand. "We're going to—"

"They're going to use you," the old man butted in. "They want my vote. They'll try for Samuel's vote through you."

"His vote?"

Layla and Wayne looked at each other. "Yeah," Layla said. "And he'll do that, if he loves you, and if not, then you'll probably end up dead. So, ask yourself, do you think he loves you?"

They were trying to get into my head, and so far, they were doing a good job at it. Thoughts swirled and spiralled as I questioned what it was me and Sam had. He was a protector, a Daddy, and I was just someone who caught him in the wrong place. I didn't have an answer to their question, because it had only been days since we'd even come together.

"Leave the lad alone," the man said. "I don't know why you needed to get him. I told you, when I overheard your stupid plan. You could've got either of my sons, or my daughter, they have votes."

The two of them shared a menacing laugh.

"Uncle Bennett," Wayne said, plunging his knife into the cushion of the armchair. "You and your three will vote the same. We go to the top of that family, which is you, you have the single most votes. Four of you. Again Sam, Reuben, and Elias. That's a majority."

"Then why do you need him?" he asked, glaring me down from across the room.

The heavy click-clack of heels on hardwood brought all three of them to pause.

In the furs from earlier, the woman walked into the room. "I can hear you all the way from the kitchen," she said. "So, I'll answer that question for you brother. We need him to make sure we're given what we're owed."

He scoffed. "You're owed nothing. You've not done any of the work. You swanned off up the country. Alistair was the one who was insistent on sending you money. I voted against it, if you must know." He shook his head and snarled his upper lip at the woman. "You married rich, Adeline. I didn't see what you needed our money for anyway."

"Because I'm still part of the family, I am a Maxwell, I grew up as a Maxwell, I saw what dad and everyone did to get us out of the dirt," she said, approaching the man in the chair. She peeled off a black glove. "You think just because I married Clark and he had money, that I considered that my money as well. No. That was his. And even after he died, that money still wasn't mine."

"Who—who's money was it?" I asked. I couldn't keep quiet. I'd tried, but my mouth and brain didn't operate that way.

"When he died, he left his money to charity," Layla said. "He left us with the house. A debt sinkhole. That's it. And mother had to sell."

"And we only got five million for it," Wayne added.

The old man snickered to himself. "You know. I wondered who would sell an estate of land with a house on it for so cheap," he said. "I didn't even realise it was yours when I put the bid in for it." He laughed.

The woman slapped him without warning. One clean sharp slap across his face. He laughed louder.

"It was a good investment call," he said. "We buy houses all the time. But I saw to it that we bought that one."

"So, you also operate under ARB Property Holdings too?" she asked, putting her glove back on.

"Yep. Alistair, Reuben, Bennet. It would've been Abr, but that doesn't sound good. Abr. Arb on the other hand sounds fun." He shrugged. "It's a company under the company. There's lots of them. You wouldn't even know where to start if I handed you control today."

The woman walked around the room with a smile. "We'll see about that. Layla, Wayne, let's talk in the kitchen."

As soon as they left, the man talked with me.

"I'm Bennett," he said. "They say you work for Sam. And I'm guessing also sleep with him too. Maybe you've met my son, Preston."

I didn't recall him. I'd met Elias. Preston was the one who'd come in screaming and shouting, the same one who'd taken Samuel out last night and bust up all his knuckles. "I haven't met him."

"I'm sure they'll be here soon," he said. "I'm hoping so, at least."

"Are we far?"

He puffed his cheeks. "No idea. They did the same thing to me. A bag over my head. I couldn't concentrate on how long I'd been in the van before they pulled me out and threw on this." He heaved his body against the rope before getting out a breath and sitting still.

I saw the knife, still stabbed into the cushion of the armchair. I was on a basic dining chair. I scooted across the floor to him. "I think I know how we can get out," I said. "What happened with them?"

"Huh?"

"They killed Samuel's dad, right?"

"Actually," he snickered. "That was an accident. Adeline had gone to surprise her brother; they hadn't seen each other in years. She took her dogs with her, forgetting his condition, or telling herself it wasn't a big deal. Because usually, he could get by with allergy medications and the sort. But since his airways were already compromised, the allergy attack was critical. Although she admitted to turning his oxygen tank off to teach him a lesson for cutting her payments off."

"I'm sorry," I said. "That's awful. You don't think they're going to kill either of us, do you?"

His silence didn't lend me any confidence. I wanted to hear him tell me they wouldn't.

I reached the knife and from its position, I could cut the zip lock ties from my wrist. They were already bleeding from the little plastic teeth going back and forth against my skin. They were sore to the touch.

"I'll do yours," I said, pulling the knife out and attacking the thick rope.

"No. You should go. Tell them where I am. And we can get this over with. Wayne just killed a chicken, a live chicken, and he said that's what we'd be having for dinner. So, if you could hurry, I'd rather not be subject to that," he let out a snort of laughter. "Please. Just go."

I hacked at the zip lock around my ankles and stood with the knife in my hand as if I knew how to use it to protect myself. I suppose it couldn't be that difficult, just swipe and chop.

At the window, I checked to see if I noticed anything familiar. We were in house that looked out directly onto the road. Outside there was a rat removal van. Probably the same one they had forced me into.

It didn't look like any part of London I was familiar with.

I listened at the door, knife in hand. A door slammed shut. There were no footsteps.

A slow creak came from the door hinge as I opened the door to the hallway. It was empty. Opposite me was a stairwell. Their voices were distant, muffled in a room down the hall.

Creeping along the floor to the front door, there were deadbolts, latches, and locks. They didn't want anyone getting in, or out, apparently.

With the knife in one hand, a tight grip. I tried to sort through the maze of locks. At first, unlocking the latches, they were simple chains you had to swipe across to open.

"Now, where the fuck do you think you're going?"

No. I had no options.

I had one. Actually.

I ran upstairs, my hand shaking as it held the knife, my only weapon of protection. I ran to the front bedroom. It was empty. Locking the door. I sat behind it as Wayne hammered his fists on it, threatening me.

Frisking myself for my phone, I walked toward the window to see if it was possible to jump. That's when I spotted a house phone on the windowsill. It looked old, but it was connected to the wire in the wall box. But I didn't have my phone to even get a number to call anyway.

"Think. Think." I picked the phone up and placed it to my ear. There was a tone. It was working.

There was only one number I knew by heart, and it was mine. A number I'd had since I was a teenager.

I punched in the number and waited for it to ring. It gave me hope.

But there was no answer.

"Fuck!" I smacked it against the window. "Pick up. Someone." I dialled it again.

His voice answered. "Hello. Who is this?"

"Help me," I said, holding back my tears. "It's—it's Leo."

"Leo! Leo! Where are you? Tell me. What happened?"

A heavy bang blew against the door, knocking it from its hinges.

I dropped the phone to hold the knife with both hands, waving it around in his face. "Stand back," I said, sobbing. "I'll hurt you."

"Nobody wants to get hurt," Wayne said. "Drop the knife. And—" he spotted the phone. "Trying to call a friend, were you? Listen, I just want what we're owed, if you help us, I'm sure there's something in it for you too."

I shook my head, going dizzy behind the blur of tears in my eyes. "No."

He tackled me to the ground, pulling the knife from my hand. He threw it against the wall. It implanted itself in the drywall. "Now," he said. "Go to sleep." His hand at my throat. Cutting the air off once more.

I was out.