1: Anastasia Nightingale
London at night always looks like it’s got a dirty little secret tucked under its coat. Streets slick and shining under the sodium lights, secrets stitched into the cobbles, the city’s breath curling against the chill like fag smoke. I watch it all from the penthouse balcony, whiskey burning down my throat, sharp, clean, unforgiving. My empire stares back from the glass, fractured and multiplied across a skyline I own by blood. London shifts when I watch it. Always has.
A black motor stops at the curb below, headlights slicing through piss-wet rain. The driver steps out of his posture with stiff, bottled nerves, another muppet summoned to kiss my ring. They all end up here, eventually. Henry leans against the balcony doors, humming some tragic tune just to wind me up. “He’s early,” he mutters, swirling his drink like it owes him money. I don’t answer. I’m busy watching the silhouette, the umbrella, the shoulders, all wrong, but something in the way he moves snags a memory sharp enough to slice. The bastard moves like Julian. Not quite, but close enough it scratches old wounds.
Memory lunges, ice down my spine, and suddenly I’m back there.
Five years back, different flat, shit postcode, borrowed dress, borrowed life. Julian looked straight past me, through me, like I was nothing more than a misplaced chair. I watched his signature drag across divorce papers, face stone dead, nothing for me, not even contempt. I wanted to speak. I didn’t. Kept my voice locked down because I refused to give him that. Walked out, back straight, heart hammering, steel building in my bones. Decided then he’d regret not seeing me. Calm followed, cold and beautiful, as I realized he’d just set me free.
The balcony door swings wider; Henry steps in, his voice dripping with mock concern. “Darling, you’re brooding again. Properly dramatic, but we’re on the clock.” He’s taking the piss, but I caught the warning underneath. Move your arse. Handle it. He’s right. Men who drag the past out of me irritate more than blokes who try to stand up to me. I drew the last of my whiskey, the glass hitting the table with a clink. The wind of the city is sharp, presses at my dress, pushes me towards the night I’ve built.
The lift is waiting. Hall’s dim, cold white strips running the marble, my heels striking out a warning. Henry’s on his phone, probably giving Maddox a heads-up. Maddox is posted downstairs, babysitting tonight’s guest. The lift doors slide shut, slicing me off from the penthouse’s gold and shoving me into shadow. My reflection bounces back at me, hair loose, dress poured on, eyes like cut glass. I tip my chin up. Power’s a language, and I speak it better than anyone. The lift shudders as we drop, air thickening, cartels pulsing below like a second heart.
Doors open. Maddox is there, rain on his coat, collar up, jaw clenched like he’s holding London by the teeth. “He’s in the lounge,” he grunts, stepping aside. Glances at Henry, something quickly passed between them. I don’t bother decoding. I walk through, heels echoing down the marble, sharp and certain.
The man stands as I enter. He thinks it’s respectful, really, it just gives me a front-row seat to his nerves. I wait in the doorway, drag it out, let him sweat. Too new, too polished, hands gripped white. He stares too long, looking for something familiar, like he knows me from a dream. For a second, I see Julian’s ghost hiding in the panic. I blink, cut it out, step forward.
He swallows as I approach. Eyes can’t help but flick my face, then slit off my dress, then back up, like he’s weighing which way he’d rather die. Maddox looms, arms folded, whole posture promising pain. Henry slides up, grinning like a cat with bloody whiskers. I stop in front of the mark, close enough he has to tilt his chin to keep my gaze. His pupils tighten. Good. Truth tastes sharper with fear.
“Do you know why you’re here?” My voice comes out low, clipped. He looks at Henry, hoping for rescue. Henry just flashes his teeth. “I... I was told you wanted a word.” Pathetic. Maddox steps forward, the boards creak under him. The man flinches. Sweat breaks across his forehead. “Try again,” I say, one hand braced against the table. “Why. Are. You. Here.” Each word carves its own line. He swallows. “Because... because I owe the cartel.” Better. Not good enough.
I circle him, slow. Let him feel the air shift when my dress sweeps by. He tenses, chest jumping. Heels keep time, echo soft as a clock counting down.
“You owe me,” I correct, right behind him. “And you reckon ignoring my reminders was clever?” My fingers ghost the back of his chair, a warning. “N-no,” he manages, gripping tight. “I... I had complications.” Always do. Never a solution. “You had time,” I say. “Now you’ve got me.” He exhales, shaky. One of those is easier to handle than the other. I flick Maddox a glance. He cracks his knuckles, lazy as a threat. The man blanches. Good.
Back in his line of sight, I perch on the table’s edge. The lamp behind me throws shadows over my legs, highlights the holster at my thigh. Just enough for him to notice. Eyes flick down, dart away. “How much do you owe?” I ask. “Seventy-five grand,” he whispers. Henry cackles, delighted. “Oh, love, you should’ve told us you were thick as pig shit as well as skint.” He flinches. I shut Henry up with a look, though inside I’m amused. “Seventy-five,” I repeat. “What’ve you got with you?” “Twenty.” Maddox snorts, all derision. “Twenty,” I echo, soft. “You roll into my building with a pittance.” He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to.
I lean forward, elbows to knees. Stare him down. “You know what happens to men who take the piss with my time?” His breath stutters out. “P-please, I can get the rest, just need..” “Time?” I cut him off. “You wasted what you had.” He drops his gaze. Mistake. “Look at me.” He does, fast. I let him sweat, then: “Maddox. East Room.” He jerks, panic rising. “Wait, no... Please.”
“Shut it,” I say, rising. “You speak when you’re told.” Maddox clamps a hand on his arm, hauls him up, feet scrambling. I don’t watch him go. He’s dealt with. Payment matters. Order matters. Consequence matters. Henry’s grinning, watching it all like theatre. “You do love scaring the life out of blokes,” he whispers. “No,” I say, smoothing my dress. “I love obedience.” Henry raises his martini. “Whatever you say, Queenie.”
As Maddox drags him out, my eyes catch on the lounge’s glass reflection: broad shoulders, rain-soaked hair, not Julian, but enough to raise the old itch. I squash it. The past doesn’t get to haunt me. Henry studies me, head tilted. “Seeing ghosts again?” “Just exits,” I say, already striding away.
Henry trails as I head down the corridor, our shadows stretching long across the tiles. Simon Chestwick steps out, glasses in hand, suit rumpled, knackered but sharp. His eyes scan from Henry to me and back, blade keen but sheathed. “Nightingale,” he greets, pushing his specs up. “Guest giving you grief?” Henry laughs. “Only to his own trousers.” Simon’s mouth twitches.
“Anything I should know?” I asked, slowing near him. He taps a folder on his thigh. “Numbers from the docks,” he says. “Plus a possible leak outside Camden.” My jaw goes tight. “Internal?” “Too early to say.” He holds my stare, better than Maddox but still not a patch on me. “Show me.” He offers the file. I don’t take it. “Walk me through it.” He swallows. Nods. They always think I want paper. I want people.
We head for the strategy suite, Henry scrolling through his phone, sequins catching the lights. Simon keeps up, efficient, sharp, always three moves ahead. “Could be nothing,” he mutters, “but the timing’s dodgy.” “Why’s that?” “Two days after the Sterling Foundation announces its back in town.” My step falters. Brief. Henry clocks it. Simon pretends not to. “Coincidence,” I say. “If you say so,” Simon murmurs. His voice says he doesn’t buy it. Good lad.
Suite doors hiss open. Smell of paper, ink, ozone. Simon’s lair. He flicks on the monitors, blue light flaring. “If there’s a leak, it’s minor,” he says, “just someone seeing how far they can push.” “Let them try me,” I say, stepping to the maps. “They won’t last the night.” Henry sprawls on the sofa, purring like a smug cat. “Love it when you’re murderous, Ana. Puts me right to sleep.” I roll my eyes. “You don’t sleep.” “Exactly.”
Simon clears his throat, nerves showing. “There’s more,” he says. “A name’s come up.” “Go on.” “Kathy Monroe.” Air sharpens. Henry sits up. I turn to Simon, slow, dangerous. “Context.” “She’s been spotted with someone on the Camden route. Bloke called Troy Green.” Henry scoffs. “Filth.” “She owes money,” Simon adds. “To whom?” I prompted. He hesitates. “To... us. Indirect, but it comes round.” My smile sharpens. So, the wife before the husband. Convenient.
