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There’s something in my nature which naturally repels others. My actions only manage to spin this natural repulsion into red-raw hatred. I can’t say I don’t enjoy it.
A little enmity, after all, never hurt anyone. The devil himself has many foes, and among those, the greatest foe of all.
Unlike him, though, I’m not doing battle with god. I’m doing battle against rich men with dirty dicks they don’t know how to control. And so what if Khevendorff speaks to a journalist?
“No need to worry about the baron, Ned,” I say, turning back to Woodrow. “Khevendorff wouldn’t be caught dead with my name in his mouth.”
“It’s not the baron I’m worried about, sir. It’s the journalist.”
I wave my hand. “If the journalist wants to break me, he’ll have to dig much deeper than that mound of quivering Austrian flesh.”
Woodrow is silent for a moment, probably debating whether or not to spit out the words itching on his tongue.
“Anything else?” I ask him, raising an eyebrow.
“The woman, sir.”
I tilt my head ever so slightly. “What about her?”
“Sir. This is my advice; you may take it or leave it. I think you should get the police involved.”
The thought has crossed my mind before. There is a lot of information I have access to; I doubt the police could find any more than I already have. And anything they have can easily be hacked since the British police are renowned for their poor grasp of cybersecurity. But my father and I have half the London police force in our pockets—they are a resource Icouldbe using in my search, if I wished.
“I would rather deal with it myself,” I tell Woodrow.
A white truth because although I’m not lying to him, I’m still concealing the truth from him.
The truth that I could get the police to help me track her down, find her real identity, bring her in. I could slam her with a barrage of prosecution and allegations, pay away any lawyer who would even consider going near her, have her permanently neutralised.
But that wouldn’t satisfy the quiet, terrible itch building inside me. Watching Sasha, small and puppy-eyed in a jumpsuit in a prison cell, wouldn’t scratch the itch inside me. It wouldn’t give me the thrill of tracking her down myself, of closing in on her, of putting my hands on her and gripping hard.
Besides, I have plans for the poison-eyed grifter. Plans too unconventional to involve the police.
“Sir,” Woodrow says carefully, “she’s a distraction youcannotafford right now.”
“I’ll deal with the journalist if need be, Ned. She’s not going to get in the way of that. You needn’t worry.”
“I know, sir. But…” He braces himself, as if he’s about to personally execute me. “I’m sorry, sir, but you’ve underestimated her before, and I think you might be underestimating her still. Shedruggedyou, sir. Shewoundedyou. She’s dangerous, and just because you’re dangerous too doesn’t mean you can ignore the threat she poses to your safety.”
Woodrow’s concern is real. Whether he genuinely cares for my wellbeing or for the paycheck and generous perks my wellbeing guarantees, I don’t think I’ll ever know. Not that it matters anyway.
“No harm will come to me, Woodrow—you should know me well enough by now to know that. Just because I’m not involving the police does not mean she’ll escape justice for what she’s done. When I find her, Woodrow, rest assured I’ll deal with her with a firm hand.”
Woodrow sighs. “Ifyou find her.”
How surprisingly passive-aggressive of him.
“When I find her,” I repeat. “When.”
9
Russian Bloodhound
Luca
Two weeks later, justas the leaves on the trees outside my house have begun to turn red, I finally receive an extraordinary stroke of good luck.
Iakov Kavinski is coming back to London.
