Wounded Beast (Gypsy Heroes)

‘Well, I was very sorry,’ he says with a glint in his eyes.

‘It could be deemed a bribe.’

‘Let me tell you how tonight and every night that we spend together is going to go down. We are never discussing my tax situation, or my finances, or any of that shit we talked about last night. You want that kind of information, you’ll have to talk to Nigel. We are just going to eat, talk, fuck and have fun.’

‘Rob and I have an appointment to see your accountant next week,’ I inform him quickly. ‘I’m saying this up front so there’s no misunderstanding about the investigation. We are going ahead with it.’

‘Good,’ he says casually.

‘You don’t sound worried.’

‘That’s probably because I’m not.’

I look at him curiously. ‘Why not? Most people in your shoes would be.’

‘Why should I be? I haven’t done anything wrong, and Nigel will finally get to do what he’s paid a shitload to do.’

‘Look, we won’t ever talk about your tax situation again, but I have to warn you that you really pissed Rob off the other day when you refused to shake his hand. He took it as a personal insult, and I think he’s going for maximum damage.’

A soft look comes into his eyes. ‘Thank you for the warning. It means something to me.’ T

hen he grins. ‘But it’s totally unnecessary. I meant to piss that asshole off. He’s like a little bully on a power trip. In school he would have been one of those boys who joined a gang to terrorize all those smaller and weaker than them.’

It’s startling how you can spend weeks and months with someone and be totally blind to their true personality. In one sentence Dom has described Rob’s entire MO. Something I’d shut my mind to because I truly believed we were doing it for the greater good. But now I’m not so sure anymore.

Are Rob and I bullies? We threaten ordinary, hardworking people who’ve salted away something for their old age, so they don’t have to depend on their children to buy them the necessaries the way my poor parents do, with prison sentences and force them to pay up. When possible, we even go into their bank accounts and help ourselves to their hard-earned money. We do it all because we can. And yet the multinationals, the super rich, the old money families who already have everything tied up in untouchable trust funds, we allow to get away with paying laughable amounts of tax or no tax at all.

Yeah. I guess the hard truth is, we are shameless bullies.

The idea disturbs me greatly, but I don’t share my thoughts with Dom. Instead, I shrug slightly and say, ‘Just ask Nigel to be careful. Rob can be really vindictive.’

‘You know those hotshot accountants the multinationals use?’

My ears prick up. ‘Yeah …’

‘We stole Nigel from them. Let Rob pit himself against Nigel. It’ll be interesting to see if my accountant is actually worth his huge salary.’

I don’t get to answer him because the parking attendant is standing outside the car next to me. To my surprise, he doesn’t berate Dom the way he does other drivers with lesser cars. Instead, he asks in a totally awed voice, ‘How fast can this beauty go?’

‘I never took her over a hundred and fifty mph,’ Dom says.

The man shakes his head admiringly and lets his eyes caress the smooth lines of the car. ‘She’s a beauty, man. I’d exchange my wife for a car like this.’

Dom laughs, kisses the pad of his thumb, and guns the car. The attendant watches us take off with a wistful expression.

‘Where are we going?’ I scream over the noise.

‘My place,’ he says.

We park in an underground car park beneath a posh building in Chelsea and get into a lift smelling of disinfectant. Both of us face the gleaming doors as we’re silently and quickly whisked up to the top floor. His apartment is one of two on the top floor. As soon as he opens the front door, I say, ‘Wow!’ Most of the walls are made of glass and the view is breathtaking.

‘Oh my God! You can see across the river for miles out.’

He chucks his keys onto a metal container shaped like a leaf on the sideboard while I look around in amazement. The way homes in designer magazines look. Spotless, not a scratch or mark anywhere, fabulous furniture, everything color-coordinated with one or two bold splashes here and there, the floors shining with polish, and a bowl of fruit on a statement coffee table.

‘Does anyone actually live here?’

He looks at me strangely. ‘I live here.’