Page 10 of Lethal Torture

That was the second contract I took for Mak which involved working with the Russian bratva. There have been a few more since then. I wish I could say that my experiences with organized crime have deterred me from having any further involvement.

Unfortunately, so far, they’ve been the most satisfying jobs I’ve worked.

Even worse, the men involved have become friends.

Every contract I take with them pulls me further into their shadowy world. I promise myself each time that this contract will be the last.

And yet you keep taking these contracts.

“Didn’t you say this job is in London?” I ignore the inner voice.

“That’s where Zinaida’s organization is based, yes. But you know her from the Myanmar job. By name, at least. She took care of the girls we rescued.”

Zinaida Melikov.

I never actually met her, but her team was on the ground when we went into the Myanmar scam farm, and I know it was Zinaida’s charitable foundation that rehabilitated the women we rescued.

“Is this more of the same work?” I can feel my whole body tense in anticipation. This is why I find these contracts so damned appealing: they involve work I actually care about doing.

The bratva might be the so-called bad guys, but I’ve done more truly good work in their employ than I ever did fighting who the British SAS told me was my enemy.

“Let’s just say I suspect that our client’s activities in places like Myanmar have put a target on her back,” Mak says. “One I’d like to see removed.”

I grimace. “I don’t do personal protection, Mak. You know that. If it’s a bodyguard you need, use one of your own people.”

“I needyou, Luke.” His tone is unusually somber. “I know Zinaida. If she’s asking for help, then she doesn’t need dumb muscle. She needs someone to have her back. And in her world, that’s no small ask.”

He pauses, waiting. When I don’t answer, he goes on. “At least meet her before you say no. I’m catching up with Roman and Dimitry next week. Come and have a drink at the Quartier, Zinaida’s London club. It’s a members-only place which officially doesn’t exist, and quite the experience, I assure you.” There’s just enough amusement in his tone to intrigue me.

Motherfucker.

I grip the phone hard, willing myself to tell him to go to hell.

The problem being, of course, that it’s far too tempting an invitation to turn down. Which Mak, the prick, knows all too well.

A drink with Mak, Roman Borovsky, and Dimitry Volkov?

In a members-only club that officially doesn’t exist?

One described as anexperienceby Mak, of all people—who is the closest thing to a Regency-era rake the modern world can produce?

At the very least, the night will definitely be what my Irish mate Paddy would call adamn goodcraic.

“I’m not making any promises, Mak.”

“Of course not, old boy,” he says airily, but I can smell his triumph down the bloody phone line. “You’ll need a tux, Luke. And I don’t mean that store-bought abomination you recycle whenever I make you go to something formal.”

I roll my eyes. “I thought the bratva were criminals, not accountants.”

He chuckles. “When you deal in the kind of money we do, it pays to be both, my friend. I’ll send you the details of my tailor right now.”

“Send me the address of this club while you’re at it. I’d like to get a look at what we’re dealing with.”

“Even better.” Mak sounds positively elated. “I should warn you, however, that I set up the security personally, so good luck getting anywhere near it.”

“Oh, is that right?” I mentally curse my inability to resist his subtle challenge.

“Have fun, Captain Macarthur.”