Page 5 of Lethal Torture

“How intriguing.”

“Any chance you’re planning a visit to London?” I flinch as a gunshot cracks right in my ear. I’ve yet to meet anyone with Mak’s remarkable capacity for nonchalance in the face of extreme violence.

“Do forgive me, darling,” he goes on a moment later. “Minor inconvenience. Yes, as a matter of fact, I’m planning to meet Roman and Dimitry there next week.”

“Even better.” Roman Borovsky founded the Mercura crypto platform. Dimitry Volkov is his oldest friend and partner. We all sit on the Mercura board.

“I’ll send you a brief,” I say, wincing as the gunshots in my ear increase, “so you can get me some candidates to consider by the time we meet.”

“I have just the man for the job.” The line is beginning to crackle.

“Wait.” I frown. “I haven’t sent you the brief yet—”

“No need, darling.” Only Mak could cut me off so smoothly and get away with it. “You need someone to have your back. Luke Macarthur is the man I trust to do that. I’ll be in touch.”

He ends the call before I can answer, leaving me staring at the blank screen, smiling despite myself. Mak is the only man I know who genuinely possesses the ability to anticipate what I need.

As much as I trust anyone, I trust Mak, Roman, and Dimitry.

And in my world, that’s the closest I get to anything resembling friendship.

It’slate at night when I finally get home.

My Lowndes Square apartment, which occupies the entire top floor of an eighteenth-century Georgian terrace, overlooks Hyde Park. It has north-facing windows that catch the winter sun and a bedroom facing the peaceful square below. The rooftop is an oasis of sweet-smelling herbs and colorful flowers, and in summer I can sunbathe naked for twenty minutes every lunchtime and look like I’ve spent a week in the Mediterranean.

It’s my private sanctuary. I like having somewhere to retreat to that nobody else ever sees.

A place where I can take the mask off, just for a while.

I had the apartment stripped back to the bones when I bought it, revealing the original oak floorboards, tall windows, and exposed beams. It’s small, only three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, and an adjoining lounge. I’ve filled the space with plants and comfortable, rather than imposing, furniture.

Tonight low lamps cast a buttery glow over the floorboards, and the apartment is velvety quiet.

I shower, then fix myself a Disaronno, put on BBC Radio 3, and curl up in my favorite chair, staring out at the silent trees of Hyde Park and trying to think of anything other than the leak in my organization.

Unfortunately, not even my oasis and Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7 do anything to make me less restless. I stand up impatiently, walking back and forth across the apartment until I find myself standing in front of the bookshelf, which hasleather-covered volumes in both Russian and English. I grew up speaking the two languages interchangeably, thanks to TetyaAna, my great-aunt, to whom these books originally belonged.

My fingers linger on the spines. I found them at a Sotheby’s auction several years ago. One of them had Tetya Ana’s name inside the cover. They’re the only remnants I have of her.

Of Sophie.

We were cousins, but Tetya Ana raised us as sisters. Our fathers, both criminal pieces of shit, were her sister’s sons. My mother died the same day I was born. Drugs killed Sophie’s.

If it wasn’t for Tetya Ana, we’d have been left to the streets. She took both of our mothers under her wing, then, after they died, raised Sophie and me like we were her own.

Tetya Ana hated the men of our world. She’d survived them herself, only to lose all her children to the bratva, one way or another. She did all she could to protect Sophie and me from that life, right up until the day she died when both of us were eight.

My father came for us three days later.

I was blonde, petite, and pretty.Marketable.

But Sophie was plump, shy, and clumsy, and my father was never a patient man.

“Zinaida.”My father puts his hand beneath my chin, tilting my face up to his own and turning it this way and that. “You’re a pretty thing. And it’s a good name, this one. Your mother was a useless whore, but she always had good taste.” He steps back. “Spin for me.”

I’ve taken ballet classes since I could walk.

I perform a perfect pirouette.