Page 42 of Lethal Torture

But I know I won’t.

“You could crawl to me on your knees, naked and begging, and I still wouldn’t break,”I’d said to her less than ten minutes ago.

But the truth is I’m more than halfway fucking broken already.

And the thought of Zinaida Melikov on her knees, naked and begging, is almost enough to throw me over the edge completely.

I grip the stone balustrade hard enough to leave an imprint on my hands.

Get it together, Macarthur. And do it fucking fast.

She can’t ever know I saw what I did, or this entire charade has all been for nothing.

By the timeZinaida emerges from her suite, my self-mastery is firmly back in place. Which is fortunate, given her own ice queen composure.

“Coffee?” She sweeps past me to the machine on the side counter, leaving a waft of intoxicating scent in her wake. Her makeup is flawless, her hair drawn back into a slick, elegant roll that gives no indication of the tangled mess on her pillow earlier. Her mint-green sheath is devastatingly simple—if you don’t count the dramatic slit up one side and terrifying heels, that is.

“Black.” I stand at the end of the long glass meeting table with my back to her as the machine grinds into action, keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the diagram of her business structure I have up on the wall-mounted screen.

She places two black coffees on the table with a perfectly still hand. Taking a seat in one of the steel-gray chairs, she crosses her legs to expose a seductive length of toned thigh, lifts her cup to scarlet lips, and raises her eyebrows in polite query.

You do know how to play the game, Miss Melikov, don’t you?

I wait a full beat before taking my own seat opposite her.

But then, so do I.

And God help me, I’m beginning to enjoy this one far more than is professional.

“Let’s start with your people.” I launch straight in, clicking on each name to bring up their profile.

Within minutes we’re immersed in the details of her impressive empire. Despite the insanely erotic beginning to the day, I find it surprisingly easy to talk business with her. Zinaida’s mind is sharper than some of the best intelligence operatives I’ve worked with, and she has a way of cutting to the point that is unusual outside military circles. Half an hour later, we’ve covered a lot of ground remarkably quickly.

Despite the sprawling staff required to run her clubs, I’m relieved to discover her inner circle is relatively small. “That makes it easier,” I admit as we start to wind up. “Or at least, it narrows down the options of who might be leaking information.”

“Maybe.” Zinaida shakes her head slightly. “But naive though it probably sounds, I can’t really believe any of them would want me dead. Or rather, I can’t imaginewhy. I don’t make people stay in my operation. In fact, I encourage them all to leave and start businesses of their own.”

I can see that; nearly everything in Zinaida’s clubs, from the liquor supply to the bedsheets, comes from companies she either owns or has had a hand in helping found. In just over a decade, she’s helped dozens of girls set up businesses in everything from furniture design to specialist gin. Some of the girls startedtheir careers on the burlesque stage or in the bedrooms of the Quartier. But just as many began their association with Zinaida as residents in Sophie’s House, refugees escaping from human trafficking operations or domestic abuse. All of her employees and suppliers enjoy generous contracts and great benefits. Nothing about the way she treats her people provides a breeding ground for resentment or jealousy.

“Well, you’re not being hacked.” I close the tablet down and face her across the table. “I assume you control all the drug dealing in your clubs?”

It takes me a moment to realize that her silence isn’t about disclosure.

It’s because she’s actually furious.

Her eyes are hard chips of ice, her face pale, her mouth tightened into a lethal line. “Thereisno drug dealing on my premises.”

The finality with which she says it is clearly intended to put an end to the conversation.

“With respect.” I hold her eyes. “I simply find that unrealistic. I don’t care what people take or if you give it to them. But I need the details if I’m to do my job.”

“Then allow me to be specific.” Zinaida stares at me coldly. “The only drugs on my premises are brought in by individuals for their own personal use, which is their business and none of mine. If, however, they try to give drugs to my people, or sell them to other members, they are dealt with accordingly.” She rests her elbows on the table and leans forward slightly, holding my eyes. “And if you’re wondering what I mean byaccordingly,” she says, her voice as flat and cold as her eyes, “let me make it very clear.

“I kill them. Personally. And I make sure there are plenty of witnesses.”

She holds my eyes steadily, daring me to react.

I don’t.