Chapter 1 #2
I know men, and I know fear.
And instinct tells me that Ivanov, piece of shit though he may be, isn’t lying to me.
Not that it matters.
“Let’s start again.” I turn the knife. “Names.”
“I don’t have names.” The words spill out rapidly. “Not the ones you want, anyway. I get an encrypted message with the location of the container, a time and date and price. I pay in Mercura, and then I pick the girls up. The gate is left open, and there are no guards when we arrive.”
He’s not stalling, not anymore. He’s almost desperate to please.
There’s no chance this piece of shit is my would-be killer. I’m surprised he’s lasted in our world as long as he has.
“I want to know who is trying to kill me, Georgiy.”
“I don’t know!” he shrieks as the knife slices his flesh. “I don’t,” he gasps, shaking his head again. “I pay, and I collect. I can tell you who I sell the girls to,” he goes on eagerly, “but that’s it. That’s all I know. I’m just the distributor.”
The distributor.
Cold fury hardens inside me.
“That’s all,” he says pathetically. “It’s the truth, I swear it. There’s no more to tell.”
I tilt my head consideringly. “Sadly, I happen to believe that, Georgiy.”
Relief washes over Ivanov’s blunt features. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, then looks up at me with a hint of his old defiance. “So are we done here?”
I could almost laugh at his pathetic show of bravado.
“Oh, no, Ivanov.” I sip my Disaronno. “Unfortunately, I’m still going to have to kill you.”
His face goes ashen.
“Not because you tried to kill me.” I shrug. “If I went around murdering everyone who tried to kill me, my very civilized arrangement with Scotland Yard would be jeopardized. No, Georgiy.”
I hold his eyes, letting him see the cold emptiness rising inside me.
“I’m going to kill you,” I say quietly, “because I happen to know that six underage girls, all illegally trafficked, have died at your private parties in the past month alone.”
Confusion crosses his face. “They weren’t your girls,” he says. “Why the fuck do you care what happens to them?”
I take the knife away from his balls and stand up. In a second I’m atop him, my thighs gripping his hips, my whip cord wrapped tight around his neck, the knife against his face. I put my mouth close to his ear.
“Because every girl in this city belongs to me, whether they work for me or not.” My voice is low and lethal.
“And because I know what it’s like to be owned by motherfuckers like you.
I know how it feels to be powerless in the hands of loathsome pieces of shit who think their money means they can do whatever they want, including torturing innocent girls who have no other choice. ”
I pull back so he can see the dead psychopath who lives inside me, the insane, sadistic bitch that strikes fear into every man who finally confronts her. I let him see Zinaida Melikov, the myth that I have successfully made men believe since I was a teenager.
“I’m going to make sure every sick fuck who attended those parties knows what happens to men who mess with underage girls in my city.” I smile coldly as I pick up his phone from the bedside table and use his face to unlock it. “I’m going to need you to smile for the camera now, Georgiy.”
I snap a picture, then inch down his body and place my knife at his balls.
“Because in a few minutes, you mouth will be too full to speak at all.”
It’s just after eleven p.m., and I’ve washed away all trace of Georgiy Ivanov, when I call for valet service to the penthouse.
“Helena.” I smile at the neatly attired valet who steps out of the elevator. “Thank you so much for remembering the Disaronno,” I say in Russian. “How is Alek doing?”
Helena’s rather stern features soften at my praise, then melt entirely into a beaming smile when I mention her son.
“Alek is much better, Miss Melikov,” she answers in the same language. “Thank you for asking, and for all your help. His leg is almost completely healed. The doctor even says he will play football again.”
“I am pleased to hear it.” I pass her a thick envelope which contains more than enough to keep the Harley Street surgeon on retainer, if she chooses.
“My date seems to have drunk too much, I’m afraid.
” I speak in English this time, loud enough to be clearly heard if the penthouse is bugged, which, given everything that has happened lately, I suspect it is.
“I’d rather not be here when he wakes up. ”
Helena nods, squeezing the wad of notes in the envelope. “I will be careful to clean around him, Miss Melikov.”
“Thank you, Helena.”
I don’t try to hide my smile as I step into that elevator. The cameras up here are disabled; the security at the Shangri-La have been on my payroll for a long time.
Within the hour, Helena will have an entire team of housekeepers making sure the penthouse is forensically spotless.
Georgiy Ivanov will exit the Shangri-La naked, in a tub of dirty linen, rather than clad in a Savile Row suit and seated in a limo.
Some time from now, the crew of his yacht, which is currently cruising just off Crete, will report a terrible accident.
The tabloids will whisper of girls and drugs and an ill-advised midnight swim.
The Aegean Sea is over two miles deep at that particular point.
Nobody will go looking too hard. The Turkish authorities who monitor those waters want nothing to do with Russian oligarchs, and Scotland Yard has better things to do than mourn the loss of a known trader in human flesh, particularly when he is found outside their jurisdiction.
I step into the limo, turning over the many recent attempts on my life and all that Ivanov told me. Tonight has stripped away the last barriers to a truth that I have, until now, been unwilling to face.
I have a leak.
Someone in my own organization is working with an enemy I can’t see. An enemy who is trying, with increasing skill, to have me murdered.
I drum my fingers on the door handle.
I don’t like asking for help. In fact, I fucking hate it.
But even I know when it’s time to call in a favor.
I pick up my phone and punch out a number.
Makari Tereschenko answers immediately. “Zinaida, darling.”
Hearing the sound of gunfire in the background, I frown. “Is this a bad time?” It’s always wise to ask, since Mak runs the world’s largest private mercenary and intelligence firm.
“For you—never.” His clipped drawl sounds as relaxed as if we were talking over martinis. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I think I’ve got a problem,” I say.
“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’s late 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 has leather-covered volumes in both Russian and English.
I grew up speaking the two languages interchangeably, thanks to Tetya Ana, 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.