Since his father’s death, he’d mostly been able to ignore it. Push it away and find another way to do business. If Sera’s safety was at risk, he’d dismantle Whitechapel—all of London—to its very foundations. All to keep her protected. He’d cosseted and harbored her all her life from a distance. That such safety would fall apart when he’d finally decided to bring her fully into his fold was unacceptable. The room was small. Stripped of anything but the very necessities, it all but warned of the risks in trading with him. The man sitting in the single chair in the middle of the bare floor seemed to understand as much. He hunched in on himself. His hands were clasped at his knees and his spine bowed. The rough-spun pants of a sailor clung damply to his legs, and the faint red remains of a flogging peeked above the wide neckline of his simple shirt. He hadn’t been on land long enough to get his sense back and he’d already run afoul of Fletcher’s organization.
