CHAPTER 7
1501 Words
RAFE'S POV
My boss, Mr. Cyrus Malik, assigned me to look after his "puerile daughter." The call had come in on Tuesday afternoon while I was in my hotel suite, trying to relax.
It was already bad enough cleaning up after Malik's messes, but babysitting? That was far beneath me.
Still, what choice did I have?
I had to bide my time.
I was already frustrated. My flight had been delayed, the journey had been exhausting, and my patience was hanging by a thread. After checking into my hotel, I drove around aimlessly in search of a bar.
A sign caught my attention.
THE STAG & CROWN.
Good enough.
I pulled over.
I needed a drink.
The moment I stepped inside, a wall of noise hit me. Glasses clinked endlessly, drunken laughter bounced off the walls, and music blasted through the crowded room. Bright lights glared from above, reflecting off the endless rows of liquor bottles behind the counter. The air carried the familiar scent of whiskey, beer, and cigarette smoke.
Ignoring the chaos around me, I walked straight to the counter and ordered a whiskey.
I ordered my drink with practiced calm, as though I hadn't spent the better part of the day planning someone's murder.
I needed something strong.
Ignoring the chaos around me, I made my way to the counter.
"Macallan. Neat."
The bartender gave a silent nod and reached for the bottle.
Glass in hand, I swept my gaze across the room before making my way to an empty chair I'd noticed on my way in. Years of working as a private guard had sharpened my instincts until caution became second nature.
I chose the seat closest to the window, facing the entrance.
Old habits were difficult to kill.
From there, I had a clear view of everyone who walked through the door. Most came looking for alcohol. Some came looking for company.
Others...
Trouble.
I took a slow sip of the whiskey.
The familiar burn slid down my throat, warming my chest without dulling the storm in my head.
My thoughts refused to settle.
The assignment.
Malik.
Zara.
I hated this job.
Not because it was difficult.
Because it was insulting.
I wasn't sent to eliminate a target.
I wasn't sent to negotiate with dangerous men or clean up another one of Malik's bloody mistakes.
I was sent to babysit his reckless daughter after she'd turned a straightforward mission into a disaster.
The thought alone made my jaw tighten.
Zara Malik.
Spoiled.
Impulsive.
Arrogant.
She'd had one job.
One.
Instead, she'd made such a spectacular mess of things that Cyrus Malik had dragged me across continents to fix it.
She was the kind of person who believed money could erase consequences.
People like her had never interested me.
The frustrating part wasn't that she'd failed.
Everyone failed.
Even the best.
It was how she'd failed.
She'd walked into London believing confidence was enough.
Confidence without preparation was nothing more than arrogance dressed in expensive clothes.
If the assignment had been mine from the beginning, it would've ended before anyone even realized I'd arrived.
No unnecessary risks.
No emotional decisions.
No loose ends.
That was the difference between professionals and amateurs.
Professionals completed the mission.
Amateurs created problems for other people to solve.
Which explained why I was sitting in a crowded London bar instead of enjoying the retirement Malik had interrupted years ago.
I finished another sip.
If Malik hadn't pulled me out of retirement years ago, I would've declined without a second thought. My phone vibrated against the wooden table. A message from Malik
"I trust you. That's why I sent you. Don't f**k it up."
A humorless chuckle escaped me.
Trust.
What a pathetic choice of word.
The man who had spent years barking orders at everyone around him suddenly wanted to talk about trust.
I stared at the screen for another second before locking my phone and tossing it onto the table with more force than necessary.
He was probably somewhere surrounded by luxury, drinking expensive liquor while other people cleaned up his problems.
Just like always.
Hatred curled deep inside my stomach.
It reminded me of another man.
My father.
The word trust had always been meaningless to me.
People only talked about trust when they wanted something from you.
Family was no different.
I was thirteen the first time I realized my father didn't need a reason to beat me.
He came home drunk that night.
The front door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows.
I was sitting at the dining table, struggling through my homework under the dim kitchen light.
The smell of alcohol reached me before his voice did.
"Boy."
Just one word.
My stomach tightened.
"Come here."
I obeyed.
Not because I respected him.
Because disobedience always made things worse.
He stood in front of me, swaying slightly, his bloodshot eyes searching my face as though I'd committed some unforgivable crime.
"Where's the money I left on the table?"
"I... I didn't take it."
The first slap came without warning.
My head snapped sideways.
"I said..."
Another slap.
"...where is my money?"
"I don't know."
"You calling me a liar?"
"N-No."
His belt slid free from the loops of his trousers.
The familiar sound made every muscle in my body tense.
Not again.
Please... not again.
The leather struck my back before I could brace myself.
Pain exploded through me.
Another strike followed.
Then another.
By the fourth, I'd stopped counting.
He wasn't trying to teach me anything.
He simply enjoyed reminding me that he could.
I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood.
I wouldn't cry.
Crying only entertained him.
"Look at you," he sneered. "Weak. Just like your mother."
My eyes searched the room.
She was there.
Standing in the kitchen doorway.
Watching.
Her hands trembled around the dish towel she held, but her feet never moved.
"Mom..."
The word barely escaped my lips.
She looked at me.
For one stupid, hopeful second...
I thought she'd stop him.
Instead, she lowered her head.
Turned around.
And walked away.
The belt hurt.
Her silence hurt more.
That night, I learned something I'd never forgotten.
No one was coming to save me.
Not my father.
Not my mother.
No one.
The years passed.
The bruises faded.
The lessons didn't.
People often asked why I never smiled.
Why I never trusted.
Why I never stayed anywhere long enough to call it home.
The answer was simple.
Home had never been a place.
It had been a battlefield.
I'd survived it.
Barely.
The boy my father beat into the ground died long ago.
The man sitting in this bar was someone else entirely.
Someone my father would've feared.
Had he lived long enough to meet him.
From that day on, I stopped expecting people to choose me.
I chose myself.
Every single time.
The memory faded as quickly as it had surfaced.
I blinked once and found myself staring into the amber whiskey swirling inside my glass.
The music.
The laughter.
The conversations around me.
They all returned at once.
I rolled the glass between my fingers before taking another slow sip.
The whiskey burned.
Good.
Pain reminded me I was still in control.
Trust no one.
Depend on no one.
Feel nothing.
Those words had kept me alive far longer than love ever could.
The whiskey tasted bitter now.
I rolled the glass between my fingers, forcing the memories back into the dark corner of my mind where they belonged.
Emotion was a weakness.
Weakness got people killed.
I wasn't weak anymore.
I lifted the glass again, letting my gaze wander lazily through the sea of strangers filling The Stag & Crown.
Couples laughed.
Friends celebrated.
A group of businessmen argued over something meaningless.
None of them mattered.
My gaze drifted lazily across the crowded bar once more.
Not because I was interested.
Because routine demanded it.
The businessmen were louder now.
The couple had finally stopped arguing.
The man near the back exit was gone.
Interesting.
Either his meeting had happened...
Or it never would.
Then my attention settled on another man.
He sat alone.
One hand wrapped around a whiskey glass.
The other rested loosely on the polished wood.
Expensive suit.
Tailored.
Not rented.
Swiss watch.
Real.
Not counterfeit.
Italian leather shoes.
Scuffed.
Recently.
He had money.
Plenty of it.
Yet he carried himself like someone who'd lost something money couldn't replace.
I watched him raise the glass.
He didn't drink immediately.
Instead, he stared into the amber liquid.
Thinking.
Regretting.
Remembering.
People only looked at whiskey like that when they wanted answers it couldn't give.
For a moment...
I almost pitied him.
Then something tugged at the back of my mind.
The angle of his jaw.
The way he held himself.
I'd seen it before.
Somewhere.
He shifted in his seat.
The overhead light finally reached his face.
Recognition hit me like a bullet.
My fingers tightened around the glass.
Derrick Zang.
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