Gangster In A Suit. (Book 1)

Chapter 2

I strut down the stairs in a black and white suit with a solid cape blazer and tailored pants. Content with just having fruit for now and going out to grab lunch with Calum later. A divine smile derails me from my course, taking a detour into the kitchen, allured by the scent of fried eggs and sizzling bacon.

"You want or are you off?"

"Well... since you're offering."

I plop down on the padded stool behind the island counter, dumping my bag on the chair next to me and dropping my car keys on the slab of Kashmir-gold granite.

"So," mom begins suggestively. Her back to me, flipping links of chicken sausage. "You got that karate class today?"

I free an annoyed sigh. "Taekwondo," I correct. "Completely different form of martial art."

She waves me off flippantly. "You started with karate thing when your fath—" she lapses into a moment of pained silence. "Sometimes hard to keep up with the next karate kid."

Shortly, she turns around with a classic English breakfast in hand. She lays down the fresh plate before me and pulls out the top draw, handing me a knife and fork with a quizzical expression on her face, like she's just burning to ask me something.

"What?"

I take a bite, eyes narrowing at her curiously. She shrugs exaggeratedly.

"Is Calum fetching you?"

"Nah, I'm going solo. He has something to take care of before he clocks in."

She bops her head.

"Why?"

She sighs explosively, liberating what she's been holding in. "I don't understand you two. Friends since you were midgets, dance partners and school buddies. Now colleagues. You two have been inseparable. Not to mention, the boy is fine. He's employed, and he makes you happy. And most importantly, I like him. He's already like a son to me. Ya might as well slap the in-law title to make it official."

I place the fork down, steepling my fingers over the plate. "Are you done?"

She lifts a halting finger. "You are never gonna find a man that's going to treat you right and understand you like he does. He knows all the parts of you and loves each of them. I've never known two people more suited for each other."

Frustration nips at my composure. I inhale a calming breath. "It's just—"

"Complicated?" she interjects with a disdainful tone.

"No," I say sharply. "That's just it. From day one, we have always known what we are to each other and what we will always be. This isn't some fantasy romance story about falling in love with my best friend. Him and I have never had that issue... he knows and I know that what we have is forever. Not all soul mates are lovers."

To my surprise, the retort struck my mother, of all people, silent. So I am free to finish my breakfast in peace. After, I scoop up my bag and keys, heading out the door. I unlock the door, climbing into my Mercedes Benz C class parked in the driveway, and I leave the suburbs to make my way to the city.

When I reach the sterling silver building, the headquarters of Trans-Media Global. And I claim my spot at the underground parking. In due course, I take the elevator up to the pristine atrium. I journey through, trading nods with acquaintances, the gleaming white expanse teeming with sophisticatedly dressed people. I greet the on-duty guard, and I make my way up the glass lift on the second tier of the multi-storey building.

On approach, I make the usual small-talk with Jen, the receptionist. The automatic 'how are you' even if they don't care and the 'I'm good' even though you're not.

The vast office space is utilitarian, efficient, and rigid. With aluminium features, adopting rectilinear grids and open layouts, modern designs with super sleek curves for a contemporary workplace.

"Hadassah."

Jessica sidles my flank and hands me my daily Cinnamon Dolce Latte. She's sort of the errand girl of the department. Chirpy, high-energy and just the sweetest human being.

"So I guess you're running point on the story?"

"What story?"

She looks back at me with fish eyes. "You haven't heard...."

My eyes draw to the large monitor in the primary area, broadcasting breaking news. Surrounded by other colleagues as they begin to drain away, the news report ending as they go to occupy their vacated workspaces.

"Lionel Collins, he—"

"Sits on the board of executive directors of Zenith."

She nods, smiling good-naturedly. "Right. He was killed, a GSW to the head, found dead in Gaza's territory with over a quarter key of dope in his luxury vehicle. The media is quaking with the news that Zenith's third in command has gone rogue."

None of those pieces fit, my mind chides.

"Found dead where a known drug lord hangs his hat," I repeat, ruminating on the discovery. "They think Gaza did the killing and left the body to be found?" I shake my head slowly. "There's a reason why he's untouchable, regardless of his underworld connections. He's meticulous... this killing already sounds careless."

Invigorated by a sudden thrill, I take a sip of the latte—flooding me with a warmth delight before I hold the cup to her chest and she takes it. I stride over to the head office, straightening the lapel of my blazer. Rachel, my boss's secretary, snaps her fingers at me incessantly.

"No, you can't go in there." Her voice a constant shrill. "He's in the middle of a call."

I pause, placing a worried hand on my chest. "Oh my gosh, really?"

"Yes," she says tiredly. "He doesn't want anyone disturbing him."

I quirk my brows. "Good thing I'm not just anyone."

I open both doors dramatically, entering with a grin. Closing them behind me with a soft click, I waltz inside. His office is bathed in sunlight with a warm palette of natural hard-wearing materials – terrazzo, patinated brass, bronze, oak timber and leather surfaces that complement its elegant proportions with modern and minimal details.

James sits behind his furnished desk, his personal iPhone to his ear, grumbling a litany of complaints. He looks at me up and down, clearly resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Grey brows collide, his volume ascending with his fury. After spewing a few curses, he ends the call and sets his beefy hands on the desk with a long exhale.

"I assume you know why I'm here."

"You're my point man, what else?" he says with wry undertones.

A smile tugs at my lips. It took a long time and hard work to merit his faith in me.

I pace thoughtfully before his desk. "So I hear that one of Zenith's lieutenants is dead, and he was caught red-handed—no pun intended—in Gaza's territory with drugs in his car?" I stop to face him with a morbidly humoured expression. "Even if he was dealing, and dealing with Gaza, no less. He would never shoot him on site and just leave the body, knowing it'll just trace back to him."

"You smell foul play?"

"Give me a chance to find out?"

He nods and glances at his iMac. "Done. Zenith has already organised a press conference to mitigate damage and repair their little PR scandal."

I blare out a groan. "You know those yield nothing."

"Yes, which is why Zenith's CEO has consented to a private interview with one of the biggest international news network. And I'm only enlisting the best investigator I know. My point man to run point."

My hand finds my mouth. "You mean—"

"You're going to meet the illustrious Orian Moon."