“Stick to stealing smokes instead of information, Bambi,” I warn. “Stay out of this mess. It’s nothing but trouble.”
Placing my iPhone back down in front of me, she bites her lip and drops the shitty teenage act, looking every inch a kid who knows she’s in the doghouse.
At least she can still tell the difference between right and wrong. We haven’t screwed her up that bad.
“Did you know that a Ghost Crab can growl?” she blurts out suddenly. “They use the teeth in their stomach.”
“No, I didn’t know that.” I slide my iPhone back into my pocket and resume chewing on the matchstick. “Did you know there’s a type of pig in China that’s the size of a bear?”
A smile threatens to break up her sulky expression. “Did you know a snail can sleep for three years at a time?”
I pause, thinking fast. “Can you get me access to all the security cameras inside dance lady’s studio reception?”
She frowns. “I thought you said—"
“If I’m complicit, it’s different.”
“What does ‘complicit’ mean?”
“That we’re in it together.”
She rolls my words around her head, and I can tell she likes the way they sound.
“I can get you access. When for?”
“I’ll let you know.” I watch her eyes flicker back to her laptop screen. “How are you related to Viper again, Bambi?”
“I’m his brother’s niece.”
CHAPTER 27
ADA
The last Red Compass meeting was all about business, but tonight it’s all about pleasure.
Their pleasure.
Not mine.
God forbid these monsters might ever see past their own dirty ambitions and libidos. If they did, they’d understand my misery at being dragged to a place like this when all I desire is my freedom.
The club is dark. The vibe inside is black leather and sex. Shangri-La is one of O’Sullivan’s more exclusive private Gentlemen’s Clubs, carved out of an eighteenth-century basement in Soho, with debasement filling in the cracks of the arched brickwork as barely legal girls strip and pout on the mirrored platform below.
Everything about this place is fake.
Fake smiles.
Fake nails.
Fake show of power.
O’Sullivan’s grip on London is slipping, even though he’d rather shoot himself in the head than admit to it. He needs to prove to the Italians, and ultimately the Brigăzi, that the city is still under his control, now more than ever. What better way than with a reckless display of hedonism and subjugated women, when his own wife is lying in a hospital bed less than ten miles from here?
Roisin’s not dead. The doctors managed to stabilise her in time. I know this because I heard O’Sullivan bitching about it earlier, cursing her will to live when he was so sure he’d finally crushed it.
I’ve been watching the Irish mobster all evening from a circular booth in a dark corner, pretending to be invisible while replaying last night over and over in my head to keep myself sane. He’s strutting about the place acting like a dissipated god, but his reputation is on shaky ground after Guido’s death and the drive-by, and now the disappearance of two Lithuanian planes and millions of pounds worth of coke.
Tonight, he’s pouring sex and alcohol down Mario Zaccaria’s throat and throwing his money around, but it’s just a smokescreen. No rival organisation has stepped up to claim responsibility for the explosions yet, and it’s making him look weak. He’d wipe out his enemies in a heartbeat, but even the great and terrible Cian O’Sullivan can’t kill shadows.
Running my finger up and down the stem of my cocktail glass, I debate all the reasons why I’ve been summoned again. Is it another chance to intimidate me? To berate me? To keep an eye on me? To parade me as bait in the hope that Frankie bites? All I know is that six hours ago Adrik turned up at my dance studio with this stupid silver mesh minidress dress I’m wearing and told me to get changed. When I protested, he held up his phone and threatened to ring Kirill, then smirked when I quietly acquiesced.
I’m not here to support my husband, that’s for sure. He’s currently getting sucked off by a teenager in a cheap red corset a couple of booths to my right. His face is tipped back, eyes closed in ecstasy, his right hand fisting her blonde hair as he forces himself deeper and deeper into her mouth until she’s spitting up and gagging all over him, which only makes him smile more.
I look away, sick to my stomach. There’s a new fire simmering inside me. Every time I think about what they’ve done, another log gets tossed on the flames. I’m too angry to be meek and deferential anymore. Too impatient to sit still as they aim their cruelty at me.
Six days to go.
Six days to go.
Six days to go.
I think about Frankie and Alex again. This morning, when I wrote their names in the condensation on the mirror, I imagined the man I love standing in front of a window with a gun in his hand, waiting for a signal. I saw my son staring at his phone and willing for it to ring.
I think about last night, and how it felt like I was being reborn again as I was falling apart beneath him. How he said he’d find a way to keep me safe between now and next Friday if he could…
Loud laughter from O’Sullivan’s booth draws my attention. He and his lieutenants have forced some girl onto the table and they’re holding her legs open and snorting lines off her naked pussy. She can’t be more than seventeen, the same age I was when I met Frankie. Even from over here, I can see how much she’s shaking with fear.
Bastards.
“You don’t approve?”
Mario Zaccaria has stopped in front of my booth. Despite O’Sullivan’s best efforts, he doesn’t look drunk in the slightest, just malevolent—his dark eyes glinting in the club’s lights. His tailored suit is almost sinister in its precision, skimming off his broad shoulders and tapered waist like sheets of black ice.
“It’s not my place to say,” I mutter, staring straight ahead.
I know who murdered your father, Mr. Zaccaria. He has the same face as your own executioner.
“Everyone is entitled to an opinion, signora.” To my horror, he slides into my booth, opening his jacket to make himself more comfortable, and me considerably less so. “It is just that no one listens to a woman’s.”
I keep my eyes fixed on the girl gyrating on stage as he inches closer, enveloping me in some expensive cologne that smells earthy and cruel, as I envisage stabbing him in the neck with the stem of my cocktail glass.
“You are not so displeasing to look at tonight,” he croons, his gaze roving over my body and hovering on my stupidly low neckline, his thick accent clinging to my skin like unwanted perspiration. “Did I offend you with my comments the other day?”
I flinch when I feel a cold hand on my knee. They’re not so swollen and painful anymore, but they’re still sensitive when touched by a disgusting creep. “I don’t recall what you said, Mr. Zaccaria.”
“I mocked your beauty, your scars…” I flinch again as he starts to slowly run his fingers up the inside of my thigh. “Don’t move and keep your eyes on your husband being sucked off by a whore,” he hisses, as I try to push him away. “When I penetrate this trouble-making pussy, I want him and O’Sullivan to watch.”