Page 85 of Damon
Moreno’s restaurant is situated in the center of Canary Wharf, only a few minutes walk from the law office. As the car pulls up in front of the building, it is clear that no expense has been spared on its creation. The full frontage is floor-to-ceiling glass, and above is a silver sign in swirled writing with the name Moreno bold and clear. A red carpet leads to wide glass sliding doors with a doorman on either side of them, admitting attendees.
Emma squeezes my hand as our driver steps out and opens her door. I get out myself then go around to her side, taking her hand as soon as she rises from the car. My friends arrive immediately after us in matching vehicles. Harrison, Russell, and Connor exit the first limo, while Hunter and Greyson step out of the final one. Everyone is a carbon copy of the other with black suits, white shirts, and black bowties. They all walk over to join us.
“Are you ready?” I whisper to Emma as they approach. She nods, but the nervous look on her face tells me she’s terrified. “We’re all here, nothing will happen. We just want our presence to be known to make them uncomfortable so hopefully they’ll slip up.”
“You being here will do that,” Russell interjects; obviously he was listening in on our conversation. “Moreno will be unsettled by your presence, Emma. Thank you for coming, for being here…for Connie.” I bristle at him using my late wife’s name. In recent months, we’ve moved past the issues between us, but it pisses me off when he acts like she was his.
“Okay,” Emma murmurs, then holds my hand a little tighter.
“I don’t know about anyone else, but I need a drink,” Hunter announces. “I hate these fucking things.” He pulls at his bowtie. “And look at him.” He signals to an uncomfortable-looking Greyson. “He looks like he’s wearing his father’s suit. Don’t think that ape’s ever worn a suit before, never mind a tux.”
“Fuck off,” Greyson responds then punches Hunter’s arm. “You’re not exactly Prince Charming yourself, asshole. Come on, let’s get this over with.” The two men head in the direction of the doors side by side; the doorman allows them entry, no questions asked.
The rest of us follow. I lift the invite, which is nestled in my breast pocket, and they wave us in. Emma walks beside me, matching my steps on the red carpet. When we enter the restaurant, I am blown away by how luxurious it is. There are hundreds of people milling around with glasses of champagne, dressed in evening gowns and dinner suits. Waiters navigate passage through the crowds with trays filled with intricate canapes.
“Wow,” Emma says, and Harrison steps up beside us.
“It’s really something, isn’t it?” he suggests. Emma nods, but her head is snapping from side to side, attempting to take everything in. “I’ve been taking a walk past here every day for the last few months. It’s crazy what’s been spent on the place.”
Russell and Connor move away and begin to mingle with those around them—no doubt they know plenty of people here. Insanely rich people tend to socialize with those who own similar-sized wallets.
“Look at her,” Emma says, pointing toward a stage set up at the back of the restaurant, behind the tables set with perfect white linen and highly polished silverware. A woman stands in the center wearing an evening gown; it skims her figure but cuts low at her breasts, exposing lashings of flesh. She sings into a microphone on a stand, and the sound of classical music plays in the background. “She’s amazing.”
“Yes, she’s very good,” I agree. “Do you want to go over and watch?” Emma nods, and I begin to guide her toward the stage. Harrison makes his excuses and leaves, no doubt to do some networking of his own.
When we reach the front, I pluck two glasses of champagne from the next passing tray and hand one to her. She drinks down deep. “Steady, I don’t want to be carrying you home. I have plans for us later.”
“Tell me once more what we hope to accomplish by drinking champagne and listening to beautiful music,” she asks, turning wide, bright questioning eyes on me.
“You know why; to cause some discomfort. Hopefully push them to make a mistake. If they think we’re closer to taking them down, they may change course or rush something.”
“And who is we? And who are they, Chief Constable McKinney?” a gruff, recognizable voice says from behind my shoulder. My stomach sinks, knowing I will have difficulty explaining my presence here. After taking a deep breath, I turn and look directly at my boss, the commissioner.
“Good evening, sir,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “It’s nice to see you out, although it’s unusual to see you at engagements such as this.”
“I’m here representing Her Majesty’s Police Officers,” he replies bluntly. “I’m more interested in the company you are keeping, Chief Constable.” He narrows his eyes, willing me to give up some information. Emma stands to my side silently.
“Please, let me introduce, my…” I trail off, considering what to say and signal to my companion. “Commissioner, I am delighted to introduce you to Emma Becker, my guest for this evening.” My gaze flits to Emma; her mouth has thinned and there is a painful expression in her eyes. She doesn’t look at me but keeps her focus on my boss.
“Lovely to meet you, Emma,” he says, offering her a hand. After some polite small talk, he leaves but not before telling me to be in his office in the morning.
“McKinney, my office, six a.m. I want to know why you are appearing in public with Hunter Devane and his associates. I think we have a lot to discuss.”
“Fuck,” I mutter as he walks away. This pushes my timeline forward; I’ll need to make a decision sooner rather than later on my career. This can’t continue. My relationships with men known to not abide fully by the law are too open and public. I can only dodge bullets for so long before being hit.
“Guest,” Emma says sadly as my attention returns to her. I swallow, and she drops her eyes from mine. “I thought we were partners.”
“We are,” I contend under my breath. “That was my boss. I don’t want to discuss my personal relationships with him and certainly not here.”
Brenton and Moreno are still nowhere to be seen. My friends circulate the room, buying drinks and making conversation. Emma stands by my side for the next hour as I move from person to person but says very little.
Just then, Roger Brenton and Samson Moreno walk onto the stage together. Brenton taps the microphone—it echoes around the room, and everyone’s attention focuses to him. My friends appear from the shadows, surrounding us.
“Well, if we wanted proof they were connected,” Connor says. “They’ve certainly provided it tonight, standing up there.”
“True,” Russell agrees. “Shall we cause a little chaos?” Before any of us can stop him, he strolls over to a brunette woman, around fifty, sitting at the bar. She is dressed in a skin-tight, red sequined dress and sips lazily at a champagne flute. Dark bobbed hair sits perfectly as she turns in Russell’s direction. Her red lips widen as he speaks to her, and she places her hand on his arm.
“Who is that?” Greyson asks.