Page 54 of Lethal Legacy

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“You’re not.” I don’t try to soften my voice. “We’ve just had a mild security breach, and I don’t need my team distracted by searching for you. Are we clear?” I barely wait for her nod before I turn away, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling that’s something like guilt as the door clicks shut behind me.

I stalk to the elevator and thrust her from my mind with effort.

I need to focus. And I need to work out what thefuckis going on.

Pillars nightclub might be Nikolai’s domain these days, but despite the bullshit he runs from here, he has enough sense at least not to fuck with the original setup. Set in an old basement by the commercial port, Pillars was one of Mikhail’s and my first joint ventures, back in the days before the raids, when we were still dreaming up what would become Hale. It’s named for the art deco pillars that are its central feature, beneath a vaulted ceiling that dates back centuries. I still take pleasure from the sophisticated-lounge feel of the low couches and carved stonework. Giving it to Nikolai after Mikhail’s death was a gesture of friendship and trust, a relatively harmless way of easing him into responsibility. I gave him more than one chance to show me he was ready to step up, to become part of the new Stevanovsky clan.

But Nikolai never took that outstretched hand, any more than he took my advice.

In the end, cutting him loose was a matter of survival. Sadly, I doubt it will be long before Nikolai finds himself in a cell close to his father.

I wish it were different.

But ours is a hard world. You end up smart, or you end up dead. Sometimes, jail is the place in between where you learn how to be smart, so you can escape death. I hope that’s how it will go for Nicky, but somehow I fucking doubt it. That little prick has been writing checks his balls can’t cash for a while now. And he doesn’t show any signs of wising up.

He wouldn’t have lasted a goddamn day on the streets where Dimitry and I came up, nor in the halfway house where we truly became brothers.

“Brother.” I don’t need to turn around to know Dimitry’s at my shoulder. “They’re still in the VIP room.”

I nod, scanning the crowd for any familiar faces, nodding at the few of Nikolai’s crew that I know. They visibly stiffen, but none of them are game enough to do anything other than approach me and pay their respects. Dumb fucks know who runs our clan, even if they sold their souls to Nikolai’s bullshit long ago.

“Gregor.” I address the one I find the least offensive, nodding at the others, who take the hint and fuck off. “What do you know about the pap who’s in the room with Nicky?”

“He came with Miguel, the Cádiz striker.” He shrugs.

“Name, Gregor,” I snarl. “I need a fucking name.” He has the grace to look embarrassed. He’s probably the hardest of Nikolai’s pathetic crew. “Lance Ryder. He’s an English guy.”

Lance Ryder?Jesus, even the fucker’s name annoys me.

“He’s not a new face,” Gregor goes on. “Nicky usually gives him access to the celebs who come in here. In return, Pillars gets good press coverage.”

It’s a normal enough setup. But Lucia is no celebrity, and bratva don’t make a habit of inviting paparazzi to their business meetings.

Something is off.

Still, I’m not about to bust down the door and make a dirty situation into a stinking pile of shit that will end up in a tabloid.

“Take me to the security room.”

Gregor takes us upstairs. The security room is a wall of screens. Cameras cover every angle of Pillars, a precaution I’m relieved to discover Nikolai hasn’t disposed of. A pack of his muscle monkeys lounge in front of the screens, exchanging nervous glances when I open the door. For a second, I actually think the dumb fucks might be about to refuse me entry.

Luckily for them, they think better of that idea.

I order the monkeys out, then close the door behind them and zoom in on the VIP room.

“That’s the Cádiz FC manager, Carlos Perez, with two of the Cádiz investors.” Dimitry indicates a small, stocky man whose face I vaguely recognize from news stories, flanked by two mugs in bad suits and too much gold jewelry. “His son, Miguel, is sitting next to him. He’s the Cádiz striker.” Miguel is as stocky as his father, but with the athletic build that comes from hard training. He’s got slicked-back hair, a face made for B-list status, and an arrogant posture that tells me he thinks he’s definitely A-list. But I’m not interested in the footballers. I already know that particular story, and I’m not overly happy about being anywhere near the place Nicky is doing his idiotic deals.

“Which one’s the pap?”

“Him.” Dimitry points, and I wonder how I didn’t immediately see it.

In a room full of footballers and criminals, Lance Ryder stands out like a lily growing in a sewer. He’s an all-English-private-school boy straight out of a Lacoste advertisement. With tousled hair and blinding white teeth, he’s wearing a check shirt rolled to the elbow and chinos, and has a nice Malaga tan. I bet he fucks as many C-listers as he photographs.

So what’s he doing slumming it here?

I frown. “Is that friend of Lucia’s still here?”

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