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“How’s it looking?”
He shrugs. “Not my taste, but it’s something.”
“Any trouble?”
“This place is as dead as that guy you killed earlier.”
“Good. We’ve had enough drama for one day.”
Pushing open the main doors, I’m relieved to see the place doesn’t look like a slaughterhouse anymore, with clean walls, a fresh paint smell, and a new rich crimson carpet to hide all the remaining evidence. The gaming tables have been re-covered in a matching red felt and the bar is fully stocked again.
Amazing what a million-pound incentive can get you.
Encore isn’t as elegant as Aiden’s Black Skies Casino in Monaco, but it’s more honest. The red and black colour scheme doesn’t hide the place’s lineage. We took it in blood to spill a ton more, and I’m not about to disguise that fact with gold ceilings and a load of fancy paintings on the walls.
My phone rings as I’m selecting a bottle of single malt from the top shelf for my evening’s entertainment.
“Silas.”
“Ada’s home alone,” he says, evenly. He was an SAS soldier before he joined the Met, so nothing shakes his cool. “I’m looking into your son now.”
“And?”
“He’s spent the last twelve years in Russia. Came back last year.”
“Does Ada know?”
“She doesn’t know shit about him, Frankie. She’s never seen him. Never spoken to him. Semenov hasn’t relented once in fourteen years.”
Fucking bastard.
“Was Alex there today?” My pulse beats to a hard tempo at the thought.
“I’d need to check. So far, Semenov has kept him on the fringes of all Bratva business.”
“Keep on it. I want regular updates from you and the team. Where are we with the dirty politicians?”
“They’re quaking into their Cabernet Sauvignons, but they’re ours.”
“Good. I need you to scope out a couple of sites for potential new nightclubs.”
“Send over the details and I’ll start now.”
Hanging up, I make my way to the private offices at the back of the casino, pausing outside mine when I see the door ajar and a slim sliver of light crossing my path with amber.
One of Viper’s men better not be jacking off to porn in there.
Kicking the door open, I find a tall, tanned and irritatingly handsome stranger sitting in my leather chair with his dirty boots up on my new Executive Desk, calmly spinning a Beretta 92 on the smooth mahogany surface, and using his forefinger as the pivot.
I pause, my gaze switching from the gun to his face as his chilly grey blue eyes flicker over me with interest.
“Are you lost?” I snap.
“Not that I’m aware.”
“We’re not reopening for another three days, so I suggest—”
“Good.” He lifts his finger from the gun and the spinning stops. “That means we have some time to get a couple of things straightened out first.”
