It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t. Even though the last time I was spontaneously aroused by a woman I was in my twenties.
What the fuck am I going to do with her? The options scroll through my mind as I carry her to my car, hand clamped firmly over her mouth, her legs bashing against my shins as she tries to squirm free. She barely weighs anything.
I should pay her off, threaten her. Many in my position would kill her. She’s seen my face, the mask, and what I was doing.
The street is silent and empty. My discreet grey SUV with armour plating on the inside obediently blips unlocked as I near. A nudge with my knee, and the back opens revealing a big clear space, with plastic laid down. I didn’t expect blood, but I don’t want DNA in my vehicle.
She spots the sheet and begins to sob and twist in my arms, and she’s right to be scared. Bad things happen to people who go to second locations.
I should know. I’m the one who does those bad things.
“Stop it,” I say in a dark undertone as she fights me. “If I wanted to hurt you, you’d already be in no position to prevent it.”
She stills at that.
My heart twangs.
The logical thing to do is secure her mouth shut, bind her wrists, and put her in the back. I trap her between my legs and the edge of the car, and reach for the tape I left for the purpose of securing my victim.
She vibrates with fear as, with one hand, I draw a length of tape. Just a bit smaller than I’d use for my usual victims. And I nearly do it, almost out of instinct.
I look down at the tape in my hands. Putting it over her soft little mouth and that beautiful silky hair is unthinkable. Like drowning a kitten.
She’s far too lovely to hurt that way.
Before I can think better of it, I reach up and grab the sleeve of my T-shirt. It rips along the seam. A second tug and it’s hanging on my forearm.
I stuff it into her mouth and do the same with the other arm. The loop fits perfectly over her head, fixing the make-shift gag in place.
Her ankles I secure together with tape, and the same with her forearms. Then, against my better judgement, I put her into the passenger seat and clip her in, taking her phone and pocketing it for later.
I take a deep breath as I look down into her eyes. Blue. Wide. Terrified.
Compelling.
I force myself to step away and do what’s needed. The corpse of my victim has bled, which is inconvenient, but I chuck him in the back.
My second-in-command answers on the first ring, sounding a bit shocked. Usually I email, managing my mafia territory remotely. Hacking into accounts and stealing millions from those who can afford it, slipping through digital cracks and leaving unseen. Technology makes this shit easy. I have men to maintain the order in Blackfen and ensure no-one deludes themselves that a geek working alone is vulnerable.
Power comes in lines of computer code, these days. But my hobby—vigilante killing of people who hurt children—spreads far beyond my territory of Blackfen, and I prefer to deal with it in person.
“There’s blood on the ground where I’ve sent you a pin. Bring some men and clean it up. Let me know when it’s completed.”
“Yes, Pakhan.” His reply is prompt and includes the honorific of a bratva leader. I can’t remember when someone last called me by my name—Kirill—rather than Pakhan, or Blackfen.
I hang up, and pause before I return to the front of the car, and the girl.
I’ve done terrible things. I’ve been the police, judge, jury, and executioner. But I’ve never been responsible for an innocent girl with a curvy body, shiny brown hair that smells like roses, and wide blue eyes.
I spend far too much time online forthissort of real-world problem. I’m attracted to her, but she’ll be a loose end. A liability. At the very least, I should drug her.
I don’t do either of those things. I get into the driver’s seat, and instead of going to Blackfen, within London, I find myself heading out of London to my estate. I tell myself that’s an easier place to dispose of my prematurely acquired corpse, but honestly, I know it’s because if I took this girl to my house in Blackfen—my London territory and the centre of my operations—I’d have to decide where to put her. The basement would belogical, since that’s where all “guests” stay. But my instincts say it’s wrong.
At my country house, she can sleep in a spare room and scream all she likes without being heard. There’s no one around for miles.
She’s given up struggling, which is smart, and since usually my victims are unconscious at this point, there’s no reason for me to be discomforted that she can’t talk.
And I should focus on driving.
