The man is several paces ahead of us by the time we clear the small door and head down the hallway that leads farther back into the shop. He passes what looks like a small office and turns left, leading us through a locked door and down another corridor. I try not to look around too much, certain that everything I see puts me in danger of having seen too much, but it dawns on me as we keep walking that we’re probably now in the back of one of the shops next door.
It’s smart, in a way. At least one of the buildings next to the cleaner is a front too, providing an additional layer of cover for the people who do business here.
We come to a halt outside another large, steel office door, and the man knocks twice with his knuckles. Then he opens the door and jerks his head to indicate we should step inside.
No turning back now.
22
My skin chills as we cross the threshold into the room, as if there’s some kind of invisible barrier we pass through as we enter. There isn’t, I know that, but there might as well be.
There really is no turning back now. No slapping our foreheads and saying, “whoops, wrong dry cleaner.” We’re in this until it’s over, however it might end.
The office is large, almost the size of the entire dry cleaning storefront, and the dominant piece of furniture is a large cherry wood desk. A man who’s probably in his fifties sits behind it, closing a laptop as he glances up at us. We’re obviously not what he was expecting to see, because his head jerks back slightly as his eyebrows twitch.
He’s got the kind of face that almost forces you to think it’s handsome. Not attractive by any traditional measures, but with such strong, dominant features that it’s hard not to be a little overwhelmed.
I don’t know who he was expecting to see in his office on a Monday afternoon, but it definitely wasn’t us. He shoots a curious, almost accusatory glance at the guy who led us in, as if already chastising him for wasting his time, but before he can speak, the guy holds up a hand.
“They’ve got an interesting story about Hollowell. Thought you should hear it.”
Niles D’Amato has a definite reaction to that, but I can’t quite tell what it is. It almost looks like… resignation.
Was he expecting this? Has he been suspicious that Hollowell would fuck him over?
The man from the front counter walks over and slaps the paper down on Niles’s desk almost exactly like Lincoln did with it earlier. Then he glances toward us.
“Tell him what you told me.”
Linc repeats his story, his demeanor as calm and controlled as ever. When he’s done, he gives a small shrug. “We just thought you’d want to know. Before he was elected.”
Niles’s dark eyes glitter like obsidian as he nods slowly. His gaze shifts from Lincoln to the rest of us, sizing up our motley little crew. He doesn’t ask how the four of us came by this information. I have a feeling the receipt we gave them, which he clearly recognized as his own, helps validate the rest of our story. We’re not lying about what we found, so why would we lie about what we know?
His slow perusal lands on me last, and I do my best to channel Linc’s aura of calm, even though I can feel Chase vibrating with tension beside me. He doesn’t like the way Niles is looking at me, and to be honest, neither do I. I’ve read books with anti-heroes who have strict codes of honor, who have no problem killing their enemies but would never consider raping a woman… but there’s no guarantee at all that Niles is that kind of “honorable villain”.
It’s entirely possible he’s just a bad, bad man.
My muscles tense, but I surprise myself by standing up taller instead of shrinking under his stare. My jaw locks and my lips press into a hard line as I glare almost challengingly back at him.
If he tries to touch me, the kings won’t let him. And I can’t risk them getting hurt trying to protect me. So the only thing to do is to make sure Niles doesn’t even attempt it.
His eyebrows draw together a little as he notices the shift in my posture, but finally, his gaze moves back to Lincoln.
“And you know this, how?”
Ah. I guess he isn’t prepared to just take us at our word.
“I know someone who donated to his campaign, and that was the promise Hollowell gave him. It’s what he’s using to sell himself.”
He doesn’t mention that the someone is his dad, and I’m glad. Mr. Black might be a philanderer and a fuckup, but like Linc said, he’s not the kind of guy to get involved in truly bad shit. And as much as Linc might hate him sometimes, I know there’s a part of him that still loves his dad. He has no problem letting him fend for himself when it comes to his reputation among his wealthy friends, but that’s an entirely different thing than giving Samuel’s name to a known drug trafficker.
Niles curses under his breath, in a language that doesn’t sound like English. I have no idea where he’s from—his words have no accent—but I can’t pick out a single thing he just said.
I can get the gist of it though, and the nicest way to put it is that he’s not happy.
“That son of a bitch.” He pushes to his feet as he switches back to English, shaking his head. “After what we did for him. Ungrateful. Disgraceful.”
He contin