Five weeks later
“You’re not going to like this,” Mayfair says grimly.
I hate everything about my life right now, and it’s such a clusterfuck that speaking on the phone is the least of it. Two months without Emily and I’m torn apart, as though each nerve is being removed from my body every day.
There are a lot of Emily Smiths. Especially since I expanded the search to middle names as well. And most are plausibly in the description of my Emily. Short, brown hair, brown eyes, in her early twenties.
If I’d known this was going to happen, I would’ve taken photos—no. I would have kidnapped her the first day I saw her.
I stare out at the river from my office and grunt. Thankfully that’s enough for Mayfair to continue.
“I finally got hold of Blackfen. He wants your entire Mortlake territory and half your assets.”
My heart leaps. Because if that’s the price of having Emily back immediately, it’s nothing.
My men have terrorised, sorry visited, every Emily Smith in London and we’ve opened up the search to neighbouring areas, which is risky. Essex have killed three of my men now.
The way photos arrive at my phone, taken by my men who visit women with the same name as the one I want, is the fucking worst game ever. It combines all the distraction of email, the compulsiveness of snacking, and stomach-churning hope followed by the agony of disappointment.
I’ve never been held prisoner, but I imagine the moment before you fully wake as a captive is like my entire day. A knife-edge of optimism before grim reality sets in.
By comparison, this is cheap.
“Fine—” But I don’t manage to finish the word.
“And you have to ‘stay’ with him for a month.”
What?
“I’m pretty sure ‘stay’ is a euphemism for ‘be tortured’,” Mayfair adds with a serious tone.
A month. I’m devastated.
I’d put up with torture for Emily, that’s not the issue. But a month is too long. I’ll find her more quickly going door-to-door.
“I don’t think he’s trustworthy, either.” Mayfair huffs with disapproval. “I hoped he’d be more reasonable to a Bratva Pakhan. I’m sorry.”
Two months has already been too long without Emily. I can’t waste another month with whatever game Blackfen wants to play.
One month later
I turn up at Blackfen’s headquarters with nothing. Not even a gun.
I did consider other options, like force. I have the men to achieve it, or at least to have good odds.
But if it had gone wrong and Blackfen had become stubborn or been killed, I’d have lost everything.
Thankfully, I’m not shot on sight by Blackfen’s guards, probably because he knew I was coming.
“What the hell are you here for, Mortlake?” Blackfen’s expression is simultaneously confused and annoyed as I appear in his lounge, the door shut behind me by his head of security. It’s a bright room, with grey furniture and a cold marble floor.
Easy to clean.
I spread my hands. The answer is obvious.
He narrows his eyes, then a cunning look sweeps across his face. “You really don’t like talking, do you?”
I shrug. Is this the sort of insight he can give? Wow. I’m fucked. Computers—and their enthusiastic users—truly are as stupid as they appear.
I’d walk away, but I have no more options. Every avenue I’ve tried has been a failure.
He leans back on the sofa. I heard the phrase “shit-eating grin” from an American distributor I work with once, and that’s exactly what Blackfen’s smile is. “I’m not raising a finger until you tell me what this is about.”
Twat.
“The deal,” I say. My voice is rusty, even though I’ve had to use it far more than I’d like recently.
“What deal?” he replies, smirking.
I grind my teeth. “Find Emily Smith. Any price.”
Fucking hell. Two sentences.
He shakes his head. “I was sure this was some business thing gone bad, or perhaps a temporary fixation—”
I snort.
“—that you would work out of your system with another woman.”
My lip curls. As though Emily could be swapped for anyone else. Fucking idiotic.
I circle my hand to indicate he should get on with this. Quicker we make this deal, quicker I get Emily back.
“She’s worth your territory, half your assets—and don’t think I don’t know how much you have stashed away—and a month of suffering? You’re aware that’s what I meant?” He looks at me almost pityingly. “No one who stays with me is comfortable.”
I just nod.
“There can be long-term psychological and physical consequences to torture.”
As if I haven’t seen that first hand. Is he trying to talk me out of this? And seriously, nothing he could do would be half as bad as losing Emily. I’m at my wits’ end, so I just scowl at Blackfen, waiting.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath. “I’d heard you were an impossible psychopath, maybe a sociopath, but I had no idea.”
A brief pause, as though he’s expecting me to dispute what’s probably a statement of fact. Besides, this man is obviously insane.
“Shall I knock you out and take you downstairs, or would you rather…?” He gestures to a door.
I head towards it. I’d definitely prefer to walk.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him move, and instinctively I reach for my gun. But I left it behind.
He’s an inch shorter than me, but he has the advantage of surprise and a weapon. Pain explodes in my neck, shooting down my spine and up to my head.
All my nerves are on fire.
I scream, but the agony goes on and on.
I collapse to the floor.
My last thought, before I black out, is that I hope Emily is okay.
I wake up tied to a chair, my body aching but not in pain.
The room is dark and lit only by a computer screen.
I must move, because a big leather office chair turns and Blackfen looks back at me, his face mainly in shadow. “Ah! You’re awake.”
I glance around. It’s dank and dirty, and the concrete makes it clear this is going to be a long month.
“Too weird for me to bring someone down here of their own volition,” he says cheerfully. “I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone take me up on one of my deals. So, I have a question.” He rubs his jaw thoughtfully. “Why do you want to find this girl?”
I glare at him. No part of me feels like confessing all my squishy emotions to Blackfen.
“Or I’ll pepper spray you. I have plenty. It’s similar pain to the adapted taser you experienced, but in your eyeballs, nose, throat, and mouth for around two or three hours,” he adds conversationally.
This shit wasn’t my style as an enforcer. I’m far happier just threatening with a gun than all this fancy nonsense.
I don’t reply. I’m resigned that I’ll do whatever this bastard wants to get Emily back. The London Mafia Syndicate know I’m here, and so do the most loyal of my men. I’m as safe as I can be, under the circumstances of being under the control of a serial killer.
Yeah, he probably thinks I don’t know that.
I’ll survive this though.
“Why do you want to find her?” he asks again. “What could possibly be worth this?”
It’s none of his business.
I don’t answer, and with a roll of his eyes, he puts up a screen between us, and then casually picks up a spray can. I shut my eyes, but not quite in time.
It’s like pouring liquid chillies into my face. It’s excruciating, and as he promised, far worse than the taser.
“How are you doing?” Blackfen offers me a bottle sometime later. I have no idea how long.
When I take it, I realise I’m not bound to the chair.
“You’re not a guy with a big digital footprint,” he muses as I drink, returning to his computer.
The cold, sweet water is heaven. My eyes still sting, but the worst has passed.
“But I’m clear you’re not involved with the sorts of things men who ‘visit’ down here with me normally are. So I was wondering, what are you going to do with Emily Smith when I let you go in a month? And why have you been buying so many special editions of books with titles like, ‘A “Dangerous Thing” and “Pretty Thing”’. Audiobooks too. Doesn’t seem like your style.”
I still don’t reply.
“Look, I’ll get it out of you eventually. The only question is how much pain I inflict first.” He shifts his folded arms.
“Nothing could hurt as much as losing Emily.” I don’t know why I say it. Perhaps to avoid more pepper spray, or maybe just to give voice to this feeling that has been eating away at me for months now.
He raises his eyebrows, nodding. “And the books? And the ludicrous—”
“For her.”
“I thought so.” Blackfen shakes his head, but the rapid taps of his keyboard say he’s doing something. “I had to use…” He hesitates. “Yeah, you won’t appreciate the details of my genius methods. There’s a girl called Emily Smith who has an account on that orange-logo website. Listens to a lot of audio fantasy romance books. Her IP address a few months ago was Mortlake, and now…”
“Where?” I demand, because, yes. That could be my Emily. How he knows that I’ve no idea, and I’m beyond caring.
“There’s a script running, because there aren’t many logins so I’m having to…” He sounds as though he’s enjoying himself. “Ha. Got it.”
My heart does a flapping movement like a half-dead pigeon. If he’s found her, he can fulfil his part of the bargain. Thirty days of torture, Mortlake’s territory and half my fortune, and I’ll have Emily.
Worth it.
I tip my head back, a silly grin on my face.
“You’re going to be insufferable, aren’t you?” Blackfen sighs wearily. “No fun. And honestly, I’m not set up to deal with men in love with a legal-aged woman. I have other specialisms. I’ve got work to do.” He taps on his keyboard. “I’ve sent you the address. That’ll be her. And I’ve notified your men to come and bring you a car.”
I stare.
Lifting himself to standing, he pulls back the screen between us.
“You can keep your territory, and your money, I don’t need it. I get enough good shit from…” He trails off. “Never mind. God help you if you ever harm her, though. I’ll be watching.” There’s a playful tone to his threat that I can’t fully process over the generosity of what he’s done.
I stand, and my legs nearly give way. Giving an exasperated sigh, Blackfen supports me, but I’m already moving, stumbling. I have to get to her. Must. Now.
I leave Blackfen’s house with his yell of, “You’re welcome, you prick!” echoing after me, and there’s some of my men outside with cars. I slide into the driver’s seat of the nearest, because I haven’t got the patience for anyone being slow, and head to Emily.
The right one. I hope. I can’t live another second without her.
I rap on the door, and frown that it sounds flimsy, flexing with the impact of my knuckles. I should be too deadened and exhausted to be excited, though my body doesn’t have that memo, and is fizzing like a bottle of one of those sweet children’s drinks.
Footsteps sound inside.
The door opens and I look up, scowling, ready for another girl who isn’t—
“Markov.” She beats me to it.
It’s Emily.
