Twisted: The Zeta Cartel Novels, #5

By AJ Adams

Persia York has the face of an angel and a reputation that's pure gutter but she will do anything for her family. Forced into debt-slavery to save her brother, things aren't what they seem. No matter how hard she works, Persia can't free herself. Worse, she publicly disses Jorge Santos, the leader of the Zeta cartel, and is catapulted into a turf war. Abducted and a helpless captive of the deadly drug lord, Persia decides she's had enough. It's time to fight back.

Dangerous, devious Jorge Santos doesn't take shit from anyone. When a meeting with a rival turns ugly, Jorge goes to war. Determined on destruction, his first step is to abduct his enemy's most prized possession, the beautiful but mouthy Persia York. But Jorge soon learns his victim is not as easy to break as he thought and to his shock, he falls for his adversary's woman. As the war heats up, the cartel boss is forced to make decisions that may cost him his life – and his love.

A ruthless man on a quest to win no matter what it takes.
A woman intent on holding her own, even if it destroys her.

Twisted is a compelling tale of vengeance, murder, cartel violence and finding love in the darkest of times. It is the fourth Zeta Cartel novel, and can be read as a standalone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellen Whyte
• Release date: Jan 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393358039

AJ Adams

AJ Adams writes twisted love stories set in the violent world of the Cartel, Camorra, Belial's MC and Prydain. All AJ Adams novels are self-standing and although some feature the same families, you need not read them all - but it would be awesome if you did. If you enjoy these novels and want to stalk, please know that AJ is the pen name for Ellen Whyte. Ellen married her best friend and moved to the tropics where they are living their own Happily Ever After. When she's not writing, she's cooking and pandering to her rescue cats Target, Swooner and Tic Tac.

Book preview

Chapter One: Jorge

Fuck with me and if you're lucky, I'll shoot you. If you're unlucky, I'll make you suffer first. Jamal Blake had pissed me off big-time and so I was determined to make him pay. 

He'd rented an apartment under an alias, thinking it would be a safe-house, but the pendejo had paid by bank transfer. If he'd paid cash, he might have lived. But he didn't and as I had eyes on his bank account, I knew straight away he was up to no good.

After a few days of watching him, it was clear what his plans were. I let him run with it. Give a man enough rope, you know? By the time he was ready to rob me, I was two steps in front – and waiting for him.

I heard him race up the stairs, chuckling all the way, thinking he'd outsmarted me. Entering the apartment, he threw down an attaché case, slammed the door shut and bolted it before realising he wasn't alone. What the fuck?

Hello, Jamal. 

He posed against the door, running his hand through his hair in an attempt to appear cool. It would have been a fine effort if his knees hadn't been shaking. Boss. It came out in a frightened squeak and he had to focus to get a manly baritone going. What are you doing here?

I let him see the cricket bat in my hand. I came for my coke.

He sprang at me but I was faster. Being built like a barn didn't help him because I've been in more fights than Tyson Fury. When he pounced, I stepped aside lightly and whacked him in the gut. As he collapsed to his knees, I batted him down. For fun, I booted him in the ribs as well.

In the movies, he'd be up and ready to go again. In real life, not being able to breathe means it's game over. He was on the floor, gasping and retching, giving me time to bash him again. It was a light blow to the back of the head, carefully calculated to knock him cold but not kill him. I didn't want him taking the easy way out.

When he came to, I had him gagged and strapped to a kitchen chair. His eyes bulged as he saw me rip holes in the top and sides of a garbage bag. I don't mind splatter, I told him, but this is my favourite shirt and I have a meeting after this.

He tried to break through the bonds but I'd used an entire roll of duct tape. That stuff is so awesome that it can hold a revving car in place - if the lamp post you tether it to is strong enough - so I just waited until he figured out it was no use.

He took a good few minutes, Jamal was always a slow thinker, but he got to it, eventually. He sat there; the gag distorting his mouth into an O of surprise. With his shaven head and eyes wide open, he looked like an amazed emoji.

I hefted the bat. You stupid son of a bitch, I informed him. Did you really think you could rip me off?

He shook his head, denying it with frantically rolling eyes.

Don't lie to me. You were supposed to process the consignment, not steal it. I was mad because I'd trusted him. I gave you a job, money and responsibility, I reminded him. A life of respect, handed to you on a plate, and you fucked me over at first opportunity.

He was jerking around, nodding hard. It wasn't agreement; Jamal was trying to buy his way out of trouble. Told you he was stupid.

Yes, my coke is in your briefcase, I sighed. Giving it back won't help. But I set it aside, just ensure it stayed out of the way. I didn't want revenge messing up my product. "You betrayed me, you disloyal hijo de puta and now you will make amends, I told Jamal. Your death will show everyone what happens when you fuck with me."

Jamal moaned and pissed himself. I guess he was remembering the stories of how my family deal with the people who cross us. Crucifixion, boiling, dismemberment; we're very versatile. For this one, I was taking a leaf from the classics.

Do you remember how Al Capone dealt with Scalise, Anselmi and Giunta, the disloyal scum who tried to betray him? I asked. He hadn't but the way he was eyeing my bat told me he was on the right page. Capone was quick-tempered, and he had them going out fast. The chair was rocking again, convincing me Jamal was visualising his future just fine. I'm very patient and so you'll have lots of time to consider your mistakes.

Having laid it out for him, I swung the bat, bringing it down on his right wrist. All the little bones shattered in an audible crunch but his scream was muffled by the gag. You shouldn't have tried to steal from me. I gave him a moment to pull himself together. I don't like thieves. His forearm went with a second swing. Then I shattered his elbow, a long pause, and I followed through with a swing at his collarbone.

Intense pain is interesting because it silences. Step on a man's toe and he'll roar; smash it to pieces and all you'll get is a squeak. Also, while a whacking load of it will paralyse you, it won't easily lead to unconsciousness, especially if you stay away from bashing them on the head.

Even so, I was careful to give him time to recover and I removed the gag when he turned blue. Deep breath, I told him. We've a way to go.

There are over two hundred bones in the human body and I aimed at breaking as many of Jamal's as possible. As I'm methodical, I worked up one side and then down the other. His knees, ankles and shins were tougher but I play golf, so I reversed the bat and practised my drive shot. 

The wood crushed bone and cartilage. Thanks to my fantastic swing we also had lots of splinters breaking through the skin. With his heart pumping away, the splatter reached as far as the walls. I was glad I had suited up.

Because I paced myself, he was breathing great when I started on his ribs. That's when the odd splash became a constant spray. I'd whack, he'd cough. It got real messy, real quick.

Twenty minutes later, he gave out an ominous rattle. I stopped, ready to give him a breather, but the weak bastard died on me. Looking around, there was gore galore, but the scene was still lacking that iconic touch. I wanted my message to send shivers of fear throughout the country, and this was too tame.

I stepped back, took aim at his head, and got a terrific rain of brains. Inspired, I whacked twice more, and got an eyeball to pop out. It was perfect. Quentin Tarantino couldn't have done better. 

Rinsing the bat under the kitchen tap and packing it away with my makeshift poncho in a bag took seconds. Nobody was on the stairs, or in the hall, and I didn't attract any attention as I walked down the street. Thanks to a light rain, typical damn English weather, my hat, scarf and coat would obscure any CCTV.

A bus took me across town in fine anonymous form, delivering me right to the fish processing plant on Wickham Wharf that we owned. The bag went into the dumpster in the alley at the back, certain to be obscured by the other gory refuse. Then, on the pretext of checking the boats were moored properly, the bat slipped into the river.

After a chat with the foreman to see all was well, I strolled around the corner, dived into the underground and fifteen minutes afterward, I was at Zeta Towers.

My office is a twenty-five storey building and as we designed it for our purposes, it’s more complex than an anthill. You can enter via four street level entrances, two skyway links and five carpark access ramps. Once you get inside, there are three elevator halls. As the cops couldn’t afford to set a dozen eyes on us 24/7 to monitor our comings and goings, I dropped off my coke in complete anonymity. 

As I told Jamal, I was wearing my favourite shirt because I had a meeting. I was humming as I picked up my ride because I'd treated myself to a Lexus just the week before. With Shakira's sultry voice keeping me company, and that awesome scent of new leather, the drive to Chelsea was a pleasure. On the way, I reflected on the man I was to meet, Jacek Kowalczyk, a Polish crime boss who ran a neat little empire in London.

Unlike us Zetas, Kowalczyk enjoyed the limelight. There wasn't a week when he wasn't in the news, smiling as he wined and dined celebs at his house and on his yacht. He was so fond of seeing himself in the social pages that he hired a public relations firm to make sure his image stayed bright.

It didn't sound a great idea to me, having people nosing about in your affairs is stupid if you're pushing product, but I was curious to see his home because it was rumoured to be a palace.

Kowalczyk House was rigged out with Greek columns, marble statues and a fountain big enough to float a battleship. But the guards needed a shave. They were sloppy, checking under the chassis with a mirror but forgetting to look under the hood. They didn't x-ray the present I'd brought, either.

Lucky for them I was there for a friendly visit and so they didn't finish piled up dead under the fancy hedge an artist had trimmed into a row of peacocks.

Fifteen minutes later, I wasn't feeling so friendly. A starched-up butler had led me into the house quickly enough but he'd poured me a cheap vodka and fucked off, leaving me to kick my heels in a lounge.

A painting that looked as if a toddler had done it dominated the room. The rest was of the decoration was shameless ego stroking; dozens of framed photos of Kowalczyk with the rich and shameless. I counted two supermodels, three billionaire businessmen and a minor royal. There were also shots of his boat, his chopper and his racehorses. I patted a sofa cushion. Surprisingly, it was stuffed with feathers, not cash.

I didn't like the room much and what I'd seen of the rest of the house didn't impress me either. Loaded with marble, gold framed paintings and topped off with crystal chandeliers, it was too sparkly for my taste.

To avoid permanent eyestrain, I checked out the garden. Eyeing a marble goddess, probably stolen from an ancient temple, I spotted a girl popping out from the leafy peacocks.

She wore a loose tunic of blue-green silk that covered her from neck to knees but evoked an aura of lushness. As she paused by the statue, I had to fight for breath. She was a heavenly vision, all right: long legs, a sweet swell of delicious curves and a cloud of copper curls.

The body was a dream but I couldn't see if she had a face to match. The French windows were locked tight and as I pulled at the levers, rattling them, the girl darted over the gravel and dived into the house.

Shooting across the room, wrenching open the door, thinking I'd catch up with her in the foyer, I collided with the butler. Hell!

The starch was frosty. Mr Kowalczyk will see you now.

I was cool, Yeah, sure, and very disappointed that the beauty was nowhere to be seen. We trekked in silence through the hall, down a bling-filled corridor and finally, I was ushered into an inner sanctum.

The room was opulent and stuffed with expensive show-off goods yet lacked charm and spirit. The owner, Jacek Kowalczyk, was the same. He wore a designer Armani suit and a gold Rolex watch but they did nothing for the chalky skin, washed-out grey eyes, dull hair, and pinched thin-lipped mouth. Also, while he was no older than thirty, he was running to fat. His belly bulged and hung over his belt.

I didn't take to him but I didn't let it show. Mr Kowalczyk, it's a pleasure to meet you finally. 

The disrespectful bastard had kept me waiting and now he wasn't smiling or apologising as he should have. Instead, he offered a half-hearted handshake and waved me to a chair - luxurious leather, but a far cry from the sofa setup by the window for VIPs.

He didn't dismiss his soldiers, either. Four of them, all packing, and hanging by the door where they could hear every word, instead of leaving as they should when men of respect meet.

I considered walking out but decided against it. Back home in Mexico, my rep meant only a man on a suicide mission would fuck with me but this was London and I was a newcomer. 

Only a pendejo mistakes ignorance for insult and so I made sure he understood who he was dealing with. Jorge Santos, and in case that didn't ring any bells, I am head of Nuevo Laredo Import and Export Incorporated, London branch.

I know, Kowalczyk sounded offhand. It's a cover for the Zeta cartel. Your cousin, Arturo Vazquez, is the chief of your organisation back in Mexico. I have heard of him.

Great. The implication that he would have welcomed Arturo with open arms, whereas I was a nobody, stung.

Your cousin wants to talk to me? Kowalczyk rumbled.

As if I were a goddamn messenger boy! No, I said quietly. But I will tell him you spoke of him with respect.

There was a pause, and then Kowalczyk nodded. All right. What is your business with me?

It was abrupt to the point of rudeness but I kept my cool. Eastern Europeans have a rep for surliness. Kowalczyk was known to be particularly sour, or perhaps he was trying to hide the stained teeth.

I'm a friendly guy and so I smiled as if I were happy to see him. I am here on a small matter. Mainly, I came because my club is in the street behind yours. As we are neighbours, I thought it was time we met.

The pause was infinitesimal. I see. There was no life in those faded eyes. It's good to put a face to the name.

It was grudging but I could live with it. Same here!

The lips stretched, but it was more a rictus than a smile. The man was a disappointment. Given his party image, I had expected some social graces. Instead, what I saw was plain old East European mafia.

Jacek Kowalczyk began his career as a dealer working for a gang in Prague. He got into hot water trying to blackmail a politician's wife and fled to Moscow. Unable to hack it there, he'd come to London. England had suited him because he'd built up a profitable business for himself, selling all kinds of product to his society friends and maintaining a big staff of street dealers.

In terms of territory he had a good-sized plaza that made him rich but I wasn't getting that vibe that comes from power and success. The Armani suit would've been class if it had fit right but there was no sparkle in the man. I'd expected wolf and what I got was blobfish.

As for manners, Kowalczyk lacked even basic courtesy. He should have offered me a drink, at least. As I was not dragged up from a Polish sewer, I smiled and presented my gift. A small token of friendship. I handed over the case, opening it so he and his men could admire the lighter inside. It was plain gold but what made it interesting was the inscription, plata o plomo. 

I took it out and showed it to him. I thought you'd enjoy this. It was Pablo Escobar's. As Kowalczyk looked blank, I explained. You know Escobar, he was Colombia's greatest drug baron.

Kowalczyk just gave me fish eyes. Yeah, Escobar. Okay.

"Plata o plomo was his favourite line. Silver or lead." Typical Escobar, it had explained his work ethic: you took the silver, his money, and stood aside or he'd give you a lead bullet and step over your dead body.

I know. Kowalczyk's voice reflected his personality; flat, dull, and thuggish. 

What makes it interesting, I persisted, is that the lighter was a gift to Escobar from Pershing Kolikowski.

I'd busted a gut to find a good present but even the mention of Poland's biggest crime lord didn't seem to register. 

Thanks. He took the box and set it down. You mentioned my club. There's an issue?

Right down to business. Yes. I settled in the chair and realised immediately he'd rigged it, cutting the legs short so he dominated the room. It was a cheap trick, and I didn't let it bother me. Your club, Empire, and mine, Bubbles, are back to back. There's just an alleyway dividing them.

So?

We had building inspectors round recently. They say there was an error in their documentation. The original property line was a little off. I brought out my phone and showed him the map. Your private car space is on our property and our south wall is on yours.

Kowalczyk frowned. Is that right?

It's no big deal, I assured him. My lawyers tell me that if we sign an agreement to leave matters as they stand, the problem goes away. 

I don't like lawyers. His fingers tapped a cheery tattoo on the oak topped desk. I can park on the street but you will have to rebuild your wall. He grinned, his lips pulling back from the stained fangs. You'll have to close your club.

I wasn't mad because those few seconds gave me some valuable information. Kowalczyk was a nasty piece of work, which was expected. He'd built a criminal empire, and you don't do that by being nice. What surprised me was that he was stupid. Wars cost a fortune and therefore cooperation is always a better move.

As I am all about business, I set about preventing the pendejo from fucking up. We're neighbours, I pointed out. And we're in the same line. I would prefer to be friends.

His shrug spoke volumes.

We appeal to the same demographic: young affluent urbanites, looking for a good time. I've got an MBA from Cornell. We could help each other along.

I don't need your help!

That took me aback. Forgive me, sometimes my English isn't up to speed. It was a lie, but I thought he'd misunderstood me. What I meant was, we could support each other. Like, you might want access to some of our bands.

His club was dead compared to mine because I had cornered the market on London's finest live music bands. I had a different group play every night, and it had people flocking in. While Empire staff could take breaks whenever they liked, mine were rushed off their feet, making sure our patrons were happy and forking over cash.

You had your eye on Pussy Wave, the girl band, didn't you? They're under contract to us but we'd be happy to share.

They played at my club first!

He sounded like a spoilt child, so I soothed him. But you didn't offer a contract.

You're saying I fucked up? He was practically frothing at the mouth.

No-no-no, of course not. I wondered if he was sniffing his own product; his reaction was way out of line. As you said, they played your place first.

They're a bunch of uppity bitches, Kowalczyk growled. Lesbians!

Okay, that really set me on my heels. Turned you down, huh? I meant to sound sympathetic, but it was oil to his fire.

I don't need you! My club's better than yours! Kowalczyk spat. I'd always thought envy was green, but the Pole was turning puce. "Fuck your suka bands," he raged.

Look, if you want to compete in that area, I'm good with that, I said peaceably. But you're paying top dollar for your coke because you buy from middlemen. I played my ace. Buy it direct from me, and you can make an extra ten percent. It'll be better quality too.

He didn't even blink. No.

I'd approached him with respect, offered friendship, and the fuck had thrown it in my face. It took an act of will not to shoot him on the spot.

You'll have to shut up shop, Kowalczyk sneered. 

I wouldn't but I wasn't telling him that. It's stupid to telegraph your intentions. Kowalczyk wasn't very smart.

Rebuilding that wall will take a year. The lips thinned. Even if you get permission, it'll cost a fortune.

Maybe.

You can't afford it!

It was beyond the line. We Zetas have deep pockets.

Another shrug. You might be a power in Mexico but this is London.

It was too fucking much. I had to grip the chair to stop myself from launching at him. The four thugs lounging against the wall chortled, openly enjoying themselves.

Their contempt settled me. This Pole was trying to needle me into action in front of his men. Now I had his measure, I didn't flinch. He and his buds were dead. I don't tolerate disrespect, not ever. They'd be gone by sundown.

I'm king of London, Kowalczyk boasted. Everyone comes to my parties.

He was completely loco. Bad priorities too. Business always comes first.

I might buy you out, Kowalczyk mocked. If the price is right.

I'll consider it.

He insulted me because he didn't even respect me enough to whack me. Keeping my temper in check was easy because the cabrón would soon be six feet under. Kowalczyk enjoyed partying, and if I blew him away in his own club, his terrified customers would run next door, into my place. Yes, I'm a nut for efficiency.

There was no point in staying but as I got up to go, she walked in. The tunic fluttered and rippled, drawing attention to the curves. To my delight, her face matched the poem of a body: huge hazel eyes, a little nose with an enchanting upturned tip and flawless skin. 

One look was all it took. I saw her and knew I wouldn't rest until she was mine.

Kowalczyk was on his feet in an instant. Persia. The way he drank her in told me he was solid. Come here.

The eyes flickered, but she undulated over, putting one foot in front of another as if she were strolling down a catwalk, that mouth-watering body shimmering under the silky dress.

He put a paw around her waist, pulled her in tight against his overfat gut and, looking me right in the eye, growled, We're done. The answer is no.

He was a dead man, so I was ice. I'll be seeing you.

She was so close, that her perfume drifted over, a rich, exotic scent that hinted at satin sheets and decadent passion. She didn't even glance my way but his radar warned him I was coveting his woman. His fingers splayed, digging into her soft flesh and whitening as they pinched.

Curiously, she was silent. She just stood there, that beautiful face as devoid of emotion as the marble goddess outside as he mauled her.

Where were you? The question was loaded with entitlement. I sent for you and they couldn't find you.

I was in the garden, the low tones were distant.

The hand gripped her admonishingly. Next time, take your phone.

Of course. She sounded cold but then she lifted her eyes and smiled at him. Sorry.

It was well done, but I saw the falseness in it. This wasn't a wife or girlfriend; this was a possession. She had the face of an angel but the ugly fingers claiming her told me she'd sold herself to the devil. I've a strong stomach but surprisingly, the knowledge revolted me.

Kowalczyk was staring at her, his ill-fitting suit suddenly bulging. He dipped his head and kissed her lasciviously, establishing possession. The girl stood on tiptoe, accepting the thin slavering lips with the blank expression and studied manner of a pro.

The contrast between them so was harsh that I wondered what possessed her. A puta with her looks could easily have sold herself to a much better specimen than Kowalczyk. That she had settled for the blobfish was incomprehensible.

I made to leave them to it. "Adios."

Kowalczyk tore himself away and gazed at me. If he'd just shut up, he would have been dead and no regrets. But he opened his mouth and screwed himself. You're a loser. Do yourself a favour and go back to where you came from.

I had my hand on my gun before conscious thought kicked in. What the fuck?

The soldiers were between us a heartbeat later.

The girl gasped but Kowalczyk just talked on. Everyone knows you're a fuckup. Your cousin gave you the job out of pity. You lost a shitload of coke in Turkey and when you got shot, by a fucking amateur, they sent a low-ranking flunky from Mexico to save your arse.

Fury flooded through me, fanning the hot desire for revenge into an inferno. The insult was too much to bear. Death was too easy. I'd destroy him, rip him apart, bit by bit.

You're short of staff, too, right? The brown fangs showed again. You can't get anyone to sign up with you.

He mistook my silence for cowardice. You can't take care of business.

If you're quite done, I'll be seeing you.

He shrugged, oblivious to the underlying threat, but the girl's eyes lifted and locked on mine, little flecks of green and gold lighting up the rich hazel as she examined me. The swift appraisal packed a boxer's punch. This was no empty-headed slut; she radiated intelligence.

It decided me; I'd destroy Kowalczyk, ripping away the business he'd built, the house he was proud of, the celebs that flocked around him, and when he went into a pauper's grave, he'd go knowing I was boning his woman.

I nodded at her. Be seeing you, too. Of all of Kowalczyk's possessions, she was the only one I wanted. She was a beauty; just thinking of those curves as mine had me solid.

The girl saw right through me. Her eyes narrowed with comprehension, the sparkle darkening. Ohmigod, you and me? I don't think so! Registering her disdain in every inch, she shrugged off Kowalczyk's iron grasp. She examined me from top to toe and then she shuddered. One has to draw the line somewhere. Then she threw back her shoulders and laughed, Eeeeew, no thanks! Definitely not. At me!

The stolid Pole and his goons had been bad enough but to have a girl mock me was the last straw. Somehow, I got out of that house, her contempt haunting me as I tore out of the gate.

I don't remember the drive home but by the time I pulled up in my VIP reserved parking bay, the humiliation had seared into a crushing need for revenge. I punched the penthouse button on the private elevator and came to a decision: as they shovelled dirt over Kowalczyk's corpse, she would be in my bed and the bitch would be screaming. I would make her life a living hell and she would suffer an eternity.

I'd make her pay.

Chapter Two: Persia

Y ou weren't in the garden. Whether it was the stained teeth, the smell of cheap cigars or just the sheer evil of his presence was uncertain but being near Jacek Kowalczyk made me want to heave. Where did you go?

Nowhere. My lie was automatic.

The pale orbs were expressionless but the merciless hand slid up my waist, cupping, gripping and then sliding over my breast. I knew what was coming and braced myself. As the iron fingers latched on and squeezed, the searing pain brought tears to my eyes. But I didn't gasp or move; I didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

After a long count of ten, just as my knees were about to buckle, he let go. The chilly gaze bore into me. Don't. Lie. To. Me. He was remote, entirely unmoved. You were off to that college again.

My fashion design course. My life. My passion. I had to submit my end of term assignment. Otherwise they'll kick me out.

The thin mouth twisted. You don't have the talent. Your skills level stops at wearing clothes.

Great. I started my career as a model and like the rest of the world, Kowalczyk assumed that made me a moron.

He looked into the distance, mulling over a fun way to crush me. You are here to provide a service.

He liked to show me off to visitors, setting me alongside the masterpiece paintings and the crystal chandeliers. I'd forgotten that he'd told me to be in his office that afternoon, with special instructions to be all over him.

The feral fangs showed. As you aren't delivering, we'll add to the debt. An extra week's vig, I think.

Christ, more debt to work off. I didn't even try to protest. I was powerless, and he knew it.

The door's there, Persia. It was better than crushing my soft flesh; he was enjoying himself. Feel free to leave.

I stayed, just as he knew I would. I was tethered to Jacek Kowalczyk as firmly as if he had me on a leash. I wasn't going anywhere.

You were late, and you cheeked me before my visitor.

Oh hell. Usually the pestilent Pole was too thick to notice my nasty little quips, but he'd picked up on the veiled insult.

You think you're too good for me? The cold eyes narrowed. I think you need a reminder of where exactly you stand.

Christ, this would be brutal. I was an inch from welling up but blinking rapidly dealt with it. I couldn't run. Instead, I focussed on the man who'd just walked out. I'll be seeing you. He'd spoken softly, almost dreamily, but the violence in his gaze spoke volumes.

Dark tousled hair, dark eyes, divine cheekbones and a long, lean, limber body that longed to be stroked, kissed and licked. Well-dressed too. The superbly cut steel grey suit was Savile Row, the purple shirt handstitched Gucci and the leather loafers were Dolce & Gabbana. A man to die for.

I lusted for a moment, and then reality kicked in. He was prettier than the others, but still scum. The knowledge centred me. He'd been absolutely raging; threatening revenge. With luck, he'd kill Kowalczyk stone dead. Death could do us part.

An object lesson, my tormentor mused.

Although this fucker was possibly too evil even for the devil.

Have the car brought round, Kowalczyk snapped to his minders. He ran a hand up my leg and over my arse. In thirty minutes.

The foul foursome who guarded him 24/7 jumped to it, leaving me to my fate.

Slut. The creeping fingers were lifting the hem of my tunic, exposing my knickers. He'd draw this out, enjoying my humiliation. A half and half, ending with you bent over the desk.

Talking to me as if I were a whore and using me in his office so that his minders would hear me being fucked was his favourite game. Swallowing the insult that came to my lips saved me from further humiliation like having the door left open and other fun twists. My mouth had cost me too much already.

My mind went back to the pretty visitor. I'd sensed the maelstrom in the dark-eyed stranger but I'd been so pissed off with Kowalczyk that I'd sneered at him out of sheer bad temper and despair.

I'm waiting, Kowalczyk said silkily. He made a point of seeming impassive but I knew him too well; humiliation was his aphrodisiac. Under the sagging belly, his crotch was bulging. On your knees.

A deep breath helped me tune out the man before me and turn inward. A runway with models wearing the clothes I'd designed. Music blaring, lights flashing. Me, seeing my success. His fingers pinching my shoulder dug in. It freaking hurt, and it brought me back, keeping me from blanking him out.

He was working the clasp of his belt. Come on, get this undone. Grumbling, Those bastard dry-cleaners shrunk this suit.

You're too fat. I eyed the straining material. If you want a better fit, I suggest industrial liposuction.

The pale eyes blazed. Shut the fuck up.

I assumed you didn't want me to mention the micro dick.

Told you I have a mouth on me. And a death wish maybe.

He held me by the hair, agony all by itself, and shook me. You'll pay for that.

So you said. He wanted tears, and I was determined to ruin it for him. Hurry up and stick it in already.

"Suka! My hair was coming out at the roots. I was still gasping when he pulled me to my feet and tossed me over the desk. Ty kurwo!"

I won't dwell on the next few minutes. Luckily, Kowalczyk was hung like a mouse and gone in 60 seconds to boot. The thin rod piercing me barely registered, and the stream of trash-talk was water off a duck's back. It was the shame of knowing I was helpless that really hurt me.

Thankfully, blanking out was easy. I went straight into my favourite fantasy. Silk dresses by Persia York, Designer of the Year. His groaning jolted me out of my reverie. When he pulled out, I was filled with triumph. He'd used my body, but I'd escaped him.

Now for the lesson. The hand was in my hair again. I'd counted my chickens too soon. The Armani trousers were puddled around his ankles. Lick me clean.

Did I say he was a filthy pig? No fucking way!

The iron grip kept me in place as he shoved his crotch into my face. I'll spare you the rest. It was vile.

Throw up on my rug and I'll make you eat it.

I was heaving and swallowing rapidly, hoping the sick would go away, when a phone rang.

At the jaunty tune, some Polish polka, he dropped me and sprang to attention. Digging in a drawer, he pulled out a cheap phone. "Anno. His attention focused like a laser beam, he spoke rapidly. Yes, I have it all set up. She's coming for dinner on Friday, and she'll bring her fiancé."

Nausea winning, I crawled over to the wastebasket. As I vomited, I came to a resolution. I wasn't doing this anymore.

Yes, I'm certain. She's confirmed.

Jacek Kowalczyk was scum, the kind whose death people would cheer. A gun would do the trick or perhaps I could stab him as he slept.

It'll be a party to remember. It'll go just as we planned.

I was kidding myself. I didn't have it in me to kill and Kowalczyk knew it. He had a gold-plated gun, and he left it lying about all the time. Because I was too cowardly to pick it up and pull the trigger.

I'm telling you, there's nothing to worry about.

My ears pricked up, not because of what he was saying but because of his tone. Kowalczyk was explaining, almost crawling. He'd never done that to anyone.

Jorge Santos is a nobody. He was here just now, begging for a favour.

Now I had a name to put the pretty face: Jorge, the Spanish for George, and Santos for saint. Some saint. Devil, more like.

Yes, Arturo Vazquez is not to be messed with but he won't give a fuck. The Zetas blow away problems, family or not, and Santos screwed up last year. If he disappears, his cousin will just laugh.

Great. I'd never heard of the Zetas but they sounded as evil as Kowalczyk. That pretty Jorge was pure filth.

He took my band, Pussy Wave, and now I will take over his territory, Kowalczyk boasted. I'm king of London!

It must be an associate. It was a revelation because the Pole posed as an independent, a powerhouse who'd made his own way in the world, cunning and indestructible. He never talked about his plans to anyone and here he was, sharing.

Yes, it won't take me long, Kowalczyk was lit with triumph. "Da va."

Another lightbulb. I'd wondered why he was speaking English but the two little words explained it: I had heard Natasha Kievko, Moscow's iconic designer say it often enough.

Knowing Kowalczyk was pally with a Russian opened my eyes because the Poles hate them with a passion. Fifty years of communist rule aren't easily set aside.

Get up, you stupid bitch. He was pulling me up by the hair. Despite the call, the foul temper was flooding full force. You look like shit.

Not answering and a blank stare saved me from a beating and although he pretended