Lethal Torture (Lethal Legacy #4)

Chapter 1

ZINAIDA

It’s ten p.m. on a Saturday night, and I’m having an extremely tedious sexual encounter with one of London’s lesser Russian oligarchs.

I flick his unimpressive cock with my whip.

“Da!” His hips thrust eagerly upward.

“Oh, you love that, don’t you?” I feather my whip around his straining shaft and he groans, panting as he nears his climax.

I detach from the man on the bed, resist the urge to check my phone messages, and stare out the window of the Shangri-La penthouse to the city lights below. Not because the view excites me.

It doesn’t.

I’ve stared at this same view countless times, always at the invitation of men who consider themselves powerful. They think I will be impressed by their ability to rent the most expensive suite in London for a date.

I’m not.

I could buy the Shangri-La and everything in it a hundred times over.

I’m staring out the window to avoid the Russian’s very bad breath.

He didn’t get that breath from dinner, which we had at the Araki, London’s most exclusive sushi restaurant. Georgiy Ivanov reserved the private room, again no doubt to make an impression. Marty, the head chef, did an admirable job of keeping a straight face when he saw me.

It’s the third time this month some idiot with a black credit card has booked out his private room in an effort to get me into bed.

The other two ended as most of my dates do: with a polite negative and a mutually beneficial business deal.

But those men don’t traffic innocent women to predators.

I take a deep breath of nice clean air before I twist the whip around Ivanov’s balls, just hard enough to make him wince, and lean down to whisper in his ear, “I hear you’ve been a very bad boy, Georgiy.”

He groans and bucks hard, his inconsequential dick quivering with excitement.

“You’re a piece of shit.” I turn the handle of the whip another inch. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

He whimpers pathetically, the stiffness of his cock betraying just how much he’s loving the cut of rawhide, and every word of the humiliation.

That’s the thing about so-called powerful men.

Deep down, they all want to be spanked by nanny and told they’re a bad boy.

They bore me to fucking tears.

I whisper a steady stream of ever more degrading comments into Ivanov’s ear, lashing him ruthlessly with my whip until he’s right at the brink.

“You think you’re such a big man,” I hiss in Russian. The switch to his own language causes him to actually start shaking with anticipation. “People think you’re such a bad, dangerous pakhan, but deep down, you know you’ve got a tiny dick and a hungry ass aching for a finger, don’t you?”

His dick leaps with excitement, and he lifts off the bed as if I’m actually going to oblige him.

“You’re going to have to beg, Georgiy,” I say calmly. “If you want to come, I need to hear you beg.”

I flick the whip away from his cock, and he pouts.

I mean the fucker actually pouts, like some petulant five-year-old deprived of his toy.

“Please, Zinaida.” He writhes on the four-poster bed, hands and legs bound to each corner, cock ring making his pathetic hard-on look bigger than it actually is.

“You don’t speak my name.”

The idiot mistakes the icy chill in my voice for part of the game. His hips rise off the bed, ass clenching eagerly, readying for his release.

“Please, mucmpecc,” he pants. Please, mistress.

No wonder I have no respect for the male species. I’ve yet to find one whose head isn’t completely owned by coin and cock.

“Please,” he pleads again.

Then he feels the thin edge of steel against his balls and freezes.

“You really are a dumb mudak, aren’t you, Ivanov?”

This time, his cock doesn’t leap at the humiliation.

Georgiy is starting to realize that letting someone like me bind him spread-eagle to a bed might not have been the wisest idea.

“Don’t bother calling for help,” I say as he opens his mouth.

“The men outside your room were dead an hour ago. And there’s no point struggling,” I add as he tugs at the cord around his wrists.

“I learned to tie knots at a very young age. My father taught me.” I lean forward and pull his blindfold off, fast enough to leave a red burn on his skin.

“You’ve heard about my father, haven’t you? About how he died?”

I smile coldly as his blue eyes widen.

“Yes, I see you have. But like most Russian men, you thought the stories couldn’t be true. How could a sixteen-year-old girl murder her own father?”

I draw the flat edge of the knife along the underside of his balls, and he gulps. “I’m not going to cut you,” I say calmly. “Not yet. But perhaps the feel of my blade will be enough to convince you that the stories you’ve heard are all true.”

I trail the tip of the knife up his chest, and he watches with horrified eyes until it comes to rest at his throat.

“Yes, Georgiy, I did torture my father with his own whip for days before I let him die.” I draw the flat of the blade along his arms. The pulse jumps in his throat as he watches it.

“Yes, I did hang him up, naked, in his own nightclub and make his men stand and watch when I killed him. And yes, Georgiy.” Lightning fast, I pull the whip away, fast enough that the rawhide lacerates the thin skin beneath his balls, making him squeal like the stupid pig he is.

I wrap the whip around his throat and draw the cord so tight his eyes bulge with fear, then move down his body and press the tip of the knife against his perineum.

“I really did cut off my father’s cock and balls and stuff them in his mouth. ”

I twist the knife tip enough to draw blood, and Ivanov writhes uncomfortably.

“I don’t tell you any of this to frighten you, Georgiy.

” I bring the knife up and tap the bloodied tip on Ivanov’s mouth, letting him taste himself on the blade, then take a seat on the chair next to the bed and place the bloodied knife on the table, inches from his face.

Ivanov’s eyes don’t move from it. I pour myself a small measure of Disaronno Amaretto Riserva, my favorite almond liqueur, and close my eyes in pleasure as it slides down my throat.

I must remember to thank Helena for remembering to stock it for me.

“I tell you all of this,” I go on conversationally, “to save time. I have a business to run, and every second I waste with you is money I’m not making. I suggest that if you value that tiny cock of yours, you answer my questions directly. Nod if you agree.”

The pale blue eyes are sullen and resentful, but the dumb prick nods.

Of course he does.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that there’s little point wasting time pulling nails or bashing kneecaps. A blade to the balls is infinitely more efficient.

Particularly when it’s being held by a woman rumored to be the worst kind of psychopath.

Most of London may not be certain of the truth regarding my father’s death, or the exact circumstances in which I rose to power; bratva organizations aren’t known for publicizing their internal disputes, and I don’t tolerate loose tongues.

But if they aren’t certain of the facts, they’ve certainly heard the whispers about Zinaida Melikov.

And sometimes, a good, frightening whisper is all it takes.

Especially combined with a sharp blade to the balls.

“Good.” I take another sip of Disaronno, turning the blade slowly on the table. “Then let’s start with the names of your associates.” I give him an inquiring look over the cut crystal glass. “You can speak now, Georgiy.”

He swallows. “I can’t—”

Fast as wind, my knife is back under his balls. I shake my head slowly. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t waste my time.”

This time, the blade draws a thin line of blood right up the divide between his testicles.

Ivanov gulps.

“Let me be very clear. I want the names of the people you sell to. The names of the people you buy from.” I smile silkily. “And most of all, I want to know where to find all the girls we didn’t manage to rescue from the Avonmouth Docks last week.”

“That was you?” This time, real anger flares in his eyes.

“I paid for those girls.” He strains against his bonds.

“And don’t act like you’re better than me,” he snaps.

“We both trade in flesh, Zinaida. Just because you dress yours up and put them behind gaming tables or up on a stage, it doesn’t change the fact that you run whores.

” He tries to spit, but it just runs down his chin in a pathetic dribble.

“Whether I get out of here or not, you’re going to die, you fucking bitch. I promise you that.”

I twist the knife a little, just to remind him it’s there. “But you’ve already tried that, Georgiy, haven’t you?”

He stills, his eyes widening with fear.

“A car bomb in Soho,” I say softly. “A sniper on the roof opposite my club.” Not by the slightest twitch do I let my fury show. “That last one was just plain clumsy, by the way. I don’t know where you hire your assassins, but you really should have vetted that one better.”

He stares up at me, his face a perfect picture of confusion.

“It was a mistake,” I say quietly, “letting me tie you up like this tonight. Were you hoping to get a selfie of yourself fucking me before you pulled a gun?” I shake my finger remonstratively at him. “A dangerous gamble, friend.” I draw a little blood with the tip of the knife, and he yelps.

“I don’t know anything about bombs or snipers!” Georgiy’s voice is high-pitched, his panic visible. “Do you think I’d let you tie me up if I was trying to kill you?”

I arch a cynical eyebrow. “Given that you promised me only moments ago that I’ll die, forgive me if I have trouble believing that.”

“Because you’d just admitted you stole from me!

” There’s an edge of desperation in Georgiy’s voice that momentarily stills my hand.

“But it was a threat, nothing more. I swear on my life, Zinaida, whoever tried to kill you—it wasn’t me.

” His chest heaves, his terrified eyes staring directly into mine.

My eyes narrow.