Page 15 of Lethal Torture
Several tiers of seating face the main stage, on which a troupe of girls is currently performing an extremely seductive Aphrodite dance featuring clamshells, carefully placed fans, and little else. In small private booths carefully shielded from view, dancers give more intimate performances, which my clientelecan enjoy while also still viewing the main show. Private balcony boxes reserved for the sole use of their owners sit higher up, most in complete shadow.
There are other rooms behind the main theater, designed to cater to a variety of fantasies. London’s top call girls vie to work in them, since the tips are astronomical. Those rooms are utterly illegal, of course. While prostitution and gambling are both legal in England, brothels are not.
Fortunately, the last two Commissioners of Police at Scotland Yard have both enjoyed a complimentary membership to the Quartier, along with anyone in the government who actually matters.
There isn’t a powerful man or woman in London who has any interest in shutting down the Quartier. They all know that when it comes to wielding power, it’s the only ticket in town.
I stand in my office for five minutes, until I’ve memorized every face and refreshed my memory of their names.
I’m about to go down to the floor when one face in particular catches my attention.
A face I’ve seen before—in the photograph Mak sent me.
Luke Macarthur.
He’s standing in a balcony box I happen to know is closed tonight, since it’s owned by a member of the royal family and reserved solely for their use.
And yet this fucker has somehow found a way past the codes, security, and secret door and let himself in.
He’s standing in the shadows, so still he might be part of the building itself. If it wasn’t for the fact that I know every curl of wood in the Quartier better than my own body, I might never have noticed him.
I zoom in the security camera and freeze. An odd thrill trickles through my veins.
He’s looking straight at me.
His eyes lock on mine, his mouth quirking slightly at the edges.
He knows I’m watching him.
My security cameras were installed by one of Mak’s companies, using military-grade systems. They’re virtually impossible to detect, an important factor given that my clientele are pathological about guarding their privacy.
But going by the deliberate way Luke Macarthur stares into each lens in turn, he seems to know where every camera is. I’d bet very good money that he knows exactly where I am right now.
I shiver despite myself.
He’s absolutely huge.
The brief statistics in his résumé didn’t come close to describing the immense reality of the man.
His rather shaggy-looking hair almost scrapes the roof of the box. Even a tuxedo can’t disguise the breadth of his shoulders or the powerful thighs. Despite his size, his watchful stillness renders him unsettlingly mercurial, just another shadow in a theater full of them. The way he’s positioned makes him invisible to anyone else in the theater but me.
And he’s watching my office so closely his scrutiny burns every inch of my skin.
Tearing my eyes from the screen with no small effort, I hit the intercom. “Anatoly. Get a team into the royal box, right now. We have a code red.”
Mak’s friend or not, nobody breaks security in my clubs and gets away with it.
“Da.”
One of the many reasons Anatoly is so useful is that he never needs to be told something twice.
But when I look back, Luke is gone.
That’s impossible.
I glanced away for barely seconds.
He can’t have gone far.
