The Contract (Nightlong #1)

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  Dante

  I WAS MORE AWARE THAN ever of what I had to lose, so was she…

  As Sexton drove us to Wembley to enjoy all that corporate tickets afforded us, Ciara sat nervously alongside me on the backseat. It was simple really, wasn’t it? It had taken us just a few hours to realise we could try and catch a moment with the player of the moment at one of the games he played. Now it was the summer season, it was an international friendly ahead of the Euros. It was a Wednesday evening, a warm June night, and I wondered whether the team would play well enough to put Cornish in a good enough mood to speak to us later.

  I looked sideways at Ciara, still hardly able to believe she was mine. When she’d suggested the hair change I didn’t think she would actually go through with it but she had. Was she shaking off her old self, to become someone new? In the face of adversity, would she finally admit her true colours? I had yet to watch her self-discovery take place.

  Since we became lovers, she’d began paying much more attention to putting on jewellery and little accents that complimented her natural beauty. On my arm, she shined. I had no idea what it was about me that had made this gorgeous creature bloom. Nowadays she looked more comfortable in what she wore and styled herself like she was my wife and not just a paid girl living in a paid-for house.

  “I hate football,” she said in her worn-down Irish accent. It was much softer than when I’d found her seven years ago, when she looked like any other waif or stray clutching onto her inner animal to survive this despicable world.

  “I’m more a rugby man myself,” I admitted.

  “Yeah?” she asked, gazing across at me.

  “Umm-hmm. Daltrey played semi-pro for a while. I didn’t have what it took, but I watched a game or two at weekends.”

  She peered at me, reading some meaning into what I was saying. “Teddy mentioned you two had issues.”

  I couldn’t help but grimace. “Yeah… at times.”

  “That wasn’t always true, though?”

  “No. We were best friends, and we were close, once upon a time.”

  “So… what happened?” She pressed me.

  I took a deep breath and fiddled with my three-piece suit, trying to settle my nerves. “Daltrey and me, we both hated our dad. Hated him. In our youth, we were both romantic young men, in awe of our mother, a theatre critic. She wore the most dazzling outfits and seemed to live the most glamorous life. We got to go with her often, to see plays, mingle. Meanwhile he drank and we suffered his moods, suffered him staying out all night, coming back home stinking of pussy and booze. Mum just… stayed with him, like they were friends I suppose. We made a pact to never be like him. We stuck together through thick and thin, through it all. Daltrey was clever, got into King’s College and everything, while I enrolled at Oxford, all set to ride the road to becoming a barrister, but… like I said, something about being shackled didn’t do it for me. I couldn’t concentrate on studying. It seemed like there was only one path for me… to take Barlow’s money and run. Daltrey thought he could save me from what I am, but I’m my father’s son and that’s that.”

  “Oh my god,” she whispered, “you’re so much more than that, Dante.”

  “Maybe,” I agreed, catching Sexton’s inquisitive eyes in the rear-view mirror. I already knew my driver disapproved of my job, my lifestyle, and now he hoped Ciara had helped me turn a corner… but I didn’t know if there was even a corner for me to turn. Something inside me held up a constant wall around all possibilities of bettering myself. “I grew up knowing the money wouldn’t go to Daltrey but would come to me. I later realised he turned it down because of Pernox. I suppose knowing I had that fallback made it easy for me to slack off.”

  “You could still be a barrister. It’s never too late.”

  “I’m not a lawman, Ciara. Never have been.”

  “Exactly. It what makes you the perfect man for the job.”

  The brakes hissed as Sexton pulled to a halt outside the entrance to Wembley Stadium. He spoke with a parking attendant and was given an executive parking space to head for.

  Sliding smoothly into the spot, Sexton turned to look at me specifically. “Will you be careful?”

  “We’ll be frisked like everyone else, Sexton,” I warned him, and I stepped out of the car, appraising Ciara when she stepped out and into my hold.

  “You don’t have to wait, you know,” I said, dipping my head down into the car.

  “Oh, I’ll be fine,” Sexton said, “I can listen to it all on the radio.”

  He’d packed himself a picnic too, by the looks of it.

  “Seriously, you don’t need to impress me, but I’m liking the get-up anyway.” Ciara giggled, biting her lip as she walked alongside me across the car park.

  “I’m a gentleman and only a vagabond attends an executive dinner in less than this.”

  She chuckled. “Okay, Dante.”

  “You don’t look so bad yourself, a veritable seductress.”

  She wore a pair of white, striped culottes with some ridiculous heels and a beautiful floating blouse buttoned at the throat, with lace embellishments. Anyone could tell she’d been influenced by our time in Paris. Her hair pinned to one side, I loved being able to see her choice of earrings, some diamond studs I presented to her one morning.

  “Ciara, you remember everything I told you?”

  “Yes, dear,” she said.

  “Okay, I’m just a little nervous,” I admitted as we approached the way in.

  “If nothing else, let’s enjoy the ridiculously expensive meal included with this ticket… and the game. All that testosterone flying around… who knows what craziness I may be tempted into later on?”

  Pinching her bum quickly before we got inside, I snickered, “We’re meant to be playing detective.”

  “Who says people can’t have fun at the same time?”

  This was what made me love her; it was impossible to chip into her proverbial positive outlook. She winked and I handed over our passes at the door, wrapping my arm around her shoulder as we huddled in an elevator upwards with a few familiar faces…

  AFTER the game it was our chance to finally gain an audience with Roman Sinclair in one of the executive bars reserved for press and business delegates. I’d had to hand over more than a few grand to borrow a pal’s press pass for all of this. However getting to Sinclair was proving difficult because yet again, he’d been crowned man of the match and was required for photos and handshakes and presentations… the boring part of the executive perks.

  Ciara seemed to have so far enjoyed the hospitality package, joking along with WAGs at the dinner table prior to the game, then as we sat in comfy chairs near the director’s box, she got passionate alongside all the other wives and girlfriends screaming at their partners to kick it. That part of the sporting world was no different: female partners always screamed for their men to fight! Grrr…. it was quite fun. Especially since Ciara could shout loudest and was cheering on Roman, who occasionally looked up into the crowd and spotted us, nodding with recognition.

  We hung on to the bitter end of the post-match nonsense and when Cornish was finally left alone by the marketing machine, a couple of his team mates gathered round him and I whispered to Ciara, “Now’s your chance.”

  “Okay, sweetie.”

  I watched her cross the floor and remembered just how much this little evening out had cost us… all just to get a minute or two with Cornish (without it seeming suspicious). I hoped Ciara knew what she was doing. At least I knew her fine ass would be of no appeal to Cornish…

  ***

  Ciara

  “GOD, god, god, god…” I whispered to myself as I approached Cornish and two players who were easily known in at least twenty different countries.

  “Roman,” I called as I neared and a slight uncertainty sparked in his eyes when he saw me.

  We air kissed and he held my lower back as he introduced me to his friends. “Ah, didn’t recognise you with the new hair. You know Ma
tt Bolton and Ciaran Gates?”

  “Who doesn’t?” I gasped and both of them leaned down to take each of my hands and kiss them.

  “Wow, Roman… we need to know your haunts, my friend,” Matt said, appraising me.

  “I’d love a moment alone with the delectable Roman here,” I whispered, striking a pose with just one eyebrow.

  “I reckon he deserves a break seeing as though he saved our asses tonight,” Ciaran added, and the players left us alone.

  Knowing we might have little time until the next people tried to get a piece of him, I whispered quickly, “That mutual friend of Dante’s… have they been in touch?”

  He looked nervous. “What’s your name again?”

  “Cleo,” I told him.

  “Cleo, you shouldn’t approach me about this here.”

  “It’s the only safe place to ask darling.”

  “Well then, yeah, they have been in touch.”

  “In person?”

  “No, the same way as always. Unique private messaging system, completely untraceable. A few players I know have joined since I did. We all have different apps to correspond with the… you know?”

  “Okay. So you’ve never met him or her?”

  “No,” he said, swallowing hard.

  I pretended to flirt with him, flicking imaginary lint off his shoulder. “Look, Roman. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m your friend, okay?”

  “Okay…” He seemed ready to hear what else I had to say.

  “Dante and I think the fixer has been compromised.”

  “Fuck,” he breathed.

  “I just want to ask… is there some way you get the money to him or her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Why should I?”

  “I don’t know. Because you want to help out a friend?”

  “At least you didn’t reach for the blackmail card,” he said, eyeing me closely.

  “Why would I?” I stroked his arm, reassuring him.

  “There was something… last week, the method of payment changed. Before, I was asked to make a direct deposit. Now I’ve been told there’s a PO Box I send cash to, special delivery.”

  “If that’s not a sign…”

  “I can give you the details, just tell me your email address.”

  “No,” I whispered, “you could be hacked. Any suspicious emails will be monitored, believe me. I know how the fixer works.” I knew how Dante worked, therefore I also knew how the person who’d stolen his business would have to work, too. Under a smokescreen of complete anonymity.

  “What do I do then? Can I trust them?”

  “For now, you’ll have to continue as you have been doing.”

  “But what if–”

  “Continue as you have been. Your secret remains a secret, yes?”

  “I guess.”

  “Then that’s all that matters to you. Now, if you want to help us, come to this postcode, tomorrow night.” I opened my palm and he looked down at the numbers and letters I’d written in pen on my own hand in the bathroom earlier. “Have you got it memorised? Tell me you have.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said blinking, “lucky for you I have a photographic memory.”

  “Arrive at the postcode at eight in the evening. Come in a fast car. Come alone. Come without your phone. Dante will send a device by special delivery tomorrow, to your home address. Use it to scan your chosen vehicle for tracking devices. They’d most likely put one in your sun visor or beneath your chair… or in the upholstery somewhere.”

  “This is nonsense.”

  “Check the car, check it very carefully,” I said, and began stepping away from him. Raising my voice so other people would hear, I told him, “Lovely to see you, hot stuff!”

  I walked backwards, back to my lover, ready to leave right away.

  I looked over my shoulder as we left the room and though Roman was now surrounded by a flock of fans and fellow players, he wore a distracted look. Whether he’d come or not tomorrow, we had no idea.

  ***

  “WHERE is he? Where is he?” I asked, impatient as we waited on the gravel driveway for Roman to show up. Shay had left more than half an hour ago to collect him.

  “There might be a legitimate reason he’s running late,” Dante suggested.

  “Do you have her number?”

  “No. Living here, she doesn’t risk having a mobile. Just a landline.”

  “Ha! In these times, a landline has become safer, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  Both our heads snapped up to look at the gates when Shay’s car pulled in, followed closely by a classic 1960s Ferrari, if I had to guess…

  “Nice wheels,” Dante exclaimed, cocky, like he’d never imagined for a moment Roman wouldn’t show.

  Roman drove conservatively, determined not to scratch his car. I realised with hilarity that this driveway was no doubt a creation of Dante’s to put people off screeching away from this place. Not that anyone could ever screech away. The gates at the bottom of the driveway were shouldered either side by fifteen-foot high hedges and beyond those, a brick wall with tiny spikes in the tops if anyone were to try jumping the walls. The whole building was surrounded and it made me think about that black outfit he’d climbed through the window in. I’d confused it with a diving suit… but I was starting to think it was something else.

  Somehow I knew there was a reason my lover was so tightly compact, so fit. Why had he arrived that night in such a dramatic fashion, but now stood outside the grounds of Pernox in broad daylight, evidently at risk of sniper fire or something of that ilk – not a care in the world.

  Striding to us, bypassing Shay entirely, Roman stomped over and furiously demanded, “What the fuck, Dante? What the fuck?”

  “I take it you found tracking devices.”

  “Yes I fucking did.”

  “Let’s go inside,” my lover suggested, “and I’m sure if you hand over your keys to Shay, she will carefully deposit your vehicle in a garage round the back.”

  IN the house, we sat in the breakfast room at one of the many tables. Earlier that day I’d asked Dante how he knew Roman outside of fixing. He said Roman’s older brother Kaleb went to private school with Daltrey. Kaleb and Daltrey were almost as close as Daltrey and Dante. When I asked which school Dante had attended, he said, “There were several. I ended up at a comprehensive eventually, much better. More people like me to fall in with. I still achieved ten A grades.”

  “What is this place, a spa?” Roman demanded, looking around.

  I poured us all some tea. “I affectionately term it the Pussy Palace.”

  “What?” he barked, still not calm.

  “I met Dante when I was a dominatrix… of sorts,” I began explaining, “and this is a house for dommes to recuperate their days away inside… after administering to the clowns of society and feeding their carnal desires all night.”

  “Sounds gross.”

  “It really is,” I chuckled, eyeing Dante knowingly.

  My fiancé growlingly ignored my insinuation.

  “I’m the fixer,” Dante said, cutting to the chase, “or I was. Until my business was robbed from me, my team murdered, my accounts stolen… you get the picture.”

  “Pardon me?” Roman looked on the cusp of bursting a blood vessel.

  “It’s true,” I said, firm in my manner.

  “Now… your vehicle. How many tracking devices?” Dante pressed on, ignoring Roman’s surprise.

  Roman nodded briefly. “One under my chair, one under the upholstery in the boot, too.”

  “Pretty standard. Not someone who fears getting caught,” Dante mused, “otherwise they might have tried popping out one of your veneers, or maybe a dashboard light or something.”

  “I scanned the whole car, there were only two,” he assured us, “now, why is someone tracking me?”

  “Easy question. Hard answer,” Dante replied.

  “What does that mean?” Roman exclaim
ed. “I’d rather have all the gory facts, you know?”

  “I needed to find out who’d swindled me, so I asked a friend if he knew anything. He said he knew nothing except… he suggested I consider my most important clients and I immediately thought of you, seeing as though you’re the richest and most famous, too.”

  Roman looked afraid, his eyes moving from mine to Dante’s, all our cups of tea so far untouched. “I don’t get it.”

  “It was a hint.” Dante looked sinister, his eyes zeroing in on Roman’s.

  “A hint?”

  “In my line of work, you come to learn that nothing out of the ordinary ever happens without a prompt. No result off the charts happens without intervention. After this friend put you in my head, I looked back and got to thinking… too many coincidences. Too much going on and all involving you. My love here, Cleo… let’s say someone put it in her head that you were rich and all powerful and her escape route from a despot she used to be enslaved by. Let’s say the despot never knew that the idea had been specifically planted in her head… by someone with a plan.”

  I looked at Roman, feeling confused. “He’s lost me, too. Don’t worry about it.”

  “What exactly are you saying?” asked Roman, his finger jabbing the table.

  “I’m not sure yet, but it all has something to do with you.” Dante sat back from the table, as cool as a cucumber. “And by the way, the bugs in your car are most certainly the work of a law enforcement agency. No outlaw carries out a job in such an infinitesimally puerile manner. I’d have taken your wheel off, buried the thing in a hollow nut, bolt or pipe or something.”

  Roman clutched his thick mop of brown hair and complained, “The law, seriously?”

  “What have you got yourself involved in? Come on, tell us,” Dante asked, playing Devil’s Advocate.

  “Absolutely nothing dodgy. Only… the person I thought was you asked for a lot more money. I guess it could look suspicious, me withdrawing a load of money.”

  “How much are we talking?”

  He looked around, making sure nobody was looking or listening. “They messaged me a day or so ago, asking for a ’mil. Something about extra expenses. I’ve had to withdraw from a few different bank accounts… in cash. I haven’t got the total amount yet, but when I do, they said for me to post it to a PO Box in one of those cardboard mail boxes. Special delivery.”