Chapter 25
Damien
Kirill ghosts into the doorway as if I summoned him by thought.
“Alisha Fareham,” he says without preamble.
“Started at the café six weeks after Lidiya. Massive social media presence. Fancies herself as a bit of an influencer. Monetises. Probably makes a good enough chunk of change from it. She has a big following. The bank shows two recent cash deposits of ten grand each. Address… Mayfair.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And she chooses to work in a café south of the river? That’s not suspicious in the slightest.”
“Hmm. Parents are wealthy. Elite wealthy. Old money. Practically nobility.”
“So what is their daughter doing fucking about with a Russian Madam who appears to be trafficking women and stealing money?”
“That is what you need to find out.”
I glance at the door and hesitate. Typically, I’d be out of the chair and in the car in under two seconds to get to the bottom of this, but now there is Lidiya to consider.
“She’s coming with me.”
Kirill narrows his eyes. “Is that the wisest move?”
“Leaving her here on her own is the stupidest move.”
“She is not alone.”
“She is worth a hundred million pounds. You don’t just leave that kind of asset at home when you leave.”
“Asset,” she says, entering the office in a white jersey dress that sits above her knees and skims her curves like it was made for her. Black knee-high boots add to the look. She is sexy as fuck, and it makes me want to do things I promised not to do.
“Solynhshko,” I say carefully as there is fire in her eyes. “You look beautiful.”
She breathes in, keeping control of her temper in a display of willpower I admire and respect. “Asset,” she repeats. “Is that what I am?”
“Not to me.”
“Then to who?”
“People whose names you should not know.”
“Rule three,” she says, moving closer. “Don’t lie to me, Damien.”
I meet her eyes and stick to the rule. “To Orlov. To the man who bid. To anyone reading moves on a board you never asked to stand on—you are an asset. A pressure point. A message. That’s what you are to them.”
“And to you?” Her chin tilts a fraction, daring me.
“You’re mine,” I say, steady. “Not for sale. Not for trade. Not up for debate.”
Her mouth tightens, but she doesn’t flinch.
“We’re going out,” I add. “You’re coming with me.”
Kirill shifts his stance. “Damien—”
“No.” I cut him off without taking my gaze off Lidiya. “Leaving her here gives a clever man time to try a different door.”
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“Two stops. First, a girl with rich parents who lives far from Brixton for a woman on minimum wage. Then round the corner to a club called the Ashlar.”
A flicker of alarm crosses her face. “Who is the rich girl?” she asks with a hard swallow.
“I’ll give you three guesses, but I think you’ll only need one.”
“Alisha.”
“Clever girl. Go and get your coat, phone and anything else you want to bring.”
She nods slowly and disappears. Kirill ducks out to arrange transportation. This isn’t an event I intend to drive to myself. We need backup in case things go sideways. I need to get Lidiya out of there fast. I slide the Glock into the holster at the back and pocket the knucks.
Lidiya returns with a camel coat over the dress, hair scraped into a high ponytail that makes her neck look like something I want to bite. She has her phone in one hand, which she slips into the pocket of the coat.
“Ready?” I ask.
“No,” she says, and steps past me anyway.
Good girl.
Outside, the air has that wet London bite that never announces itself, it just lives in your bones.
I open the rear door of the black Mercedes and help her in before I slide in next to her.
Kirill takes the driver’s seat, and we set off.
The gate opens on our approach like the city is baring its throat.
Alisha’s parents’ extravagant townhouse is pale stone and money. Kirill pulls up outside, and Lidiya stares up at the three-storey building, which I’d estimate is priced around fifteen million pounds. She looks back at me. “Is this the right place?”
“She is not the woman you thought she was.”
She lets out a small scoff. “To be fair, I didn’t even think about who she was. I did sometimes wonder how she managed to buy such nice clothes and makeup. I guess this answers that.”
I take her small scoff as permission to move. Kirill kills the engine and is out before the car rocks to stillness. I step onto the pavement and scan the street. Quiet. A dog-walker two doors down. A delivery van is idling at the corner. Nothing that pings wrong.
“Stay on my left,” I tell Lidiya. “Or you go back in the car.”
She nods and slides in on my left.
Kirill rings the bell. It’s an ornate brass lion’s head. It gives a deep, expensive buzz. A camera above the lintel tracks. I tip my chin at it, let them see my face. The door unlatches after a beat, and a man in a suit that tries very hard opens it three inches, chain on.
“We’re not taking visitors,” he starts.
“You are,” I answer. “Or my politeness turns to violence in three seconds.” The chain slides. The man steps back with the speed of someone who has worked in Mayfair long enough to understand hierarchy when it presents itself with threats that can be backed up.
We enter a hallway drowning in oil paintings and pedigree. Marble, orchids, soft lighting that tries to flatter everyone.
“Miss Fareham?” I ask, already moving. The suit reaches to block me and then thinks better of it.
A woman’s voice carries from the back, and Lidiya glances at me. “Harris, who is it?” She rounds the corner in vintage jeans and a silk blouse, hair sleek, makeup perfect for a reel she can post in under an hour. She stops dead when she sees me. Then she sees Lidiya.
“Oh,” she says, smile faltering. “You.”
“Me,” Lidiya says pleasantly, surprising me. “Hi, Alisha.”
Alisha’s composure recovers fast. The smile reassembles itself like a mask snapping back into place, and she tilts her head with the kind of casual curiosity that belongs on someone who hasn’t just been caught living a double life.
“Lidiya, what are you doing here?” She flicks her gaze to me, then to Kirill behind us, and something tightens behind her eyes. “And who are your... friends?”
“Damien Voronov,” I say, not offering my hand. “I think you already know the name.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, but her voice has climbed half an octave.
“Then this will be a short conversation,” I say. “Invite us in, or I’ll have it here where your neighbours can enjoy it.”
The door closes quietly behind me.
Alisha swallows, and the mask cracks just enough for me to see the calculation underneath. She’s not afraid of me. Not yet. She’s afraid of what I represent, which is worse, because it means she knows exactly who I am.