Page 95 of Lethal Torture

“Ah.” Mak’s nod contains a world of understanding. “Well, noble as your intentions might be, Captain Macarthur, I don’t allow operatives to work for free.”

“It’s not up for debate. I’m returning what you paid me. I don’t need the money, and I don’t fucking want it.”

“Steady on.” He holds up a hand. “I hear you, loud and clear. I have something else in mind.” He glances sideways at me. “You know I sit on the Mercura board, I take it?”

I nod, still tense.

“Well, managing the security of the board members has started to become something of a full-time job. One I don’t particularly have time for.” For once, his expression is thoughtful rather than sardonic. “It’s also something I can’t exactly outsource. Or at least, not to anyone I don’t trust.”

I hear what he’s saying.

I know what he’s asking.

I’m just not sure what answer to give him.

Part of me is already imagining what I’d set up and how it would work.

The other part of me knows damned well that this is the precipice I’ve been edging toward from the moment I took that first bratva job in Miami.

But leaping off the cliff is one thing. Agreeing to dive into the depths of the bratva world, swim in it on a full-time basis, is something else entirely.

Except you already have, Luke, and you fucking know it.

I leaped off that cliff the moment Zinaida and I got naked in the storage yard at Avonmouth. And if I didn’t know how far over the cliff I’d gone, my reaction to Roman’s revelation tonight brought it home clearly enough.

Is it really the bratva you’re worried about diving into, Luke?

Zinaida’s face flits behind my eyes, her mouth open with desire, her head back as she moans beneath my hands.

I shift restlessly.

Mak, to his credit, knows me well enough not to push it. “For now,” he says smoothly, “I’ll cancel the contract and return the fee. I’m flying back to London myself tomorrow morning, for a meeting at the Quartier, as it happens. If Zinaida asks questions, I’ll tell her you’re working for the board. When you’ve taken care of the threat to her, we’ll talk again.” He turns back toward the house. “In the meantime,” he says, reaching for the cognac bottle, “unless it transgresses your newfound moral stance, let’s have another drink, and you can tell me about your progress so far.”

23

ZINAIDA

“So,I guess that’s kind of the Luke story,” I finish up. It’s late evening, and Darya and I are still out on the terrace, nursing coffee and liqueur after an afternoon of conversation that somehow lasted from lunch through dinner.

“That’s quite the story.” Her eyes are wide.

“I’m sorry.” I cringe inwardly. I didn’t mean to tell her the entire thing, but she’s such a good listener, and I’ve been keeping so much to myself for so long, that once I started, I couldn’t seem to stop. “I hope I didn’t overshare—”

“Overshare? Are you kidding” Darya rolls her eyes. “Wait until you have young children and absolutely no social life, then you can tell me about oversharing. Trust me, listening to you is like water to a dying woman right now. I’m literally starved of adult conversation.” She gives me a rather wicked look. “And this is definitely anadultconversation.”

I flush. “I know you probably find parts of my story shocking—”

“No.” She cuts me off quietly before I finish. “No, Zin, I don’t find anything you’ve said shocking at all. In fact”—her face hardens slightly, a glimmer of something dangerous in her topaz eyes—“knowing what I do about men in our world, I’m rather envious of the way you’ve found to deal with them. It gives me a certain... satisfaction, to think of certain individuals getting a taste of your whip or cowed into submission in your Viewing Gallery. And besides.” She cuts her eyes to me slyly. “You must have driven Luke insane. No wonder he took you in that shipping container like some caveman.”

“Yes, but that’s just it.” I pour a good measure of Disaronno into the glass, feeling distinctly lightheaded.The hangover is tomorrow’s problem.“Luke isn’tfromour world. I’m worried I might have... freaked him out a bit.”

“Are you talking about what happened before the shipping container or in it?” Darya’s voice is reassuringly calm.

I think of the Viewing Gallery. Of him watching me on camera, an episode I left out of my story to Darya, and feel color stealing over my face. “Both, I guess.”

“I may not know Luke as well as you do,” she says, “but from what I do know, he’s the last man I can ever imagine beingfreaked out,as you put it. I don’t need details,” she says, noticing my discomfort, “but was what happened between you... well, was it mind-blowing?”

Mind-blowing.