The Price of Winning: London Calling Book Four (20 page)

“If you have something to say Madeleine, please just do so.”
 

Madeleine could have sworn the temperature inside the car dropped fifteen degrees. “Aren’t you worried? Don’t you want to be close in case something goes wrong?”

Natalie shifted so her body was angled away from Madeleine. She watched the passing scenery as the taxi sped along. “Yes, I’m concerned.
Of course
.” She looked over her shoulder to glare witheringly at Madeleine. “But I also know Dominic. I trust him, implicitly. And I know he’ll handle this better without having to worry about me.”

Madeleine looked away. She would not be made to feel as if she were a selfish child. All of them, even Sebastian, had taken it upon themselves to decide what was best for her without allowing her a single word of input.

She wasn’t going to stand for it.
 

When they entered the small airport, Natalie provided their tickets to security. Obediently, Madeleine took out her passport when it was requested. Wordlessly, she tucked it back into her purse then excused herself to the restroom.

Natalie nodded, distracted by whatever she was reading on her phone.
 

Madeleine started slowly, but soon she was nearly running. She periodically glanced back, making sure Natalie hadn’t spied her. When she reached the security gate, she apologized to the officer, telling him she’d changed her mind and needed a different flight. He was most helpful, pointing out the ticketing counter just yards away.

Madeleine hurried to one of the open attendants. By some stroke of luck, the airport was blissfully uncrowded. She looked at the digital display behind the counter that listed upcoming arrivals and departures. Unless she was mistaken, or the flight was booked full, she could be on a plane within fifteen minutes.

The ticketing agent smiled a greeting. “Hello. Where would you like to go?”

Madeleine straightened, pushing her shoulders back. “London, please.” She threw up her chin. “Next available.”

***

Sebastian knotted his tie, his movements sharp and precise. He withdrew his suit jacket from its hanger. He slipped it on and shrugged his shoulders, settling it into place before he fastened the two buttons to close it.
 

He checked his appearance in the mirror.
 

His bespoke suiting was lightweight charcoal wool. A plain white shirt and sedate gray tie spoke of understated elegance. Platinum cufflinks with onyx inlays winked at his wrists, and black cordovan leather cap-toe oxfords donned his feet.

His tailor would be proud.

It wasn’t usual for Sebastian to dress this formally for his visits to the club. A suit jacket and a dress shirt, open at the collar, normally did the trick. But today was different. His guests had arrived from Russia and were currently ensconced at the Ritz a few streets away. Earlier today he’d hosted a welcome lunch then led a quick tour of the club.

He’d deliberately locked the doors, keeping the venue exclusive to his invited guests. From now on the club would be open to members, but he’d make sure the entire Russian delegation stayed out of eyesight. They would be upstairs in the penthouse private suites. Meals and cocktails would be served with no need for anyone to wander into the main gaming rooms or restaurant of the casino.

He’d keep that from happening at all costs.

For the next three days, he’d be staying at the separate apartment within Club Hobart. It was on the second floor but removed from the main offices by a locked narrow hallway. Like the rest of the club, it was appointed with antique furniture, crystal lighting, and Persian rugs. Despite the fact the quarters were rarely used, the faint smell of beeswax reminded him it was diligently maintained.

With Madeleine gone it made sense for him to stay here. Day and night, he would be readily available. This way he could shower and sleep here. The kitchens would provide food. The closet was stocked with a week’s worth of clothing.

He just needed three days.

Already, he wished it over. And already, he had a heavy lump in the pit of his stomach.
 

During lunch today Sebastian’s every word and gesture were unblinkingly tracked by one man.
 

Dimitri Petrov.

He had eyes black as coal, with long hair to match. While the other guests at the long table ate and drank, his food had gone completely untouched. Even his glass of wine remained intact, not a single sip taken.

Of all the guests present, Petrov was singularly feared and reviled.
 

And he was a very, very difficult man to meet.
 

Introductions were supposed to have occurred during Sebastian’s recent visit to Moscow. But Petrov had canceled at the last minute. Attempts to reschedule were categorically denied. After that, Sebastian had been certain Petrov wouldn’t show for the tournament.
 

But he had. And now Sebastian wished he hadn’t.

When Petrov appeared, the other invitees had frozen, unmoving. When he spoke, no one so much as breathed a response.

He was left to sit apart from the others. Whether by his preference or their fear, Sebastian wasn’t sure. Or perhaps it was social class. Petrov was the eldest son of a once high-ranking communist family in the former USSR. During the time of reconstruction, they capitalized on the privatization of state assets. Petrov himself invested heavily in steel and nickel, arguably making him one of the richest men under fifty in the world.

All Sebastian knew was he detested Petrov in an instant.

Sebastian checked the time. He was due to meet his guests in the club’s boardroom. It was an impromptu appointment, and one he didn’t care for. But it came at the request of Petrov, so there seemed no way to decline.

Sebastian soundlessly moved down the secluded hallway. Of course the other man hadn’t disclosed his purpose. And Sebastian couldn’t help but doubt his intentions.
 

Petrov could ruin any attempts Sebastian made to gain his guests’ trust and confidence. Sebastian had known other men like Dimitri Petrov. Without exception, their presence was like poison, creating a toxic level of fright in those surrounding him.
 

Fear could become panic, which turned easily to chaos.
 

Sebastian preferred order.
 

His stomach rolled, and a chill chased up his spine. With cold fingers, he turned the doorknob that would lead him into the main second floor corridor. Taking a deep breath, he reminded himself to remain calm at all costs. He had the power to dictate what happened here.

Not Petrov.

He opened the door to the boardroom. Every single one of the Russians he’d invited because of sex trade connections was present. A sour taste like bile flooded Sebastian’s mouth.

He was the last to arrive, which only left one chair available. Petrov sat at the head of the table.
 

Sebastian met the other man’s sneer with a tiny tilt of his lips. If the man wanted parlor games, so be it.

He refused the chair he was offered with an arrogant flick of dismissal. This was
his
house. His family tree stretched back centuries in England. He had the titles to prove it.
 

And while he didn’t like to use them, Sebastian could certainly play lord of the manor when he chose.

He sauntered to the head of the table to stand behind Petrov.

He saw the other man shift a little. There was no way he could determine Sebastian’s exact position behind his back.
 

Sebastian smirked then swept his arms wide to encompass the room. “Welcome back to my casino.” He bared his teeth. “The tournament isn’t set to begin for a few hours yet. Why are we here?” Direct, blunt even. He considered it a warning shot, fired across the bow. He would not allow these people, these morally corrupt monsters, dictate a single thing to him.

His muscles quivered. He paced back and forth, keeping himself behind Petrov’s back.
 

Silence. It was as if the entire room stopped breathing.

Then laughter, insincere and smarmy. “Goodness, Mr. Payne. Where are your manners?” Petrov uttered the words with no attempt to look back at Sebastian.

“I could ask the same, Mr. Petrov.” Sebastian curled his lip. “But I apologize if I seemed ungracious. What can I do for you?” He directed his question solely to Petrov. For a brief second, he entertained a fantasy of beating the man senseless.
 

Petrov folded his hands on the table. “My colleagues and I had an interesting discussion after our lunch today.”
 

“Yes?” Sebastian’s tone was deep. Unyielding.

“And it seems we all have something else in common besides your generous invitation to play poker.”

Petrov was on to him.

“Oh?” Sebastian stopped pacing to stand, legs planted wide. He pitched his voice higher to feign innocence. “How nice for you. You’ll have something to discuss at the tables.”

Petrov stiffened, his spine snapped straight. Still, he remained face forward, never allowing himself to glance back.

“Perhaps it is coincidence. But perhaps it is not.”

Sebastian stepped closer, his bulk practically hovering over the other man. “
Perhaps
you could tell me what we’re talking about.”
 

Petrov shifted again, sending his chair back to bump against Sebastian. Sebastian saw his hands clench, his knuckles whitened. “Why don’t you sit down?” Petrov indicated the empty chair. “It is better to speak face to face, don’t you think?”

Sebastian leaned farther over the man to flatten one palm on the glass-topped mahogany table. “It seems my chair is taken.” That brought Petrov’s head up. Sebastian was pleased to see his face was reddened, his nostrils flaring. He stepped backward. “I’m a large man, Mr. Petrov. I’m afraid the other chairs don’t suit me.”
 

It was a deliberate slur on Petrov’s smaller stature. Sebastian didn’t believe a man’s height or size was any indication of power or authority. Training in Krav Maga had confirmed that, over and over. Even Madeleine, petite and slim, had taken him down to the mat.
 

But he instinctively knew Petrov was the type who
did
believe such nonsense. In one short afternoon, he’d seen the other man use physical intimidation to bully his peers. To the average person, Petrov would seem tall, vigorously built.

Sebastian wasn’t average.
 

Like clockwork, the other man’s temper snapped. He started to spin his chair around but encountered Sebastian’s bulk. Glaring, he slapped his hand on the table. “Enough. You invited each of us here for a reason.” He spat the accusation, saliva collecting in the corners of his mouth. “Tell us your purpose in the next thirty seconds or I’ll bring hell raining down on you.”

Sebastian clenched his jaws so hard it was a wonder he didn’t crack a molar. He bit back the irresistible urge to grab Petrov by his slicked ponytail and pound his face into the glass. Instead, Sebastian drew in slow, steady breaths. He pasted a false smile on his face.

“No need for threats, Mr. Petrov. I’m on your side.” He slanted his body to address the other attendees. “It’s true. Shall we say, I believe we share a common interest. I’m not your enemy. In fact, I’d very much like to collaborate.”

He nearly choked on the proposition. He’d rather sleep with rattlesnakes than spend one more minute with this group of criminals, especially Petrov. Each of them wore their wealth like a mantle, enjoying the status it afforded them. But Sebastian knew for a fact they’d earned it on the backs of vulnerable women and children.
 

They were nothing more than rapists, every single one of them. Whether they carried out the deed personally or not was immaterial to Sebastian. The end result was the same.
 

He cast his eyes around the room, making sure he kept his hatred bottled tight.
 

They were guilty to the bone.
 

Petrov barked out a laugh, the sound completely devoid of humor. “Why should we trust you, Payne? We only just met.”

Sebastian crossed his arms, his chest thrust outward. “You shouldn’t. But rather than indulge ourselves in this fruitless discussion, why don’t we adjourn upstairs? We can get to know one another in a civilized fashion, over poker and martinis.” He bared his teeth in a parody of a smile. “I’ve stocked an exquisite selection of vodkas.”

Sebastian walked to the door, opening it to gesture everyone out of the room and purposely dismiss the meeting. With a collective sigh of relief, they rose and hurried from the room.
 

Except Petrov. That piece of slime stayed exactly where he was, except he’d swiveled the chair to angle it sideways.

Sebastian pushed the door shut. “I assume you have something else.” He walked over to stand beside the other man.
 

Petrov looked up at him, his eyes cold and mercenary.
 

“If you’re lying, I’ll kill you. But before that, I’ll see everyone you care about dead. You’ll watch and suffer until you beg to join them.” He laughed, ugly. “Do we have an understanding?”

Petrov moved to stand, but Sebastian stepped forward, effectively blocking him. He leaned down, his hand clenched to rest on the table, caging the other man. “Understand
this
, Petrov. No one comes into my club and threatens me or my family.
No one.
So to borrow your words, I’ll give you thirty seconds.
Get out
.” He punctuated the order by slamming his fist down. The thick glass on the table fractured, sending cracks radiating outward from the point of impact.

Petrov stilled, staring at the table.

The door to the room banged open. Both men spun to see Madeleine standing there, her wild, curly hair fairly crackling with energy. She pointed at Sebastian. “You,” she seethed. “You owe me an explanation.”

Petrov took the opportunity to stand up and move toward Madeleine.

Something in his eyes must have alerted her that he was no employee, nor a club member. She backed up two steps, her eyes wide.