Fighting every instinct, I go to pull away from the curb, but the minute my foot touches the pedal there’s a deep ache in my chest and I’m slamming on the brakes.
“Fuck!”
Two extra weeks is more a papercut than a stab wound, so why is it hurting this much?
Maybe that’s the reason I turn left at the end of the high street instead of right, following the road up into the hills to an exclusive gated estate, while ignoring Viper’s next five calls.
The guy on security is a rookie. I don’t even need to show him my gun. Ten minutes later, I’m parking a hundred metres down from the entrance to an ugly red brick mansion. There’s a rock star’s house opposite, and a private golf course beyond, but it’s like the superyachts in Monaco ran aground and left all the sunshine behind.
I note the silver curls of barbed wire on top of the walls, the closed gates, the surprisingly small windows that look like the arrowslits of a castle…
It’s his taste, not hers. There’s no warmth, just cold anonymity behind a façade of wealth and ill-gotten status. Ada deserves a real home filled with love, not misery and shattered dreams.
I think back to my own childhood home, and there’s an idyllic snapshot waiting for me. My mother is baking focaccia in the kitchen, flooding my senses with the smell of warm yeast and rosemary, while my father and Matteo are conducting business in his study. My little sister, Vittoria, is twirling across the tiles at the bottom of the stairs again, and I’m watching her from the doorway of the living room, reluctant to join in because that’s not what cool twelve-year-olds do.
I wish I had. I wish I’d told her she was beautiful and wise and funny, and then made stupid shapes on the tiles with her because some moments are too fucking special to waste.
I’d tell her to run and hide when the doorbell rang that night.
I’d tell her I was sorry I couldn’t save her.
My thoughts stray to Ada again. I’m picturing her reaction when she saw what I’d given her earlier. Did it resonate right away, or did she trace a finger across the bloodstain with a small frown as she pulled the memory from the back of her mind.
She kept her promise. She stayed alive. Somehow, she found the strength to climb out of that basement and learn to walk again. She fought back and found a refuge in the second thing they tried so hard to take away. She has a dance studio when she can barely walk without limping after what they did to her. God, I’m so fucking proud of her for that.
She has a son.
One she hasn’t seen since he was a few days old, and that tragedy is just another in a long line of goddamn tragedies in her life that I’m planning to remedy. Ada was born to be a mother. To bear my children. When she’s back in my arms and my bed, I’m planning to fill her body with as much of me as I’m planning to fill her mouth and her heart. I’ll make sure her firstborn returns to her, too. I don’t give a damn if Alex is half Semenov’s. He’s half Ada’s, and I want every single part of her back in my life.
I take a long moment to drink in her cage again before I head back into London.
Does she touch herself in the dark here? Does she think about me when she slides her fingers across my universe? Does she angle her hand to try and reach the places only I can corrupt, and do her fingers slip and slide because she’s still so fucking wet for me?
Does she still remember like I remember?
CHAPTER 17
FRANKIE
Two hours later, I’m walking into an empty casino off Park Lane. Rage Against The Machine’s Killing In The Name is filtering out from behind the closed doors to the main gaming floor, corrupting the elegant lobby with its brutal rock riffs.
A quick glance at the front desk tells me that the place is already under new management. One of Viper’s guys has his boots up on the marble flat-top and is cleaning his teeth with his knife.
“Is he in there?” I jerk my head towards the music.
“Sí, amigazo.” He drops the blade and grins at me. “When the song starts playing, the killing’s just beginning.”
“Lock the front doors,” I order, jabbing my thumb over my shoulder. “And get the Gambling Commission on the phone. Tell them that the operating licenses for this place need to be updated. There’s been a change of ownership…and a change of name.”
“What to?” he asks, curiously.
“The Red Encore,” I say, striding towards the gaming room. “And this time we’ll be the ones coming out on top.”
“Anything you say, amigazo.”
Steeling myself for chaos, I ram my fists into black wood and the doors cave inward. The noise that greets me is like a rocket blast to the face.
Jesus, Viper. I’m not opposed to heavy rock music, but not when it’s raping my senses.
Kicking the doors shut again, I stand at the top of a short glass staircase and survey his version of London fun. What was once a lavish beige and gold room is now a scene of crimson carnage. Even the slot machines in the corner are dripping red. The pièce de résistance are the six dead bodies piled up on the blackjack table in the centre of the room, their eyes glassy and open, with several pints of blood soaking the plush taupe carpet below.
Viper’s over by the bar. Shirtless, as usual. His snake tattoo is splashed with an extra colour today to compliment the green and black. He’s standing next to a guy pinned backwards over the counter by his men, and something tells me he's not asking for his drinks order. Most of the bottles on the shelves have been smashed to shit.
“Having fun?” I call out, striding through the bloody wasteland to join them.
He turns as I approach, a wicked grin twisting his mouth. Eyes glittering like diamonds. “Couldn’t wait for you, Lastra. What took you so long? Jacking off outside her house like a creep again?”
Raising an eyebrow at him, I slip behind the counter to search for a surviving bottle and hit the jackpot three down on the top shelf. I don’t bother with a glass. I just tip the single malt back, relishing the explosion at the back of my throat. Placing the bottle down on the counter, I tilt my head sideways to take a better look at the guy Viper’s torturing. His face is a state of gore and blood. I doubt even his own mother would recognise him.
“Who is he?”
“I’ll get to that in a moment.”
“Where’s Bambi?” I gesture to the iDock next to the ice box. After a nod from Viper, one of his men leans over and turns the volume down.
He considers me for a moment, his hunting knife still poised above the guy’s carotid artery as I locate a cigarette, light it up, and take that first brutal hit of nicotine. “Why d’ya ask?”
“Maybe I don’t want her getting nightmares. There’s an age limit to this place for a reason.”
He jerks his head to the roulette table in the far corner where a familiar pink head is dipped low over a laptop, a white AirPod jammed in each ear. “How’s that for bad parenting? There’s far worse stuff on the Internet than this.”
The guy bent over the bar counter starts moaning.
“Shut the fuck up,” we snarl in unison.
Holding the smoke captive between my teeth, I slide my jacket off and chuck it over a nearby stool before picking up the single malt again. For the next few seconds, I alternate my bad habits until the buzz in my head is numbing the ache in my chest.