Page 60 of Lethal Torture

I’ve quietly shifted his roster to focus on daily training, stepping him down from the front door and replacing him on the late-night shift with his two nastiest-looking trainees, supervised by either Paddy or myself.

“Well now, there was a bit of an upset today,” Paddy says. “Your girl there put me on my arse, but only because my phone rang, you understand. Shut up,” he calls to the various voices catcalling in the background.

My grin widens. “So it’s my fault Charlie kicked your arse, then?”

“Aye, fucking clearly,” Paddy says cheerfully. “Lost a tenner on it, too, so you owe me—Captain McTasty.”

“Oh, fuck off.” I roll my eyes at the explosion of laughter in the background. “Would a pint take the sting out of it? Haven’t had a chance to buy you one since you landed.”

“Don’t need to ask me twice. Charlie’s got the night shift anyway, so I’m clear. Where’s your lady at?”

“Zinaida has a private dinner at Pigalle Mayfair. Anatoly is scheduled there this evening with a full team, so I can take a minute.” I pause. “And she’s my client, Paddy, not my lady. Watch your mouth, there, especially with an audience.”

“Sure.” He doesn’t sound in the least repentant. “But you should know that my bouts with Charlie aren’t the only thing the staff are laying bets on, cock.”

He hangs up before I can tell him just how far he can fuck off.

I toy with the idea of putting a ban on both the betting and the nickname, but dismiss the thoughts immediately. The staff is rapidly tightening into the close, highly effective unit I plan to make them. If that comes at my and Zinaida’s expense, well, I guess we’re both hard enough to wear it.

I text Paddy the address of a riverfront pub near my place instead.

Then I get the fuck out of Zinaida’s apartment, before her lingering scent brings me completely undone.

“Not bad,”Paddy greets me when I pull up a stool next to him an hour later. “For an English pub, that is.”

We’re sitting by arched windows overlooking the river, with a nice fire going behind us. The pub has an impressive selection of cask ales, offers a superb wine list, and does a sensational Argentinian steak as well as Paddy’s favorite kind of beef pie.

“Cheers.” I grin as I clink my glass to his. “And after more than a decade of taking the king’s coin, you should be used to drinking British Guinness.”

“Drinking Guinness outside Ireland is blasphemy, lad, which is why I’m on the amber instead.” Paddy holds up a pint of ale. “It’s not a bad drop either.”

“You look like you’ve been in the wars.” His jaw is turning a nice shade of purple, and from the careful way he’s moving, Charlie clearly landed more than one or two blows to the ribs.

“She’s quite the girl, your Charlie.” Paddy touches his jaw ruefully. “Pity the poor bastard who takes her on, though. Christ. Can you imagine the kind of damage she’d do to a man in the sack?”

Except knowing Paddy as I do, and by the slightly questioning way he phrases the comment, he’s definitely already considering throwing Charlie down on more than the gym mats.

“Keep your hands off my staff, you reprobate. I know what you’re fucking like.”

Proving my point, he winks at the waitress who delivers our meals. She in turn simpers back at him.

I shake my head.

Paddy could literally get laid in the middle of a desert sandstorm. Despite being whippet thin, with a face like a car wreck and more scars than an alley cat, his perpetual grin and shit-stirring humor somehow charm women into his bed with startling efficiency. Our old platoon once voted him the man they would, quote,trust with your life but never your wife.

“You never told me I couldn’t have a bit of the ride while I’m on the job here,” he says in a mildly injured tone.

“You can ride whatever you want—on your own time. Just keep it in your pants at work.”

“And I haven’t even had a chance to blow shit up yet.” Paddy shakes his head. “You’re lucky I owed you a favor, Macarthur.”

His family runs an extremely lethal mob of Irish mafia in Belfast. Last year they got themselves into a war with a rival clan. I spent a few rather fun weeks helping Paddy sort it out, which is why I knew he’d come and lend a hand in London.

Well, that, and Paddy has never been able to say no to anything that looks like it might end in a fight.

“I wouldn’t count out blowing shit up just yet,” I say as the waitress returns with wine, smiling at Paddy again. I wait until she’s gone before continuing. “Ever heard of Simon Lowbridge? He’s the minister for business and trade.”

“Never heard of him.” Paddy tucks into his pie. “But with a title like that, I hate the posh prick already.”