Twisted (A Zeta Cartel Novel Book 5) Page 2

  As I am all about business, I set about preventing the pendejo from fucking up. "We're neighbours," I pointed out. "And we're in the same line. I would prefer to be friends."

  His shrug spoke volumes.

  "We appeal to the same demographic: young affluent urbanites, looking for a good time." I've got an MBA from Cornell. "We could help each other along."

  "I don't need your help!"

  That took me aback. "Forgive me, sometimes my English isn't up to speed." It was a lie, but I thought he'd misunderstood me. "What I meant was, we could support each other. Like, you might want access to some of our bands."

  His club was dead compared to mine because I had cornered the market on London's finest live music bands. I had a different group play every night, and it had people flocking in. While Empire staff could take breaks whenever they liked, mine were rushed off their feet, making sure our patrons were happy and forking over cash.

  "You had your eye on Pussy Wave, the girl band, didn't you? They're under contract to us but we'd be happy to share."

  "They played at my club first!"

  He sounded like a spoilt child, so I soothed him. "But you didn't offer a contract."

  "You're saying I fucked up?" He was practically frothing at the mouth.

  "No-no-no, of course not." I wondered if he was sniffing his own product; his reaction was way out of line. "As you said, they played your place first."

  "They're a bunch of uppity bitches," Kowalczyk growled. "Lesbians!"

  Okay, that really set me on my heels. "Turned you down, huh?" I meant to sound sympathetic, but it was oil to his fire.

  "I don't need you! My club's better than yours!" Kowalczyk spat. I'd always thought envy was green, but the Pole was turning puce. "Fuck your suka bands," he raged.

  "Look, if you want to compete in that area, I'm good with that," I said peaceably. "But you're paying top dollar for your coke because you buy from middlemen." I played my ace. "Buy it direct from me, and you can make an extra ten percent. It'll be better quality too."

  He didn't even blink. "No."

  I'd approached him with respect, offered friendship, and the fuck had thrown it in my face. It took an act of will not to shoot him on the spot.

  "You'll have to shut up shop," Kowalczyk sneered.

  I wouldn't but I wasn't telling him that. It's stupid to telegraph your intentions. Kowalczyk wasn't very smart.

  "Rebuilding that wall will take a year." The lips thinned. "Even if you get permission, it'll cost a fortune."

  "Maybe."

  "You can't afford it!"

  It was beyond the line. "We Zetas have deep pockets."

  Another shrug. "You might be a power in Mexico but this is London."

  It was too fucking much. I had to grip the chair to stop myself from launching at him. The four thugs lounging against the wall chortled, openly enjoying themselves.

  Their contempt settled me. This Pole was trying to needle me into action in front of his men. Now I had his measure, I didn't flinch. He and his buds were dead. I don't tolerate disrespect, not ever. They'd be gone by sundown.

  "I'm king of London," Kowalczyk boasted. "Everyone comes to my parties."

  He was completely loco. Bad priorities too. Business always comes first.

  "I might buy you out," Kowalczyk mocked. "If the price is right."

  "I'll consider it."

  He insulted me because he didn't even respect me enough to whack me. Keeping my temper in check was easy because the cabrón would soon be six feet under. Kowalczyk enjoyed partying, and if I blew him away in his own club, his terrified customers would run next door, into my place. Yes, I'm a nut for efficiency.

  There was no point in staying but as I got up to go, she walked in. The tunic fluttered and rippled, drawing attention to the curves. To my delight, her face matched the poem of a body: huge hazel eyes, a little nose with an enchanting upturned tip and flawless skin.

  One look was all it took. I saw her and knew I wouldn't rest until she was mine.

  Kowalczyk was on his feet in an instant. "Persia." The way he drank her in told me he was solid. "Come here."

  The eyes flickered, but she undulated over, putting one foot in front of another as if she were strolling down a catwalk, that mouth-watering body shimmering under the silky dress.

  He put a paw around her waist, pulled her in tight against his overfat gut and, looking me right in the eye, growled, "We're done. The answer is no."

  He was a dead man, so I was ice. "I'll be seeing you."

  She was so close, that her perfume drifted over, a rich, exotic scent that hinted at satin sheets and decadent passion. She didn't even glance my way but his radar warned him I was coveting his woman. His fingers splayed, digging into her soft flesh and whitening as they pinched.

  Curiously, she was silent. She just stood there, that beautiful face as devoid of emotion as the marble goddess outside as he mauled her.

  "Where were you?" The question was loaded with entitlement. "I sent for you and they couldn't find you."

  "I was in the garden," the low tones were distant.

  The hand gripped her admonishingly. "Next time, take your phone."

  "Of course." She sounded cold but then she lifted her eyes and smiled at him. "Sorry."

  It was well done, but I saw the falseness in it. This wasn't a wife or girlfriend; this was a possession. She had the face of an angel but the ugly fingers claiming her told me she'd sold herself to the devil. I've a strong stomach but surprisingly, the knowledge revolted me.

  Kowalczyk was staring at her, his ill-fitting suit suddenly bulging. He dipped his head and kissed her lasciviously, establishing possession. The girl stood on tiptoe, accepting the thin slavering lips with the blank expression and studied manner of a pro.

  The contrast between them so was harsh that I wondered what possessed her. A puta with her looks could easily have sold herself to a much better specimen than Kowalczyk. That she had settled for the blobfish was incomprehensible.

  I made to leave them to it. "Adios."

  Kowalczyk tore himself away and gazed at me. If he'd just shut up, he would have been dead and no regrets. But he opened his mouth and screwed himself. "You're a loser. Do yourself a favour and go back to where you came from."

  I had my hand on my gun before conscious thought kicked in. "What the fuck?"

  The soldiers were between us a heartbeat later.

  The girl gasped but Kowalczyk just talked on. "Everyone knows you're a fuckup. Your cousin gave you the job out of pity. You lost a shitload of coke in Turkey and when you got shot, by a fucking amateur, they sent a low-ranking flunky from Mexico to save your arse."

  Fury flooded through me, fanning the hot desire for revenge into an inferno. The insult was too much to bear. Death was too easy. I'd destroy him, rip him apart, bit by bit.

  "You're short of staff, too, right?" The brown fangs showed again. "You can't get anyone to sign up with you."

  He mistook my silence for cowardice. "You can't take care of business."

  "If you're quite done, I'll be seeing you."

  He shrugged, oblivious to the underlying threat, but the girl's eyes lifted and locked on mine, little flecks of green and gold lighting up the rich hazel as she examined me. The swift appraisal packed a boxer's punch. This was no empty-headed slut; she radiated intelligence.

  It decided me; I'd destroy Kowalczyk, ripping away the business he'd built, the house he was proud of, the celebs that flocked around him, and when he went into a pauper's grave, he'd go knowing I was boning his woman.

  I nodded at her. "Be seeing you, too." Of all of Kowalczyk's possessions, she was the only one I wanted. She was a beauty; just thinking of those curves as mine had me solid.

  The girl saw right through me. Her eyes narrowed with comprehension, the sparkle darkening. "Ohmigod, you and me? I don't think so!" Registering her disdain in every inch, she shrugged off Kowalczyk's iron grasp. She examined me from top to toe and then she shu
ddered. "One has to draw the line somewhere." Then she threw back her shoulders and laughed, "Eeeeew, no thanks! Definitely not." At me!

  The stolid Pole and his goons had been bad enough but to have a girl mock me was the last straw. Somehow, I got out of that house, her contempt haunting me as I tore out of the gate.

  I don't remember the drive home but by the time I pulled up in my VIP reserved parking bay, the humiliation had seared into a crushing need for revenge. I punched the penthouse button on the private elevator and came to a decision: as they shovelled dirt over Kowalczyk's corpse, she would be in my bed and the bitch would be screaming. I would make her life a living hell and she would suffer an eternity.

  I'd make her pay.

  Chapter Two

  Persia

  "You weren't in the garden." Whether it was the stained teeth, the smell of cheap cigars or just the sheer evil of his presence was uncertain but being near Jacek Kowalczyk made me want to heave. "Where did you go?"

  "Nowhere." My lie was automatic.

  The pale orbs were expressionless but the merciless hand slid up my waist, cupping, gripping and then sliding over my breast. I knew what was coming and braced myself. As the iron fingers latched on and squeezed, the searing pain brought tears to my eyes. But I didn't gasp or move; I didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

  After a long count of ten, just as my knees were about to buckle, he let go. The chilly gaze bore into me. "Don't. Lie. To. Me." He was remote, entirely unmoved. "You were off to that college again."

  My fashion design course. My life. My passion. "I had to submit my end of term assignment. Otherwise they'll kick me out."

  The thin mouth twisted. "You don't have the talent. Your skills level stops at wearing clothes."

  Great. I started my career as a model and like the rest of the world, Kowalczyk assumed that made me a moron.

  He looked into the distance, mulling over a fun way to crush me. "You are here to provide a service."

  He liked to show me off to visitors, setting me alongside the masterpiece paintings and the crystal chandeliers. I'd forgotten that he'd told me to be in his office that afternoon, with special instructions to be all over him.

  The feral fangs showed. "As you aren't delivering, we'll add to the debt. An extra week's vig, I think."

  Christ, more debt to work off. I didn't even try to protest. I was powerless, and he knew it.

  "The door's there, Persia." It was better than crushing my soft flesh; he was enjoying himself. "Feel free to leave."

  I stayed, just as he knew I would. I was tethered to Jacek Kowalczyk as firmly as if he had me on a leash. I wasn't going anywhere.

  "You were late, and you cheeked me before my visitor."

  Oh hell. Usually the pestilent Pole was too thick to notice my nasty little quips, but he'd picked up on the veiled insult.

  "You think you're too good for me?" The cold eyes narrowed. "I think you need a reminder of where exactly you stand."

  Christ, this would be brutal. I was an inch from welling up but blinking rapidly dealt with it. I couldn't run. Instead, I focussed on the man who'd just walked out. I'll be seeing you. He'd spoken softly, almost dreamily, but the violence in his gaze spoke volumes.

  Dark tousled hair, dark eyes, divine cheekbones and a long, lean, limber body that longed to be stroked, kissed and licked. Well-dressed too. The superbly cut steel grey suit was Savile Row, the purple shirt handstitched Gucci and the leather loafers were Dolce & Gabbana. A man to die for.

  I lusted for a moment, and then reality kicked in. He was prettier than the others, but still scum. The knowledge centred me. He'd been absolutely raging; threatening revenge. With luck, he'd kill Kowalczyk stone dead. Death could do us part.

  "An object lesson," my tormentor mused.

  Although this fucker was possibly too evil even for the devil.

  "Have the car brought round," Kowalczyk snapped to his minders. He ran a hand up my leg and over my arse. "In thirty minutes."

  The foul foursome who guarded him 24/7 jumped to it, leaving me to my fate.

  "Slut." The creeping fingers were lifting the hem of my tunic, exposing my knickers. He'd draw this out, enjoying my humiliation. "A half and half, ending with you bent over the desk."

  Talking to me as if I were a whore and using me in his office so that his minders would hear me being fucked was his favourite game. Swallowing the insult that came to my lips saved me from further humiliation like having the door left open and other fun twists. My mouth had cost me too much already.

  My mind went back to the pretty visitor. I'd sensed the maelstrom in the dark-eyed stranger but I'd been so pissed off with Kowalczyk that I'd sneered at him out of sheer bad temper and despair.

  "I'm waiting," Kowalczyk said silkily. He made a point of seeming impassive but I knew him too well; humiliation was his aphrodisiac. Under the sagging belly, his crotch was bulging. "On your knees."

  A deep breath helped me tune out the man before me and turn inward. A runway with models wearing the clothes I'd designed. Music blaring, lights flashing. Me, seeing my success. His fingers pinching my shoulder dug in. It freaking hurt, and it brought me back, keeping me from blanking him out.

  He was working the clasp of his belt. "Come on, get this undone." Grumbling, "Those bastard dry-cleaners shrunk this suit."

  "You're too fat." I eyed the straining material. "If you want a better fit, I suggest industrial liposuction."

  The pale eyes blazed. "Shut the fuck up."

  "I assumed you didn't want me to mention the micro dick."

  Told you I have a mouth on me. And a death wish maybe.

  He held me by the hair, agony all by itself, and shook me. "You'll pay for that."

  "So you said." He wanted tears, and I was determined to ruin it for him. "Hurry up and stick it in already."

  "Suka!" My hair was coming out at the roots. I was still gasping when he pulled me to my feet and tossed me over the desk. "Ty kurwo!"

  I won't dwell on the next few minutes. Luckily, Kowalczyk was hung like a mouse and gone in 60 seconds to boot. The thin rod piercing me barely registered, and the stream of trash-talk was water off a duck's back. It was the shame of knowing I was helpless that really hurt me.

  Thankfully, blanking out was easy. I went straight into my favourite fantasy. Silk dresses by Persia York, Designer of the Year. His groaning jolted me out of my reverie. When he pulled out, I was filled with triumph. He'd used my body, but I'd escaped him.

  "Now for the lesson." The hand was in my hair again. I'd counted my chickens too soon. The Armani trousers were puddled around his ankles. "Lick me clean."

  Did I say he was a filthy pig? "No fucking way!"

  The iron grip kept me in place as he shoved his crotch into my face. I'll spare you the rest. It was vile.

  "Throw up on my rug and I'll make you eat it."

  I was heaving and swallowing rapidly, hoping the sick would go away, when a phone rang.

  At the jaunty tune, some Polish polka, he dropped me and sprang to attention. Digging in a drawer, he pulled out a cheap phone. "Anno." His attention focused like a laser beam, he spoke rapidly. "Yes, I have it all set up. She's coming for dinner on Friday, and she'll bring her fiancé."

  Nausea winning, I crawled over to the wastebasket. As I vomited, I came to a resolution. I wasn't doing this anymore.

  "Yes, I'm certain. She's confirmed."

  Jacek Kowalczyk was scum, the kind whose death people would cheer. A gun would do the trick or perhaps I could stab him as he slept.

  "It'll be a party to remember. It'll go just as we planned."

  I was kidding myself. I didn't have it in me to kill and Kowalczyk knew it. He had a gold-plated gun, and he left it lying about all the time. Because I was too cowardly to pick it up and pull the trigger.

  "I'm telling you, there's nothing to worry about."

  My ears pricked up, not because of what he was saying but because of his tone. Kowalczyk was explaining, almost c
rawling. He'd never done that to anyone.

  "Jorge Santos is a nobody. He was here just now, begging for a favour."

  Now I had a name to put the pretty face: Jorge, the Spanish for George, and Santos for saint. Some saint. Devil, more like.

  "Yes, Arturo Vazquez is not to be messed with but he won't give a fuck. The Zetas blow away problems, family or not, and Santos screwed up last year. If he disappears, his cousin will just laugh."

  Great. I'd never heard of the Zetas but they sounded as evil as Kowalczyk. That pretty Jorge was pure filth.

  "He took my band, Pussy Wave, and now I will take over his territory," Kowalczyk boasted. "I'm king of London!"

  It must be an associate. It was a revelation because the Pole posed as an independent, a powerhouse who'd made his own way in the world, cunning and indestructible. He never talked about his plans to anyone and here he was, sharing.

  "Yes, it won't take me long," Kowalczyk was lit with triumph. "Da va."

  Another lightbulb. I'd wondered why he was speaking English but the two little words explained it: I had heard Natasha Kievko, Moscow's iconic designer say it often enough.

  Knowing Kowalczyk was pally with a Russian opened my eyes because the Poles hate them with a passion. Fifty years of communist rule aren't easily set aside.

  "Get up, you stupid bitch." He was pulling me up by the hair. Despite the call, the foul temper was flooding full force. "You look like shit."

  Not answering and a blank stare saved me from a beating and although he pretended that it meant I was afraid, we both knew I did it only because it drove him insane.

  "Acid," he snarled. "A single splash will ruin that pretty face of yours."

  That scared me but I lifted my chin. "Talk is cheap."

  His "Ty kurwo!" was rich with impotent fury.

  In the three months he'd had me, Kowalczyk had tried every trick in the book to crush me. He was desperate to see me break down and beg but so far all he'd managed was temporary humiliation. With my background, it would take more than a Polish prick to cow me. I shrugged and affected indifference, "If I look like shit, I'd better stay home."