Chapter 225
Felix
The words tasted like ash. Like every failure I'd ever swallowed and pretended didn't matter.
Anthony shifted his weight near the window, his British composure cracking just enough for me to catch the pity in his eyes. I hated that look. Hated it more than Lance's cold dismissal, more than Wesley's feral threats echoing through that goddamn earpiece.
"Mr. Lawson," Anthony said carefully, his accent clipping each syllable with precision. "If you've... made your decision, perhaps I should arrange your flight to Europe. Tonight, if possible."
I looked at him. Really looked at him. Fifteen years we'd been doing this dance—him cleaning up my messes, me pretending I had everything under control. And here we were again, in some shitty safehouse apartment that smelled like mildew and defeat, with a dead girl's blood on my conscience and a nephew sharpening his knives.
"Anthony," I said, and something in my voice made him straighten. "You're the only person I've been able to count on. You know that?"
He bowed his head slightly. Too formal, like always. "I'm honored by your trust, sir. You saved my life once. I won't abandon you now."
Saved his life. Christ, that felt like another lifetime.
I let myself remember it—just for a second. London, fifteen years ago. East End, back when I still thought I could build something outside the family shadow. I'd been walking back to my car after some forgettable meeting when I heard the sounds: wet thuds, muffled grunts, the particular silence that comes before someone stops breathing.
I found Anthony in that alley. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Pinned face-down in the mud while three men took turns kicking his ribs in. One of them had a cigarette, kept pressing the lit end against his temple, his cheekbone, the corner of his eye. The kid was bleeding from everywhere—nose, mouth, split eyebrow—but he wasn't making a sound. Just clutching something against his chest with both hands while they beat him for it.
A pocket watch. Broken. Gold, sure, but the face was shattered, the hands frozen at 3:47.
"That watch is already worthless," I'd said, stepping into the alley. "Is it worth dying for?"
Anthony had turned his head just enough to look at me. Blood and mud caked half his face, but his eyes—God, those eyes were clear. Cold. He spat a mouthful of red into the dirt and said, in this raw, shredded voice: "This isn't about the watch. This is about my life. If I beg today, I'll spend the rest of it on my knees like a fucking dog."
The men had laughed. Called him stupid. Called him dead.
I'd paid them off. Twice what the watch was worth. Told them to walk away or I'd make sure they regretted it in ways money couldn't fix.
Anthony never thanked me. Just stood up, pocketed the broken watch, and asked if I needed a driver.
That was Anthony. Loyal to the point of stupidity. Stubborn to the point of self-destruction.
Just like me.
I stood slowly, feeling every bruise Felix had left me with, every humiliation Wesley had carved into my pride. The earpiece was still on the table, that tinny recording of my nephew's voice promising my death on endless repeat in my head.
I walked over to it. Picked it up. And crushed it under my heel.
The plastic cracked with a satisfying snap. Then another. And another, until it was nothing but fragments scattered across the cheap linoleum.
"Anthony," I said, not looking at him. "I need you to do one last thing for me."
"Of course, sir." His voice was steady, professional. "I'll have the car ready in ten minutes. I can book the flight while we drive—"
"Oh, Anthony." I couldn't help the smile that crept across my face. Bitter, sharp as broken glass. "You still think I'm running?"
He froze mid-step, one hand already reaching for his phone. When he turned back to me, confusion flickered across that usually unreadable face—the first crack I'd seen in years.
"Sir?"
"Fifteen years, Anthony." I walked slowly toward the window, letting each word land. "Fifteen years you've been with me. And you still can't guess what I'm thinking?"
"Mr. Lawson." His tone shifted, went cautious. Careful. "If you're not leaving the city, then where—"
"Where would I go?" I turned to face him fully, spread my hands like I was presenting a magic trick. "Come on. You're smarter than this. Where's the one place in this entire godforsaken city they'd never expect me to show my face?"
I watched him work through it. Watched his eyes narrow, his jaw go tight as the pieces started clicking into place.
"No," he said quietly. Almost a whisper. "You can't possibly mean—"
"Can't I?"
"The Estate." The words came out flat, disbelieving, like he was testing them for reality. "You want me to drive you to Lawson Estate. Where your father still resides. Where Lance might—"
"Where Lance might also be," I finished for him, and God, the smile that spread across my face felt good. Dangerous. "Exactly."
"Mr. Lawson." Anthony took a step forward, and his legendary British composure was finally cracking at the edges, voice rising. "You can't be serious. Wesley controls the street networks. Lance controls the capital. The board. The lawyers. You have no leverage, no resources, no—"
"No options?" I laughed, and it came out sharp and cold as January wind. "You're absolutely right, Anthony. I don't have options."
I let the silence stretch between us. Let it pull taut like a wire about to snap.
Let him hear exactly what I wasn't saying.
"But my father does."