Consent (The Loan Shark Duet 2)

Silence.

My body is heavy. I’m slow in turning and heading back to the office. My fingers hesitate on the knob of the open door. I can’t breathe. It feels like I’m ten years old, under water in the swimming hole, counting to sixty. The weight of the door moves in my hand. I don’t want to push it open wider, but I don’t have a choice. Just like when I was twelve, Magda took my choice away when she pulled that trigger. The door swings open all the way, a crack of light falling over my shoes. I know what awaits, but the sight shakes me. Magda is slumped face-down on her desk, blood everywhere. In her hand, she clutches the gun with the ivory shaft, the same gun she used to shoot motivation into me.

Her unmoving body looks unreal. She’s too strong to be splayed out like this. Too proud. Too much of a fighter. This must’ve been the end of the fight for her. It sure as hell is for me. My chest deflates and rises. Air fills my lungs, one painful drag after another, while her words tumble around in my skull.

This is what it comes to.

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I dial a friend, Captain Barnard at the Brixton police station, and explain what happened, minus the back history surrounding my father. Minutes later, detectives swamp the office.

Barnard gives Scott, who is coming to, a sidelong glance. “What happened to him?”

“I restrained him for questioning.”

He writes something on a notepad and regards me from under his brows. “You and Magda had a fight?”

“A disagreement.”

“What about, if I may ask?”

“A family matter that concerns my wife.”

“I see.” He continues to scribble. “Did you kill her?”

“No.”

“It’s suicide then?”

“Yes.”

“Ah ha.”

“May I go? My wife just had a baby.”

“I’ll let you know if you need to come in for further questioning.”

Barnard’s tone borders on boredom. He wasn’t a friend of Magda, which is why I called him. He resented the criminality her loan shark business brought to an already crime-ridden Brixton.

Fighting claustrophobia, I rush outside and stop in the sunlight. What do I feel? Guilt? Relief? Sorrow? Pity? Magda and I were never close, but she was my mother. Good or bad, family is family, and I alone am left to carry the sins of ours. My life is falling apart, so I do what I’ve always done. I carry on.

The world weighs on my shoulders when I call Rhett to give him and Quincy the news before they see it in the media. Rhett offers to fetch me, but I decline.

“I do have another favor to ask,” I say.

Rhett is a reliable rock, as always. “Shoot.”

With the funeral to take care of, I won’t get around to everything. “Can you and Quincy help with some baby shopping?”

He hesitates for a heartbeat. If it weren’t for the circumstances, the fear in his voice would’ve made me smile. “What kind of shopping?”

“The stuff babies need. You know, a pushchair, car seat, crib, those kinds of things.”

He swallows with an audible gulp. “Uh … I guess.”

“Good man. Take my cheque book.” Rhett has signing power. “It’s in my office.”

“Wait,” he says when I’m about to hang up. “What colors? What models?” His tone rises with a hint of panic. “Where do you buy stuff like that?”

“You’ll figure it out. It’ll make Valentina’s life easier when she comes home.”

Mentioning Valentina seals the deal. There’s no lengths my guards won’t go to for my woman.

With my bodyguards taking care of the shopping, I have time to go home and pack clothes for Valentina and Connor before stopping at a florist and jewelry store. Armed with a pair of diamond earrings, a chocolate bouquet, a humongous flower arrangement, and a giant stuffed crocodile, I drive to the clinic. Diamonds in my pocket, flowers under one arm, crocodile under the other, chocolates gripped in my hand, and an overnight bag swinging from the other, I walk through Valentina’s door.

She’s propped up on the pillows in bed. I stop to take her in. Her long lashes fall over her cheek as she stares at her hands. Chocolate-and-wine-colored curls tumble over her shoulders, partially obscuring the soft curve of her breast under the hospital robe. The bronze glow is back on her cheeks, this morning’s paleness gone. The sight of her makes me weak. I must be turning into a big fucking crybaby, because I’m fighting back tears for the third time since yesterday. Just as I think she’s not going to look at me, her lashes lift, and her brown eyes meet mine. Rivers of sadness flow through their depths, leaving muddy traces I swear I can see all the way to her soul. Reluctant to start the unavoidable subject we need to discuss, I stall for time by placing the crocodile at the foot end of the bed. “For Connor.”