Page 13 of Lethal Torture

I swallow the remainder of my drink.

You’re full of shit, Macarthur.

3

ZINAIDA

On a rainy autumnevening a month later, my limo glides through London’s West and into the notoriously bohemian district of Soho.

My flagship nightclub is located in a theater which had been a ruin for half a century when I found it. I built upon the theater’s eighteenth-century atmosphere of illicit decadence, creating a seductive haven of members-only power and luxury. Although women do attend as guests of male members, London’s female power brokers have their own haven in Pigalle Mayfair, our sister club, a mile away.

The three men I’m coming to meet tonight are powerful and wealthy enough to enjoy every luxury my clubs have to offer. They are also three of the most dangerous men I know, which is the reason for this meeting.

It isn’t that I don’t employ dangerous men of my own. But after so many attempts on my life, there’s no hiding from the fact that someone in my organization is trying to kill me.

And Mak, frustratingly, hasn’t responded to any of my objections to his proposed hire.

Luke Macarthur better be as good as Mak says he is,I think grimly.

Because if he isn’t, he’ll be dead before the first week is out.

The limo rounds the corner into a small cul-de-sac. An immaculate red carpet is dimly lit beneath a canopy. Two tuxedoed men stand on either side of the velvet rope, guarding the innocuous black front door.

Macarthur better have a decent tux, or he’ll never even make it inside.

Charlie, my driver, opens the limo door, holding out an umbrella to protect me from the rain. “According to Nadja, it’s a slow night so far,” she says as she walks me to the covered carpet. “And the coppers have already been and gone, so the back rooms are open.”

Londoners say that a Cockney is someone born within the sound of the bells at St Mary-le-Bow Church in the East End. Charlie was born and raised so close to the church she walked past it every day on her way to school. She pronounces the wordwithaswivand uses rhyming slang like it’s a religion.

She also holds a black belt in jujitsu and can shoot like James Bond, not to mention drink him under the table.

She’s been driving for me for a decade, and I trust her as much as I do any of my employees.

Which, let’s be honest, isn’t much at all.Especially lately.

I push the unwelcome thoughts from my head with some difficulty. I don’t trust anyone completely. But up until the past few months, I’d at least considered my inner circle safe. Lately, however, I find myself looking sideways at every face, wondering if the traitor who wants me dead is hiding behind it.

“Zin.”

The man who opens the door has a blunt-nosed old boxer’s face that is more effective at deterring trouble than a dozen muscle-bound bouncers.

“Anatoly.” I turn so he can take my coat, then turn back, brushing a stray drop of rain from his suit. “Slow night, Charlie tells me.”

He lifts one enormous shoulder. “Is not so bad.” His English is heavily Russian accented, despite his many years in London, and not even his well-cut tuxedo can hide the gangster Anatoly is. I prefer to hire women for almost every part of my business, but when men are paying for exclusive access to a men-only club, they need to feel like they’re in a man’s world.

They also occasionally need to be beaten into shape by someone bigger than them.

Sometimes bad men need to see one of their own.

Anatoly has run my security teams since I opened my first club. He was at my side when I killed my father. Oleg always overlooked Anatoly, dismissing him as “soft’” because he refused to rape and beat women on command.

Anatoly’s refusal to follow my father’s sick orders is the reason he’s still alive, and working with me.

“Hey.” He scowls at the young trainee by his side, who is openly staring at me. “You keep eyes on street, not on her, you understand?”

Reddening, the kid mumbles an apology and turns back to the street.

Anatoly gives me the ghost of a wink as I pass him.