Chapter 16 – Sebastian
Chapter
Sixteen
SEBASTIAN
T here are dive bars, and there are dive bars—and this one is the kind you’d need a deepwater submarine to find. The place is tucked away in a quiet corner of Soho, and there’s nothing on the door to indicate what’s inside. No sign, no lighting, not even a bell to ring. Just a grungy old door painted a grim shade of puke green, hidden in a graffiti-covered alleyway. Any tourist who wandered down here by mistake would soon come running out, chased away by the smell of stale piss and the rats scurrying around beneath piles of garbage. It’s a shithole, and a dangerous shithole at that, which means it perfectly matches my mood.
I check my phone, part of me hoping she’s called, but all I see is a message from Taylor asking me if I need any help tonight. Jeez, that kid is clingy. I ignore him and instead fire my own message off to a mate of ours, a retired cop called Phil Campbell who is the dog’s bollocks when it comes to digging up dirt and doing background checks that go deeper than your average mineshaft. Something about Taylor Grant is setting my spider senses tingling, and I’ve learned to trust them over the years.
After that, I hammer my fist on the door, knowing that someone is already watching me from the camera that’s hidden on the first-floor window ledge. I look right up at it and give it the finger. Within seconds, the door opens, and a woman wearing a rainbow-colored turban on her head smiles at me. She was probably a knockout once, but these days, the lack of teeth and yellowing eyeballs have caught up with her.
“Evening, Larissa,” I say as she gestures me inside.
“Sebastian. Long time no see. Handsome as ever, darling.” She offers her hand up for a kiss, and I oblige. I’ve never figured out where she’s from or what her story is, but she’s been a fixture here for as long as I’ve been knocking around. A wise man will always kiss Larissa’s hand, even if he’s unsure where it’s been. “Our friend told me you’d be coming, sweetie. He’s in his usual booth. Do watch out for the girls, won’t you? They look especially hungry tonight, and you’re such a tasty morsel, my angel.”
I nod and make my way down the dingy steps to the basement. It looks like a bomb shelter that’s been dressed up as a theater, all faded red velvet and gold tassels, little tables and alcoves set up at discreet distances from each other. The bar features some of the world’s most expensive wines and spirits, because no matter how shabby this place looks, the people who come here have money, and they don’t mind spending it on small luxuries. Every shelf is top shelf, and privacy is king. This place doesn’t have a liquor license—it doesn’t even exist, and that’s the way its clientele like it.
I nod at a few people I recognize and make my way to the corner booth. The man I’m meeting is flanked by two bottle blonds, both with huge fake boobs and equally fake smiles. At least I assume the smiles are fake—I might just be in a bad mood. Lauren is messing with my head, and it’s got to stop. It’s not even her fault, because she’s right—she’s been honest with me from the start. She didn’t sell herself as the girl-next-door, settling-down type. It’s me who wants more and me who keeps thinking we’ve made progress only to watch her pull away. It’s pathetic, and I’ve had enough. I need to get back to being my usual shallow self.
“Evening, Sasha. Ladies,” I say, sliding into the red velvet seat. “What are we drinking tonight?”
Sasha Stepanov is blond, handsome, and elegant. He’s always dressed like a fashion model, and I’ve never seen him with a hair out of place—not even after shooting a man in the face at point blank range. He’s a rare find, a Russian gangster who usually works in a gang of one. He grew up a street kid brutalized by the criminal crews in his native Moscow, and as soon as he could, he escaped first to Barcelona and then to London. He took what he learned on those streets and perfected it, turning himself into one of the most ruthless killers I’ve ever met. Although he looks like a pampered society brat, he’s one of the hardest men I know—and one of the best connected. We’ve worked together a few times when it’s suited us both, and while I wouldn’t call us buddies exactly, there is a bond of mutual trust.
“We are drinking vodka, of course, my old friend,” he says, gesturing expansively to the two women. “Come and join us. Elizabeth, pour Sebastian a drink would you, my darling? He looks like he needs a drink. Trouble, Seb?”
The girl fills up a shot glass for me, and I hold it up and clink glasses with Sasha as we both say “cheers.” I say “cheers” anyway—he says something long and Russian that probably translates to “May your children have plentiful rabbits and live forever in the light of the space station.”
I glance at the ladies and raise an eyebrow, which he interprets correctly and shoos them away. “They’re not here against their will, are they, mate?” I ask.
He clutches his hand to his heart. “My friend, you wound me. Elizabeth is from somewhere grim and rainy up north, looking to find a way into the adult film industry, and her friend Carla is an off-duty lap dancer. Both lovely ladies, I assure you, and both here willingly to make connections, and yes, possibly earn the gratitude of a few generous gentlemen along the way.”
I shrug and nod. I’m not one to judge on either count. As long as this is what they’ve chosen, not what some sick fuck has chosen for them, then fair enough. “Sasha, I’m looking for information. Anything you can give me about a man called Ivan Volkov.”
A flicker of distaste crosses Sasha’s refined features, and he pours more vodka. “Ivan Volkov is two things, Seb. He is dangerous, and he is scum, even by my standards. He trades in flesh and the drugs that control the flesh. Men, women, boys, girls, any combination, any age. Nothing is too nasty, nothing is too low. If your thing is masturbating over the freshly killed body of a beautiful young woman, he’s your man. If you enjoy watching children get raped, call Volkov. If you are into inserting red hot pokers up the anuses of rent boys?—”
I hold my hands up to stop him. I’ve heard enough sick and twisted shit already tonight. “Okay. I get the picture. He’s a sick puppy who caters to other sick puppies. What are his weaknesses?”
“What makes you think that I would know, Seb? And even if I did, what makes you think I would want to have a man like that as my enemy?” His eyes have narrowed, and some of the surface bonhomie has dropped away. He’s intrigued, at least.
“You know everything, Sasha, about everyone. As to why you’d help me… Just to cause chaos, I suspect.”
He laughs long and hard and waves a finger at me. “You know me too well, my friend. I do love chaos—it’s good for business. On a more personal level, it was sick puppies like Volkov who made my childhood a living hell, and helping you deal with him would be a pleasure. What did you have in mind?”
I outline the situation to him, and a dark cloud passes over his handsome face when I tell him about young Nicky. He drinks vodka steadily throughout, and I match him, which I will regret tomorrow. He asks a few pertinent questions about my interest and seems satisfied when I tell him Volkov represents a threat against my daughter and her colleagues.
“Ah, the lovely Samantha. I would walk on hot coals and swallow poisonous asps to keep her from harm,” he says.
“You’ve only met her once, Sasha. Give it a rest.”
Again he feigns hurt feelings and replies, “Once was enough. She slapped me in the face for being inappropriate and said she would let me off with a warning that time, but next time, she would tell your large friend Gabriel. Delightful. Anyway. I can help with this, Sebastian. I know people inside his organization. I know where he lives and the tricks he is likely to play. I even know some of the people he is blackmailing. If the legal options fail, and we both know they will, then that is when men like you and I come out of the shadows, no? We shall drink to it.”
He calls the girls back over, and they bring another bottle of vodka. The glass is encrusted with diamonds and seems to be made from crystal, so I’m guessing we’re out of bargain-booze territory. The four of us drink and chat and dance to the live band that takes to the tiny stage later in the night, Carla swaying against my hips and wrapping her arms around my neck. We drink some more, we play cards, and we drink again. I have no clue how many bottles we get through, but I’m so drunk I eat caviar, and I fucking hate caviar—give me a doner kebab from a street corner van any day.
I’m probably only there for about three hours, but it’ll feel like a week to my liver. I don’t give a shit, I decide as we spill out onto the wet London streets right after midnight. This is exactly what I needed. I needed to forget about Lauren fucking Hayes and her magic pussy for a night. I needed to forget about that gorgeous big ass, and those big brown nipples that crinkle up like walnuts whenever I look at them. I needed to forget about the way she looked with my cock in her mouth and tears in her eyes, and the flush of protective warmth I felt when I carried her out of the bed.
Shit.
I haven’t forgotten any of it even after drinking a bathtub full of premium Russian vodka.
Sasha and Elizabeth announce that they’re going to a club for some kind of showbiz after-show party, but I call end of time on this adventure. Carla, though, has other ideas, and she looks up at me with a promising gaze as I flag down a cab. “Give a girl a lift on a rainy night, eh, Seb?” she says, clinging to my arm.
“All right. Where do you want to go?” She eyes my dick and licks her lips. “I want to go wherever you’re going, big fella.”
It’s a mistake. She seems to be looking for something, and I might be drunk enough to give it to her, but I bundle her into the cab with me. As I suspected, she dives at me, wrapping her arms around my neck and smashing her lips against mine. But no amount of vodka could make me want to kiss anyone but Lauren. She has well and truly fucked me.
I push Carla off, and she pouts. And then she turns an unusual shade of green and promptly vomits all over the back of the cab.
The cabbie swears up a storm, and I tell him to calm the fuck down, promising him an extra couple of hundred quid to get his cab cleaned. From the smell of the thing, she’s not the first person to have thrown up in it.
He refuses to take her any farther than my house though, and truth be told, she’s no longer in any state to go anywhere alone. The fresh air seems to knock her for six.
“Come on then, princess,” I tell her, scooping her into my arms and carrying her up the steps to my front door. “You can sleep it off in the spare room.”
She mumbles sleepily, her head lolling against my chest. This was definitely not how I was hoping my night would end.