Chapter 5
LUKE
“Good interview?” Roman Borovsky gives me a sly smile.
“I’ve had worse.” I pour myself a Scotch with a surprisingly steady hand, given how I’ve spent the last half an hour.
“Really,” says Mak dryly, lounging in the chair opposite and regarding me with an infuriating smile I’d really enjoy knocking off his face. “Still not interested in taking the job?”
I don’t miss the challenge in his voice.
I take a deliberate sip of Scotch and meet his eyes steadily. “I have some questions.”
Dimitry chokes on his drink. “No shit,” he mutters, wiping his eyes.
Mak is still smiling at me, not that you’d ever know what the fucker is thinking. He has a better poker face than even Zinaida Melikov.
Don’t think about her.
Don’t think about the white-blonde hair slicked back into a tight coil my fingers are aching to pull free.
Don’t think about the long, slender legs opened wide or the glistening, swollen flesh between them that will likely have my cock hard for a week.
Don’t think about the moment her mask almost dropped, giving me a glimpse of a mystery beneath that could drive a man insane.
Don’t think about the fact that there is no way you should ever take this job.
“You said there’s a target on her back.” I roll the ice in my drink and tilt it to indicate the vast crowd in the old theater, and the equally significant security presence.
“Zinaida clearly has resources at her disposal. Why is she hiring from outside? And why do I get the feeling you all want me to take the job?”
“Those are your questions?” Roman says, grinning. “Not hey, what the fuck is wrong with her? Not even what the hell was that?”
I don’t answer, just look back at him with the same blank, silent stare I gave Zinaida.
It’s not hard. Years spent in active war zones have taught me a thing or two about how to disassociate. Not to mention how to endure torture.
That said, as far as methods of torture go, Zinaida Melikov’s skills are definitely next-level.
Roman lifts his glass to me in a silent toast. “You’re one cool bastard, Macarthur, I’ll give you that. I’ve never seen a man walk out of the Viewing Gallery after half an hour with Zin with his sanity even remotely intact.”
I don’t answer that, either.
Dimitry, the prick, is just lolling back in the booth, smirking as he drinks his Scotch.
“Fuck you,” I mutter, shooting him a sideways look.
He raises his glass at me, his smile widening. “Fuck you, too.”
Helpful. I’m going to thoroughly enjoy putting Dimitry on his ass next time we train together.
“In regard to your questions,” Mak says politely, “even I can’t give you the full brief unless you agree to take the job. Standard practice, you understand.”
I glare at him.
“In the meantime,” he goes on, entirely unmoved, “what I do know is that Zin needs a forensic security overhaul of her operation, including those in her close circle. That means the investigation has to come from outside.”
I turn away to pour myself more Scotch, partly to avoid being drawn into their conversation. More because, to be honest, I fucking need it.
I had no intention of taking this job.
I accepted Mak’s invitation to come here tonight because I like a challenge and because it sounded like a bit of fun.
Yeah, sure, Macarthur. That’s all it was.
I catch Dimitry looking at me and scowl in his general direction, which only makes him grin wider. I’d tell him to go fuck himself, but the problem is, I like the prick.
That doesn’t mean I’m under any illusions as to who, and what, he is. What they all are.
And intriguing as I might find it, their bratva world isn’t mine.
Nor are their women, Luke.
Besides, I didn’t leave the armed forces just to start taking orders in someone else’s organization.
I’m just a bloke from rural Australia who wound up in a British uniform, holding a gun, and realized he was good at it.
Now I get to pick and choose where and for whom I point my gun, and I like it that way.
Not to mention the pay is a hell of a lot better.
The sums of money that appeared in my account after Miami and Myanmar would be enough to have me surfing West Australian breaks for the rest of my life, if I chose to.
Problem is, you never do seem to choose that, do you, Luke?
Which brings me back to my current dilemma.
“You said when we got here that you weren’t interested in the job at all.” Mak tilts his head at me, clearly amused. “Then you said you have questions. Which is it?”
“Are these attacks coming from a rival bratva clan?”
When in doubt, go on the offense.
“Who said anything about bratva?” He lifts a sardonic eyebrow at me.
I lift one of my own right back at him. “Cut the shit, Mak. I want to know if I’m walking into a turf war.”
“Could be.” Mak lolls in his chair, obviously enjoying this far more than he should.
“We’ve known Zin a long time,” Roman intervenes. “Since she first took over her father’s operation.”
“Is that normal? For a woman to take over?”
He tilts his head wryly. “There’s nothing normal about Zin.”
You can say that again.
Mak leans forward. “Like I said, Zinaida will brief you fully if you take the job. Before then, any more information is off-limits.”
I know he’s throwing a line out. Mak knows I can see the bait.
We both know I want to jump on the fucking hook.
Swim away, Luke, you dumb bastard.
“I was planning to head back to Australia for a while,” I say. “Take a break, get some surfing in. Maybe meet a nice girl and—”
“Settle down, have a couple of kids, normal life, yada yada.” Mak finishes the sentence, twirling his hand airily.
He exchanges a knowing look with Roman and Dimitry, none of them attempting to hide their amusement.
“We’ve heard it all before, Macarthur. And you’ve been saying the same thing to me for a decade.
The truth is, if you really wanted that life, you’d have stayed in the army and worked toward a pension.
You certainly wouldn’t have taken contracts for me.
And you definitely would have been out the door the moment you got a look at what we dealt with in Miami and Myanmar. ”
He leans back in the booth, stretching his arm over the curved seating, regarding me with his ever-present smirk.
“There’s a reason I came to you with this job before offering it to anyone else.
I’m not going to sit here and blow sunshine up your ass all day, because I don’t need to.
You know what you are. You’re not just a soldier, Luke. You’re a machine.”
He nods in Roman and Dimitry’s direction. “Some men are born to build and run empires.” He tilts his head toward one of the bouncers on the door. “Others are born to knock heads and get paid for it.”
He looks directly at me with that annoying half smile. “But some men are born with a particular set of skills at which very few truly excel, because on the surface they appear to conflict: the ability to hunt and kill—but also to protect.”
For a moment the room seems to fade away, the dancer on the stage disappearing along with her slow, sensual jazz and the scent of expensive cologne and good liquor.
In a split second I’m back in the heat and dust, lying on my belly, the smell of cordite and rifle oil mixing with the earthy scent of mud bricks and humanity, every nerve tense and sure as I wait to take the shot that will kill the enemy sniper I’ve hunted down.
The kill I need to make to protect the men coming behind me.
It’s there and gone as fast as I feel it, the savagery of the strange dual life I’ve lived for so long and carry inside me still.
“Yes.” Mak watches me with knowing eyes.
“There he is. That man is who you are, Luke. Who you were born to be. You can go catch a wave and tell yourself that is your life, but you and I both know it will never be enough. You need the danger like you need to breathe. And you won’t ever be happy without it, no matter how good the fucking swell is. ”
From the corner of my eye I see Mickey, Roman’s godson, approaching us with a dancer under each arm, and with several others from his crew.
From their loose ties and wide grins, they’ve clearly all been living it up.
I vaguely remember Dimitry mentioning Mickey won some kind of bet with him and Roman, the prize being a visit to this club.
Mak lowers his voice as they near us.
“I’m not asking you to take this job because I want to fuck with you, Luke.
” For once, his face is stone-cold serious.
“I’m asking you to take it because, like I said, Zin needs someone I can trust to have her back.
The kind of trouble she’s in is likely more dangerous than any sandbox ever could be—and you’re the only man I believe is equipped to handle it. ”
There’s nothing lighthearted about the way he says it. And Mak isn’t one to exaggerate a situation.
Quite the opposite.
If Mak says it’s dangerous, then it’s fucking dangerous.
And he clearly wants me on this job, which intrigues me almost as much as Zinaida herself.
Almost.
Fuck.
Say no, Luke. Tell them all to go to hell.
“Fine.” I fix Mak with a hard eye. “Send me the fucking brief.”
“Excellent.” He clips the end of a cigar and pulls a passing dancer down onto his lap. “You start the day after tomorrow.”
Roman and Dimitry slap hands, laughing their asses off.
“Bunch of pricks.” I glare at them. “And how do you know I start the day after tomorrow? She hasn’t signed the contract yet.”
But you want her to, don’t you, Luke? Far more than you should.
The truth is, I can already feel the familiar, hard thrill of danger reaching for me like a seductive mistress.
“She will.” Mak’s smirk has a dark edge.
Christ. What happened to walking away, Macarthur?
I don’t know why, but my common sense seems to exit the damned room the moment the bratva boys walk into it.
“Well, Mickey.” Roman lolls in his chair, grinning as the tall figure reaches us. “What’s the verdict? The Quartier more fun than those goddamn laptops you and Pavel never let go of?”
Mickey’s only response is to raise his eyebrows briefly with a slanted half smile. Pavel, however, Roman’s head tech geek, gives a heartfelt nod.
“Don’t knock the tech geeks.” Bryce, who fought with us in Myanmar, winks at me as he punches Pavel on the arm.
“They’re the reason we’re here. Roman laid a bet that Mickey and Pavel couldn’t beat him and Dimitry in a tactical exercise.
Then Luis and I trained the geeks so well that they kicked Roman and Dimitry’s asses to the curb, so tonight is our prize.
” He high-fives Luis, one of the other crew members, then glares at Roman.
“More than a year after we won the bet, by the way.”
“I said I’d bring you here on Mickey’s birthday.” Roman gives them a shit-eating grin. “I didn’t say which one. And eighteen or not, if Darya ever finds out we brought Mickey here, she’ll have all our asses on a plate.”
“Abby, too.” Dimitry points his Scotch warningly at Bryce and Luis. “You two talk, and you’re dead men.”
I laugh into my glass.
Say what you want about the bratva boys—they’re a fucking good time.
“Call us,” says one of the girls, smiling at Mickey.
She’s a very curvaceous dark blonde with sun-kissed skin and a mouth that looks like it’s had quite the workout.
She presses herself against Mickey’s long figure, her lips lingering on his neck, and whispers something in his ear that makes his eyes flare briefly.
“We can meet you after we finish,” says the other one, casting him a demure look that could nonetheless strip paint from the walls. “If you’ve still got any energy left, that is.” The way her eyebrows arch is a definite challenge.
“On the house,” adds the first one, with a slow, suggestive wink.
“Thank you for a lovely night.” Mickey kisses both girls on the cheek.
From the way they look over their shoulders at him as they go, I’d say he wasn’t the only one who enjoyed it.
“Huh.” Roman looks between the departing girls and his godson with a raised eyebrow. “Someone clearly made an impression.”
“Pretty sure they’re nice to all their clients,” Mickey demurs, folding himself into a chair and taking the Scotch Roman passes him.
Dimitry snorts. “Not without a gigantic fucking tip, they’re not. Did they get a gigantic tip, Mickey?”
He diplomatically doesn’t answer.
“Not a call us after work kind of tip.” Roman raises his glass in Mickey’s direction. “Looks like you take after Mikhail. Your father always could charm the trickiest of women.”
The easy affection between them is so obvious it’s almost bittersweet to watch.
They’re family.
A familiar, hollow bolt of loneliness flashes through me, there and then gone.
I drain my Scotch and stand, putting my hand out to Mak. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”
“Sure you don’t want to stick around?” Dimitry raises his glass to me, grinning. “The show only gets better, even if us old men aren’t allowed to indulge in it anymore.” He clinks his glass ruefully against Roman’s, though I note neither of them look at all genuinely upset.
“I’m good.”
No show in the world has a chance of competing with the one I just stood through.
Christ, I need to get out of here.
I offer Mickey my hand. “Happy birthday, mate. Enjoy it.”
He shakes my hand gravely. “It’s nice to see you, Luke.” There’s a sincerity in his voice that I find oddly touching. Mickey was just a kid the day we went in to get his sisters, but I saw the killer in him even back then. He stopped being a boy the day his sisters went missing.
Roman claps me on the shoulder. “I’m glad you’re taking the job,” he says under the guise of a brief embrace. “If Zin is asking for help, then she needs it, more than she’ll ever let on. And if anyone can handle her, it’s you.”
I glance up at the carefully concealed glass window of Zinaida’s office, but I can’t sense her in there as I did earlier in the evening.
I leave without seeing a trace of her again.