Witness

8. Kaiden

I don't know who she is. 

Seems normal. Too normal to have Damien Mierro breathing down her back; too normal to be involved with either of the brothers. 

This is what I do know about her: Chelsea Jones runs a small team in an office on Fourth, she's paid off four speeding tickets - all late, never studied at University, has a suspiciously perforated childhood and, finally, is incredibly insecure. 

I can tell because in the last thirty minutes she's chewed off seven of her fingernails and has pulled the sleeves of her sweater over her hands twenty-three times. 

Today was as usual. Damien went to the coffee shop at eleven, stopped by the warehouse for an hour and went home for lunch. He then worked out with his trainer for three hours and returned home once more. Routine, unlike last Friday. 

Routine also consists of the house party to finish off the evening, the one currently vibrating the surrounding streets as it overflows into the roads outside of the Mierro household. 

I stand against a car that isn't my own across the street, close enough to a group of people that I could be confused for being part of their group. Not that it would matter; Damien is so far up his own asshole that his security is regularly lax. He thinks he's God, untouchable, unmovable, impenetrable. A scoff falls out of my mouth, the people beside me glancing over before returning to their conversation. 

Damien has Chelsea Jones under his arm, tucked in tight like he's trying to make her disappear. The two of them are stood with Viktor and Bence Varga on the porch that surrounds the front half of the house, Damien leaning against the door, Chelsea leaning into his side. 

It's odd. 

I've been watching Damien for the better part of a month now and I've not seen him touch a woman once. Not even seen him look in the general direction of one. 

He very rarely hires them, much less tries to fuck them. 

And yet there she is, tilting her head to one side to allow him better access to whisper into her ear. 

Damien points to various people, speaking quietly enough to this girl that surely even Vik can't hear stood beside him. I lean in closer to the group I'm trying to blend into, pushing myself up from the car, as his eyes skim past me. My breath tightens. 

Too close. 

Probably not. Damien's stupid. Smart enough to sell drugs, sure, but not smart enough to realise that half of London has grown tired of the man who calls himself King. 

A surge of adrenaline runs through my veins when her eyes skim me too, following his pointed finger to someone far down the street, dancing and pulling off their clothes. I grimace. Damien is thirty three years old but his parties would make someone believe he was in high school. I briefly wonder how he managed to keep this whole operation afloat after his father's murder. 

Her eyes flicker back to me. 

I walk slowly out of her line of vision and finally blend into that group, all of whom look me up and down as if to try and subtly let me know how creepy I am. I take the hood down from my face and smirk at a blonde girl in a corset, my eyes lingering on her chest before dropping down to her long, tanned legs. 

"Hi," she purrs, stepping forward, fingernails digging into my arm. Her friends giggle behind their hands and look away from the two of us. 

My hand twitches. 

"I've never seen you around here before," nameless goes on, clawing at me. Her voice is agitating and the make-up she's wearing is doing nothing to hide the fact that she's spouting two black eyes under all that eyeliner.