Page 4 of Lethal Torture

I hold his eyes, letting him see the cold emptiness rising inside me.

“I’m going to kill you,” I say quietly, “because I happen to know that six underage girls, all illegally trafficked, have died at your private parties in the past month alone.”

Confusion crosses his face. “They weren’t your girls,” he says. “Why the fuck do you care what happens to them?”

I take the knife away from his balls and stand up. In a second I’m atop him, my thighs gripping his hips, my whip cord wrapped tight around his neck, the knife against his face. I put my mouth close to his ear.

“Because every girl in this city belongs to me, whether they work for me or not.” My voice is low and lethal. “And because I know what it’s like to be owned by motherfuckers like you. I know how it feels to be powerless in the hands of loathsome pieces of shit who think their money means they can do whatever they want, including torturing innocent girls who have no other choice.”

I pull back so he can see the dead psychopath who lives inside me, the insane, sadistic bitch that strikes fear into every man who finally confronts her. I let him see Zinaida Melikov,the myth that I have successfully made men believe since I was a teenager.

“I’m going to make sure every sick fuck who attended those parties knows what happens to men who mess with underage girls in my city.” I smile coldly as I pick up his phone from the bedside table and use his face to unlock it. “I’m going to need you to smile for the camera now, Georgiy.”

I snap a picture, then inch down his body and place my knife at his balls.

“Because in a few minutes, you mouth will be too full to speak at all.”

It’s justafter eleven p.m., and I’ve washed away all trace of Georgiy Ivanov, when I call for valet service to the penthouse.

“Helena.” I smile at the neatly attired valet who steps out of the elevator. “Thank you so much for remembering the Disaronno,” I say in Russian. “How is Alek doing?”

Helena’s rather stern features soften at my praise, then melt entirely into a beaming smile when I mention her son.

“Alek is much better, Miss Melikov,” she answers in the same language. “Thank you for asking, and for all your help. His leg is almost completely healed. The doctor even says he will play football again.”

“I am pleased to hear it.” I pass her a thick envelope which contains more than enough to keep the Harley Street surgeon on retainer, if she chooses. “My date seems to have drunk too much, I’m afraid.” I speak in English this time, loud enough to be clearly heard if the penthouse is bugged, which, given everything that has happened lately, I suspect it is. “I’d rather not be here when he wakes up.”

Helena nods, squeezing the wad of notes in the envelope. “I will be careful to clean around him, Miss Melikov.”

“Thank you, Helena.”

I don’t try to hide my smile as I step into that elevator. The cameras up here are disabled; the security at the Shangri-La have been on my payroll for a long time.

Within the hour, Helena will have an entire team of housekeepers making sure the penthouse is forensically spotless. Georgiy Ivanov will exit the Shangri-La naked, in a tub of dirty linen, rather than clad in a Savile Row suit and seated in a limo. Some time from now, the crew of his yacht, which is currently cruising just off Crete, will report a terrible accident. The tabloids will whisper of girls and drugs and an ill-advised midnight swim. The Aegean Sea is over two miles deep at that particular point.

Nobody will go looking too hard. The Turkish authorities who monitor those waters want nothing to do with Russian oligarchs, and Scotland Yard has better things to do than mourn the loss of a known trader in human flesh, particularly when he is found outside their jurisdiction.

I step into the limo, turning over the many recent attempts on my life and all that Ivanov told me. Tonight has stripped away the last barriers to a truth that I have, until now, been unwilling to face.

I have a leak.

Someone in my own organization is working with an enemy I can’t see. An enemy who is trying, with increasing skill, to have me murdered.

I drum my fingers on the door handle.

I don’t like asking for help. In fact, I fucking hate it.

But even I know when it’s time to call in a favor.

I pick up my phone and punch out a number.

Makari Tereschenko answers immediately. “Zinaida, darling.”

Hearing the sound of gunfire in the background, I frown. “Is this a bad time?” It’s always wise to ask, since Mak runs the world’s largest private mercenary and intelligence firm.

“For you—never.” His clipped drawl sounds as relaxed as if we were talking over martinis. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I think I’ve got a problem,” I say.