Page 65 of City Of Thieves

It’s so instinctive, this parental need to seek and protect. I recognize it in his tone. His actions. If he could teleport himself, he’d sign the waiver in a heartbeat.

Like I would, to be reunited with Anastasia.

“There’s no need. I’m flying home in an hour. I was just wondering…” The rustling noise stops abruptly. I can tell he’s waiting with bated breath for my next words. “I was just wondering if I could come to the penthouse... There’s something I want to say.”

After the longest pause, he finally answers, his wicked drawl in full flow. “I guess that would be okay… But only if you’re bringing a 1787 Chateau Lafite. Don’t bother if it’s another vintage. Now, if you really want to fucking apologize, I hear the Chateau Margaux from the same year is exceptional.”

I let out a sob of relief.

“It’s going to be okay, sweetheart,” he reassures, switching back from smooth criminal and politician to concerned father. “Whatever happened, it’s never too late to fix it.”

“Seb. I need to speak to him urgently. Is he—?”

“Fuck knows where he is, but I’ll find him. He’ll be here. We’ll all be here... Mom, too.”

Thank God.

Hanging up, I reach down to unplug the charger. As I do, a man slides into the booth opposite me. I freeze when I see the flash of metal beneath his black leather jacket.

No.

“Do not scream,” he says calmly, his voice laced with that same familiar accent I’ve grown to dread. “Oleg Belov wants all of those to himself.”

“Who are you?” I demand, my voice high and strained. “Where’s Renzo?”

“There is a car waiting out front for you,suka.” He curls his top lip in distaste. “If you ever want to see Marchesi alive again, I suggest we pay mypakhana visit.”

Chapter Seventeen

Renzo

CallingOleg’s choice of business ventures unimaginative was a gross understatement.Boynyalooks like someone pressed ‘control alt delete’ onYamaonly to reboot it thirty-five hundred-miles across the Atlantic.

The exterior reeks of the same scarlet and black undertones as the club back in New York. I watch from the shadows as a carbon copy of society’s top elite disappear inside the heavily guarded doors to indulge in its sanctioned depravity behind a crystal façade.

And just like its New York counterpart, London’s most revered gentlemen’s club is just window dressing for the real carnage lying four floors below...

Moving around the building, I find a narrow set of stairs hidden behind the overbearing architecture.Unimaginative and predictable.By the time I reach the final landing, my contempt is rabid.

In a familiar motion, I deliver two firm knocks on the wooden door, standing calm and focused until a light on a square box to the side flickers red.

“Password,” a Russian accent barks through the intercom.

Killian didn’t provide one but considering Oleg doesn’t seem to have an original thought in his head, I take a risk.

“Chistilishche,” I say, reciting the same clichéd code Vasily uses forYama.

The moment the red light turns green, I swing the door open, gun in hand, and my finger on the trigger. There’ll be no ‘jacket check’ this time. The Slaughterhouse will earn its name tonight.

A guard appears in front of me, his mouth rounding for a protest, but a bullet soon silences it.

One down.

Stepping over his lifeless body, I continue toward the main part of the arena, but with every echoing step, my stride slows…It’s too quiet.

Something’s wrong.

My hand tightens around the grip of my gun as I take in the empty bleachers and stainless concrete floor.