Page 50 of British Bratva: A Russian Mafia Romance

From the badly hidden bulges at holster level on the jackets of both men, I figured they had been downgraded to the standard Glock 17’s today. If you knew what to look for, all that spelled out Alpha Unit. And I did know what to look for.

They stuck out to me as clearly as if they’d been dressed in dayglo. The last thing I wanted was to disrupt my plans to figure out why they were sniffing around me. Elizabeth was naked in my bed. Not even the FSB was going to keep me from getting back home to her.

I ducked into Harrods, picking up my pace to power walk through the departments, zig zagging through outdoor wear, then walking into a cloud of perfume as I excused myself through groups of elegant Arab women, wearing expensive Hijabs, and middle-aged French grand dames, in flawless, tasteful smock dresses with matching pastel jackets and pearls, examining the makeup.

I doubled back through the jewellery section, pretending to glance at a case of watches, while keeping my eyes on the first of the muscled pair through the glass of the display. I watched as he stalked through designer outlets that touted luggage for all occasions amid the smell of expensive, supple leather.

Whatever this approach was, I didn’t want it. My links were with Timoshenko and Valentin directly. I didn’t deal in any of the politics. I didn’t have the patience for it. The last thing I wanted was any kind of accord with the official security services. Doing that made it all the more likely I’d be pinned up as a scapegoat whenever their plans bungled.

I didn’t trust organisations like that. Hadn’t since I left the army. At least the Bratva was honest about its motivations. There was a code, and we all lived by it. Politics was too changeable for my liking.

Given this attempt at surveillance, I had every confidence that those plans would be bungled, and I wanted nothing to do with it.

The food hall was always the busiest area of the store, whatever the time of day, and I squeezed through crowds of tourists taking pictures of perfect trays of baklava and mounds of hand crafted chocolates, pushing through to the grocery section of the store. I strolled along the refrigerated section and pretended to consider mineral water from Fiji while I figured out whether I’d given the pair the slip.

Around the corner, tasting bars with marble counter tops and bar stools offered everything from sushi to charcuterie in the opulent gilded surrounds that was the perfect London department store, thanks to Mohammed Al-Fayed and now the state of Qatar. It wasn’t only us Russians buying up the best business opportunities across the globe.

And my two friends were ducking between the fish counter and the butcher, scanning around for me, while I calmly turned and walked back the way I’d come, stopping in on the street-facing cafe on my way out.

I ordered coffees and pastries to take away with one eye on my surroundings and paid on the company debit card Valentin had arranged through our money man, along with my secure identity. No need to tie my movements to my real name when everything was a little too out of control for my liking.

Elizabeth had just come out of the shower when I walked back in, and she wrapped herself into one of my shirts with all of the long-legged grace of supermodels everywhere, still towelling at her hair.

I swallowed as I watched her take out a clean pair of my boxer briefs and slip them on over her hips.

“Christ, you’re going to need to put more clothes on than that if you plan on me letting you leave the bed today.”

“You say that like it would be a bad thing.” She grinned at me as I stood there dumbly in front of her. She did make a good point.

“What were your plans for today, besides me, anyway?” She plucked the paper bag out of my hands, and liberated one of the coffees from the cardboard tray, taking both back to the bedroom with her.

“Dismembering your stepfather, actually.”

She looked up from peeking inside the pastry back and then took out an almond croissant, flicking away a layer of icing with barely any pause. “Harrods. How fancy.”

She took a large bite and I rocked back on my heels, curious to see whether she was going to address what I’d told her at all. She took her time chewing and I watched her swallow and wet her lips.

“I thought we’d be tracking down that storage locker of his.”

I tilted my head, one shoulder rising up in a half shrug. “Clean up as you go is always the best policy. In the kitchen, and in life.”

“Where did you put him? I thought the fire was to take care of that.”

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