Chapter 33: "Sam’s Play" Julian POV
I’m out of the flat, jacket pulled tight against the cold, my boots splashing through puddles as I walk fast down the street. Marcus’s confession—the voucher being Victor’s hush money, not some bonus—burns in my chest, and I can’t stay there, can’t look at him. “You lied to me, you git,” I’d said, and I meant it—every word—because three weeks ago he kissed me, made me feel safe, and now it’s all crumbling. My legs ache from the ambush, bruises throbbing, but I keep going, needing space, needing someone who won’t twist me up. Sam’s place is where I land—tiny, cramped, a mate who’s solid when everything else isn’t.
I bang on his door, loud, and he opens it quick—skinny, messy hair, eyes wide behind his glasses. “Jules? You look rough,” he says, stepping aside, and I stumble in, dropping my jacket on his sagging sofa. The flat’s a mess—empty energy drink cans, a laptop glowing on a card table—but it’s warm, safe, and I’m grateful. “I need your help, Sam,” I say, voice shaky, and he shuts the door, frowning. “Marcus again?” he asks, but I don’t answer—just sit, head in my hands, trying to breathe. Claire’s out there, close, and Marcus—he’s a liar, and I’m lost.
“Claire set us up,” I start, looking up. “That ambush last night—her text to Marcus, right before. I need to know what she’s doing.” Sam’s nervous, shifting on his feet, but he nods, slow. “What kind of help?” he says, and I point at his laptop. “Hack The Mirage’s staff logs. Please. I’ve got to see her moves—where she’s been, when.” He rubs his neck, uneasy—Sam’s a slot tech, not a mastermind—but he’s good with tech, cracked systems before when he was gambling bad. “That’s risky, mate,” he says, quiet, “but for you—yeah, I’m in.”
He sits, pulls the laptop close, and starts typing—fingers fast, screen flashing codes I don’t get. I’m next to him, leaning in, my heart pounding as I watch. “She’s been off since the frame-up,” I say, thinking out loud, “but she’s still pulling strings—Victor too, maybe.” Sam nods, focused, and I’m glad he’s here—glad he’s not Marcus, with his secrets and guilt. The flat’s quiet, just the hum of the laptop and the clack of keys, and I’m trying to calm down—trying to figure out how it went so wrong so fast.
The screen shifts, a staff log popping up—names, times, dates—and Sam scrolls, slow. “Here,” he says, pointing. “Claire Delaney—clocked out yesterday, 11 p.m., right before that tip email hit your phone.” My stomach twists, and I lean closer, reading it—11:03 p.m., out, no clock-in since. “She wasn’t working when those blokes came for us,” I mutter, voice low. “She planned it—left early, sent the email, set the trap.” Sam looks at me, worried. “She’s got it in for you, Jules—and Marcus,” he says, and I nod, feeling the weight—her grudge, that $5,000 she wanted for Ethan, turned into this.
I stand, pacing his tiny living room, my boots scuffing the worn carpet. “Marcus knew,” I say, louder than I mean to, and Sam turns, watching me. “That voucher—he gave it to me, said it was rent money, but it was Victor’s dirty cash. Chose me over her brother, and now she’s coming for us.” My hands ball up, and I’m angry—angry at Marcus, at myself for trusting him. “He’s a bloody liar, Sam,” I say, voice breaking, and I stop, leaning on the wall, chest tight. Three weeks ago, he was my world—now he’s a shadow, and I hate it.
Sam’s quiet for a bit, then he spins his chair, facing me. “He’s still your guy, mate,” he says, soft but firm. “I’ve seen how he looks at you—pulled me out of my own mess once, too. He’s not perfect, but he’s not chucking you away.” I look at him, his goofy grin trying to lift me, and I want to believe it—want to think Marcus still cares—but it stings too much. “He lied,” I say, stubborn, “and I’m the one running from bullets because of it.” Sam shrugs, turning back to the screen. “Maybe. But you’re here, not out there alone.”
I sit again, heavy, watching him work—digging deeper, pulling logs, chasing Claire’s trail. My head’s a mess—Marcus’s voice, “I chose you,” playing over and over, and I’m wondering—was it worth it? Worth this? Sam’s good, steady, and I’m glad—glad he’s got my back when Marcus doesn’t. “Anything else?” I ask, voice rough, and he nods, scrolling. “She’s been off a lot—sick days, weird hours. Victor’s in there too, clocking late, like he’s covering something.” My gut twists—Victor, Claire, tied up in this, and I’m stuck in the middle.
The flat’s warm, but I’m cold—shivering from the night, from the doubt eating me. “She’s close,” I mutter, thinking of that shadow outside the flat, “and Marcus—he’s why.” Sam looks at me, serious. “We’ll figure it, Jules. I’ve got you.” His words are small, but they help—help me breathe, help me think. I’m mad at Marcus, hurt deep, but Sam’s right—he’s still my guy, somewhere under the lies, and I hate how much I miss him already.
Then it happens—Sam’s screen pings, loud, and I jump, leaning in fast. “What’s that?” I say, and he clicks, quick—a live feed pops up, grainy, dark. It’s The Mirage’s backroom, behind the slots—Victor’s there, big and gruff, pacing, talking to someone. My heart’s racing, and I squint—can’t see the other bloke, just a shadow, tall, moving slow. “Bloody hell,” I whisper, voice tight, and Sam’s froze, staring too. “That’s now—live,” he says, quiet, and my skin’s crawling—Victor, right now, meeting someone shadowy, and we’re watching it happen.