Witness

17. Kaiden

I tower over her. 

The angle is awkward. I cast a shadow over her, try not to look down her shirt, and drip sarcasm. Her fury doubles in size every time I open my mouth but I can't help myself. 

"Then you're as stupid as you look, princess," the nickname slips out and I revel in how much she hates it. "Because if you think for one fucking second that he's going to leave you alone after what you've seen, then you're a fucking moron."

Chelsea's mouth drops open as if detached from her body. 

A sliver of guilt crawls up my chest. But it's true; I meant every word that I said, but I probably shouldn't have actually said them.

Damien Mierro is never going to fully let go of the leash. He doesn't. Everyone who's ever worked for him is still under his thumb, carefully watched, kept on the pay roll (I would know, I've spent hours searching through those staff pay slips at the bar.) 

Her voice is smaller. "I'm not a moron." 

Those quiet words make me feel like the biggest asshole on the planet. Her eyes are big and watery, frown so evident it hurts my chest a little. 

"I'm sorry," I sigh. "You're not, I know." 

The cold air of my open plan living room runs between us. 

She's in my house. My actual house, not even one that I've rented for a few hours just to save face. (I've done that before for clients, multiple times. Makes it feel human without encroaching on personal space and security.) 

But I didn't even think twice about it. She pissed me off so much that I didn't want to pay for her stupid fucking expensive dinner anymore, and the best place I could bring her was here instead. 

I can see the cogs turning in her head. She's wondering how much I really know. 

"The Swan Hotel that Friday night, right?" I ask. "You remember. Tony was there. Damien was there. James Hartley-" 

"Stop." 

Her lip wobbles. 

"You visited him in the hospital afterwards because you felt guilty, didn't you?" 

I've never heard my voice so soft.

It hadn't occurred to me until now. Damien didn't send her. She sent herself, to see him alive and breathing, to ease some of her own guilt at being there when all of this happened to him. 

As if I need confirmation, she nods slightly. 

"You're going to have to trust me," I urge.

"I don't," she says. "Not at all. To me, you're just like them." 

"The Mierros?" I choke around their name. 

The comparison makes me sick. I am nothing like Damien and Tony Mierro - they're drug dealers, killers without remorse, absolute fucking psychopaths. I like to think I have a conscience. A small one, but there nonetheless. 

"You started showing up when they did, you constantly try to dominate our conversations, you're impossible to predict - you don't scare me like Damien does, I'll give you that." 

If she knew the full extent of my research into her a few weeks ago, she wouldn't be entirely fearless. Nobody likes to be put under the microscope.  

"And you're quiet and calculating, just like he is." 

I outwardly grimace. 

"I don't hire children to push drugs," I answer, my voice unusually heavier. Sharing similar traits with the supposed King of backstreet London makes me want to rip out his throat, closely followed with my own.