Table Eleven Book 2: Two Can Play
Yazar
Lora Tia
Okur
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Chapter 1
Book 2: Two Can Play
EIRIN
The moment the shackles scraped across the tile, Eirin Klepp knew this wasn’t going to be just another case.
They dragged Richard Weiss into the private visitation room of Edgefield Max, bolted him to the table like a rabid animal, and left without a word. Not even the guards wanted to be in the same room with him.
He looked up slowly, gray eyes pinning her in place like crosshairs.
Eirin’s fingers didn’t so much as twitch, but her pulse spiked anyway—annoyingly human. He didn’t look like a man days away from death. If anything, he looked like he’d spent all five years behind bars working out relentlessly.
She slipped the folder from her briefcase without breaking eye contact. “We can skip introductions,” she said coolly. “Why me?”
Weiss tilted his head. Chains rattled softly. “Because I need out. And you’re the only one who can make that happen.”
That was a loaded response. Did he know about her royal ties? Or was this about her being Vincent’s protégé—the daughter of the man who once ran the Ordridge Irish mob?
She didn’t let the thought linger. Asking meant revealing, and this was still her room. “You’re scheduled for execution, Mr. Weiss,” she replied, flipping the folder open. “Not usually a great time to make demands.”
Weiss smirked. “I’m not most men.”
No, he wasn’t. Even chained, he had that unnerving calm she’d only ever seen behind closed doors in Royal Elite Killers. He looked like someone quietly counting down to something everyone else would be too late to stop.
And that was exactly why she’d taken this case. Sure, it would guarantee her the senior partnership at the firm, but this was about leverage.
Something about Weiss being in here didn’t add up. He was the kind of man the mafia would have marked for death, not just dumped in a maximum-security prison. And if the royals wanted eyes on him, she needed to know why.
Eirin closed the file, resting her forearms lightly on the table. “And yet, here we are.”
Weiss shrugged, as much as the belly chains would allow. “Well, I am human. Prone to the occasional fabricated scheme. I figured I’d take the time off as retirement.”
She didn’t smile. “Start telling me something relevant.”
Weiss leaned forward, steel clinking against steel. “You’ve read the file. You know I didn’t kill her.”
“Is that all you’ve got?” she replied. “Don’t forget they found the body in your car.”
“She was already dead when she got there.”
“Convenient,” she said.
“Someone was cleaning house. And they decided I had to go, just not the usual way.” His voice dropped. “A body in my car is one thing. My death would have been messier, with a series of very unfortunate events linked to it.”
She was surprised at how true that was. The royals had deeper files than any court archive, and this case was always a hot topic.
She and Tamara had spent weeks digging through sealed records, redacted files, and silenced witnesses. The trail was always clean and dead. Even the royals hadn’t cracked who set Weiss up.
But now, looking at him, she was sure of one thing: he knew.
She let the silence drag, then arched a brow. “You don’t seem rattled about being framed for murdering Senator Vinson’s daughter.”
“Men like Hayden are the least of my worries,” Weiss said, eyes glaring.
That made her smile—a small, knowing smile. So she’d been right. Richard Weiss wasn’t looking for freedom. He was looking for reentry into the Ordridge crime world.
And whoever put him here had better start running.
She shifted in her seat, legs uncrossing slowly, eyes never leaving his. “If you really are innocent, then someone went to a lot of trouble to bury you.” She let that sit for a breath. “Don’t you think getting out would just make you a target all over again?”
“I’m impressed,” he said. “They sent someone smart. And dangerous.”
They. Her spine straightened half a degree. Who the hell were they? He’d requested her specifically at the Klepp Law Firm. Was this guesswork or an informed jab?
Either way, she wasn’t going to bite. Acknowledging it gave him ground, and she had no intention of surrendering an inch.
She stood. “We’ll stall the execution for now. But if you want this to work in your favor, start giving me real intel.”
Weiss smiled, and it wasn’t pleasant. “Careful, Ms. Klepp. The deeper you go, the fewer exits there are.”
She met his gaze. “There never were exits. Only illusions.” Eirin turned without another word, her heels clanging against concrete as she walked out of the prison and into the draft of Ordridge air. As the heavy door shut behind her, the corners of her mouth lifted. This was going to be fun.
She pulled out her phone as it buzzed. Unknown number. She let it ring once before answering.
“Already made contact?” Xander’s voice, nippy as always.
“I’m in,” she said simply.
“The elders will be informed.”
The line went dead. There were no goodbyes or small talk. As always.
Eirin exhaled and tucked her hair behind her ear. The mask came back on. She was the Klepp lawyer again, the ice-eyed daughter, the shark circling calmly. The rest stayed exactly where it belonged: compartmentalized and buried.
She was about to call Tammy when—
A hand snatched the phone clean from her grip.
“What the hell—” she snapped, spinning on instinct.
A bald man in a perfectly cut black blazer stared back at her, muttering in a thick Russian accent. She caught pieces of it—her name, something about instructions—but it was hard to hear over the pounding in her chest and that heavy accent.
Behind him, a half dozen more men appeared, like they’d risen from the pavement. Black suits. Blank faces. The type trained to move without questions, and kill without hesitation.
The prison gates clanged shut behind her, and suddenly it was just her, a handful of mercs, and a growing sense of well, shit.
One of them stepped forward and opened the back door to a black Lincoln that rolled up like it had been waiting the whole time. “Ms. Klepp,” Baldy said. “Mr. Kazimir would like a word.”
Her jaw locked as calculations fired in rapid succession through her mind. Exit points, threat analysis, survival odds. All slim. But unless she was about to sprint across asphalt in four-inch stilettos, she was fresh out of options.
Then again, she didn’t need to run.
Mr. Kazimir wanted her brought in, not killed, and that meant leverage. She drew in a slow, controlled breath, folding her arms with a small, crooked smile. “I drove.”
“Your vehicle will be taken care of,” he said, as if she’d asked him to valet it instead of abduct her. Then he nodded toward another man with a palm outstretched. “Keys. Now.”
A man twice her size stepped forward. His face said there was no room for discussion as he held his hand open.
“No one drives Dick but me,” she replied, nodding to her white Mustang. “He can ride shotgun, but I’m driving.”
The man’s jaw flexed. She saw the tiny hesitation. He wanted to push back badly. “Get in the car yourself,” he growled. “Or we’ll do it for you. Your call.”
She didn’t doubt it. These weren’t rent-a-cops with earpieces and bad attitudes. They were Russian mob, ready to break bones without a single emotion crossing the void where their conscience should have been.
“If you were going to throw me in the trunk,” she said, “I’d already be in there.” She folded her arms, letting the silence linger. It was a gamble.
But Eirin always gambled. She made calculated calls, and this one felt solid.
They stared each other down for a long beat. Then, with a grunt, the bald man jerked his head. Two of his guys peeled off to follow.
Eirin turned on her heel, her coat sweeping behind her, and walked toward Dick. At the far end of the lot, her white fastback Mustang sparkled under the late afternoon sun like a patient wolf. She called it Dick for a reason, partly as a joke, and because it handled like one.
Sliding in, she exhaled as the engine rumbled to life and her fingers curled around the wheel. Control reestablished.
A moment later, Baldy folded himself into the passenger seat, taking up space like a mountain of muscle. The others fell into formation behind them like a funeral procession.
“Lead the way,” she said, voice dry as dust.
He barked directions in Russian at her, almost as if he knew she understood him.
Ten minutes later, they veered off the highway onto a gravel path and pulled into a diner that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the 1980s. Neon flickered. Windows smudged.
But the perimeter was locked down tight. Armed men. Thick necks. Tight formation. Silent comms.
Eirin cut the engine and released the steering wheel slowly. For a second, her fingers had clenched. Then she was out of the car, face impassive, every step meticulous. She’d heard of Henrik Kazimir. Everyone had.
You didn’t work Ordridge’s criminal courts or move within royal intelligence without hearing his name whispered like a weather warning. Kazimir was one of the few dons she’d never had reason, or clearance, to meet. Until now.
And he wasn’t exactly known for spontaneous brunch meetings, either.
The front door opened before she reached it. Her escort gestured inside like this was casual. She entered without delay.
The diner was empty. Cleared out and quiet as a church. Every sound was magnified: her heels on tile, the soft shift of bodies just out of view. Only one booth was occupied.
Her pulse beat behind her eyes as her heels clicked across the floor. She was fully aware of every armed man watching her, every loaded gun within arm’s reach. And then she saw him, and for one brief moment, her mind stalled.
He’s the don?
Henrik Kazimir wasn’t what she expected. He wasn’t some grizzled warlord or aging kingpin with a cigar and a neck full of gold.
The man was all fine lines and wicked eyes. Lean and impeccably dressed. A tailored black suit, navy shirt open at the collar, no tie. One long finger rested near a glass of rum, untouched.
But it was the eyes that caught her.
Ice-blue. Unblinking and reading her. They should’ve come with a warning label.
He smiled, and it was small and controlled, but it felt like being stabbed with a polished dagger. “Eirin Klepp,” he said, like they were old friends meeting for coffee.
She managed a nod, though her mouth had gone dry. “Yes, that’s me, Mr. Kazimir.”
“Please,” he said, “call me Henrik.”
Her gaze shifted to the goon near the door, then back to the window. Escape routes mapped instantly, even though she wasn’t going anywhere. But it was habit. Survival.
A trickle of sweat slid down her spine. She hated that her body reacted to him before her mind could catch up.
“Why the sudden interest in the Weiss case?” he asked, wasting no time.
She forced herself to focus. To breathe. Get it together. Nothing rattled her. No one rattled her. Except maybe this man. “This case could be a game changer,” she said, straightening. “Bigger than the Mamba case.”
He tilted his head slightly, like a panther contemplating whether to pounce. “And what do you think?”
“Richard Weiss is innocent.” She told the lie like even she believed it. But what she knew was, even though he was not guilty of this crime, he was still the Collective’s most revered mercenary. “And I’m going to prove it.”
For a moment, he said nothing. Henrik Kazimir simply stared at her. Those glacier eyes slicing through her like an autopsy in progress. Then, finally, he spoke. “I’m sure you’ve figured out by now that our interests…don’t align.” His smile didn’t move beyond his mouth. It never touched his eyes.
Her pulse thrummed involuntarily. She’d walked into much worse.
But Henrik Kazimir had such an intimidating aura, and a reputation for making people disappear in ways that weren’t loud, but permanent. He could end this, end her. Right here, right now, and get away with it.
“Weiss stays put,” Henrik continued. “And you do nothing. That way, everyone gets to go home with all their limbs intact.”
Her fingers twitched once on her lap before she relaxed them.
