Chapter 4
ZINAIDA
“Congratulations on the new arrivals.” I greet Roman without the slightest glance at the man sprawled across the curved seat on the other side of the table. “Twin boys, I hear?”
“Yep. Although not so new now. They’re nearly six months old and both crawling like demons.
” Roman’s grin has none of his old reserve or the hard edge it used to carry.
His blatant joy is so obvious it almost makes me uncomfortable.
“Aleksander is almost five, so twin brothers are just what he needs to knock him down to size. Darya asked me to thank you for the mobile you sent as a christening gift, by the way. It was very thoughtful. In fact, it was the twins’ favorite toy for months.
” He shoots me a rather curious look, as if he hadn’t imagined me capable of choosing a gift babies might like.
“Yes, well. I’ve always liked hanging things, as you know.” I give him the teeth-bared, psychopathic smile that I usually reserve for those I’m about to kill.
Roman grins, entirely unfazed. One of the reasons we’re friends is that he’s never been intimidated by my reputation.
“Speaking of things that deserve to die,” I say, shifting my gaze to Dimitry, “I still haven’t thanked you in person for blowing up that horror house in Myanmar.”
“It’s me who should be thanking you.” Dimitry inclines his head, his gray eyes warm when they meet mine. “For rehabilitating all the women who were held captive there. Abby tells me some are still working for you?”
I nod. “They’re doing well. How’s your little boy?”
Dimitry’s smile almost splits his face. “He’s a terror,” he says, flashing his phone at me to show a photo of his wife, Abby, cuddling a beaming baby at their finca in Spain. “Leon, after my father.”
“Well,” I say, politely admiring the photo, “when she and Darya get tired of domestic bliss, remind them they have complimentary membership to Pigalle Mayfair any time they’re in town.”
Roman gives me a dry smile. “Given the state they were in after their last visit, I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”
“Given that they’re married to you two,” I say equally dryly, “I’d call vast amounts of champagne and inappropriate behavior necessary therapy.”
The truth is, though my initial invitations to the two women were nothing more than a courtesy to Roman and Dimitry, I’ve wound up quite enjoying their company when they come to visit.
I’m definitely not one for girly lunches and gossip, but more than once I’ve found myself wishing that Darya and Abby lived closer.
Still pointedly ignoring the man on the opposite side of the booth, I turn to Mak, who’s been watching this exchange with the faint smile of a man who finds all of humanity infinitely amusing. Most of the time it’s a trait I rather enjoy.
Tonight, however, given the fact that his guest is still watching me with a silence so loud it almost echoes, Mak’s amusement grates a little.
“I take it you’ve brought my new hire,” I say, still pointedly ignoring Luke’s eyes and talking about him as if he doesn’t exist. “You really should have checked him in at the door. He’s lucky my people didn’t put a bullet through him the moment he breached security.”
Mak grins like a Cheshire cat. “That’s because he didn’t breach your security,” he points out. “Or at least, not that you managed to detect. Which is one of the reasons he’s the best man for the job.”
“Given that I still haven’t fully briefed you on the job, that’s a bold claim.” I settle back in my chair and pour a glass of Disaronno Reserva, still pointedly ignoring the man opposite.
Mak shrugs. “It’s no secret that someone has been taking potshots at you, Zin.” He slides a tablet across the table and taps a file. “This is a more comprehensive breakdown of Captain Macarthur’s mission experience.”
Captain Macarthur.
Oh, fuck.
Like it doesn’t turn you on just to say it, Zinaida.
I look at him directly for the first time since I sat down, then immediately wish I hadn’t.
Looking directly at him is a mistake.
Not because he’s blindingly handsome, because he isn’t.
Or rather, he isn’t handsome in a GQ cover story kind of way.
He doesn’t have Roman Borovsky’s hawk-eyed, billionaire polish or Mak’s louche, aristocratic elegance.
Up close, his height and bulk are almost intimidating.
Some of his scars are visible above the tux, and I’d be willing to bet there are plenty more below it.
His last haircut was clearly a few months ago, the chestnut curls as windblown as if he’s just stepped off a boat, and his three-day growth looks like it’s a permanent fixture.
No. I was right the first time I saw his photo.
He’s a fucking savage.
But I was right about what lies behind the hard wall of muscle and lethal credentials, too.
His enormous hands, broad as dinner plates and scarred as an old boxer’s, are reassuring in the way a carpenter’s might be, worn and somehow comforting.
Reassuring. Comforting.
Hardly the ruthless killer I require.
Luke might be able to run military missions behind enemy lines. But that world has rules of engagement and clear targets.
Mine is a lawless labyrinth of lies, deception, and corruption.
But dismissing Mak’s choice out of hand would be uncivil at best, and I’d rather keep his goodwill.
“Luke.” My tone is polite, but I ignore his former rank and neglect to offer him a handshake.
“I appreciate you making the effort. Before we talk any further,” I carry on before he has a chance to speak, “you should get a realistic picture of what it means to work for me. I’ll have somebody give you a quick tour.
” I tilt my chin at one of the security team in the corner, and a moment later, Anatoly appears at my side.
“This is Luke Macarthur,” I tell him. “Show him the back rooms. Then have Rocco meet us in the Viewing Gallery in half an hour.”
The Viewing Gallery is a private room in the basement. And Rocco is an Italian barman with a tongue so skilled in the art of oral sex that he’s been known to make grown women cry.
Firing Luke on first sight might not be an option, but I can certainly make sure he quits before he ever starts.
Luke neither returns my greeting nor seems at all put out by my cold courtesy. In fact, his slight smile and bland expression don’t alter at all. He just stands with a lethal swiftness I find unsettling and leaves as silently as he has been throughout our brief meeting.
“Not a talker, then,” I say lightly, turning to Mak.
“He’s not paid to talk.” If anything, Mak looks even more amused than he did earlier.
Then again, Mak also knows exactly what happens in the Viewing Gallery.
“Luke’s the best man for the job,” he goes on, pouring more Scotch. “Roman and Dimitry will both vouch for him.”
“It was Luke who helped me find Abby,” Dimitry offers. “He got our teams inside the Myanmar compound and rescued most of the girls who wound up in your care at Sophie’s House.”
I struggle not to let my surprise show. “He was in Myanmar?”
“Not just there.” Dimitry meets my eyes directly. “Luke’s the reason we succeeded in getting those women to safety. He ran surveillance on the compound for a week before we went in, made contact with the girls inside, and infiltrated the place undetected a dozen times.”
Damn it.
This would have been a whole lot easier if Luke was just another dumb gun for hire.
“He was also with me during the shitstorm that went down in Miami,” Roman chimes in. “Luke guarded my two daughters with his life. Took a bullet for them, too. They’d be dead if it wasn’t for him.”
His mouth tightens briefly, darkness flaring in his eyes. Several years after his daughters were kidnapped, it’s clear Roman is still affected by Vilnus Orlov’s attack on his family.
I don’t blame him.
“I met Orlov once,” I say slowly. “When I was thirteen years old. He came to London and spent an evening at my father’s club.”
For a moment I’m back there, my father’s whip lashing my young skin for the amusement of his guests. The image is gone as soon as it comes, let go with the discipline of long practice.
People talk about the benefits of therapy.
I’m more of an advocate of facing one’s demons, then murdering the fuckers so they can’t come back.
I meet Roman’s eyes and smile coldly. “I’m glad Orlov is dead.”
“I’m sorry you ever had to meet him,” he says quietly. “I know what a sadistic bastard he was.” To my surprise, there’s genuine empathy in his eyes.
Marriage has definitely mellowed him.
I’ve no doubt that part of Roman is still a ruthless prick. But there’s a depth to him now, a quiet happiness, that allows him to be something more as well. I saw the way he looked at Darya, his wife, on their wedding day. You can’t fake that kind of open joy.
But that life isn’t an option for me.
My world is too dark to allow it. And nobody who gets close to me can avoid being sucked into its darkness.
Which is exactly why, despite the glowing recommendations, Captain Macarthur is the wrong choice for the job at hand.
“Luke’s a lot more than your average special forces jock.
” Mak reads my thoughts with his customary, rather annoying, accuracy.
“MI6 wanted him for intelligence. The SAS wanted him to train their best. After the amount of missions he ran in the Middle East, he could have had his pick of any assignment he wanted, including rising through the ranks. Instead he came to work for me.”
“Doesn’t mean much.” I shrug. “You pay more.”
“It’s not about the money.” Mak draws on his cigar, watching me through the smoke. “Not for him.”
I snort. “It’s always about the money.”
He tilts his head in the negative. “Luke is . . . different. And he’s more than just an operative or a sniper on a roof.
He’s the most natural-born soldier I’ve ever met—and he’s also rock-solid.
If you decide you want him, and he agrees to take the job, I can guarantee one thing.
” Mak’s eyes settle on mine. “He’ll have your back. ”