Ruthless: A London gangland romantic suspense novel ( The Bailey Boys Book 3)

by PJ Adams

  Stupid. Silly. Thoughts rushing through her head. She was just glad she had kept her mouth shut, wasn’t spouting all this as she knew she sometimes did when she was flustered.

  “Can I take that?”

  He held hands out for her coat, and she realized he must have said it at least once before and she’d been too distracted to hear.

  Stupid. Feeling like this. Behaving like this.

  She rolled her shoulders and let the coat slide down her arms, then handed it to him. “Thank you,” she said. “Please, be careful. It is muddy from–”

  “The track, yes.” A smile. A relaxation. Did he sense the atmosphere, too? The uncertainty of how to behave?

  The kitchen smelled of something savory in the oven – garlic and cheese and meat – and candles. He had put a cloth on the chunky wooden table, tall candles in a pair of old wine bottles, cutlery and glasses carefully arranged. In the center, a bowl of mixed salad, condiments, a wooden board with what looked like rye bread and a long knife, and a smaller board with a block of parmesan and a grater.

  “I wanted to cook something Polish,” he said, coming back into the room from hanging her coat. “Like playing Chopin for you... it seemed right.”

  Kurvos vaikas, she had not expected him to be sweet.

  The men in her life... in her experience they never really tried. It was a man’s world, into which she had fitted.

  She couldn’t go through with this charade.

  She shook her head.

  “I am not Polish,” she said. “I lied. I tracked you down. I paid Tomasz to introduce me. I am sorry.”

  Of all the responses she might have anticipated, she would never have expected him to say...

  “I know.”

  The look on his face: suddenly unfathomable.

  She wondered how many people had seen that look, and maybe it was the last thing they had ever seen.

  “I know you’re here under false pretenses. There was something... Something nagging. This afternoon I did some digging of my own, spoke to a few people. You’re not Polish and you’re not a cleaner.”

  She looked down, swallowed. Looked back up into those dark eyes.

  “You’re here to kill me, aren’t you? You’re here for payback.”

  “No. I–”

  “–so if that’s what it is, would you just do it? Get it over with. I’m ready. Just fucking kill me.”

  10

  She’d got under my skin. Made me drop all the usual defenses. Made me forget the thought patterns that had kept me alive all this time.

  But there was something about what she had said this morning...

  I came to this country to look for something. For someone.

  I’d been so wrapped up in the shock of what had happened to Fearless Lloyd that I’d missed the real meaning of that.

  The confession: that she had tricked her way into my service.

  Looking for someone... she’d come here looking for me.

  If there was one thing I should know, it’s that assassins come in the most unlikely of packages. Was she here because of the price on my head? A simple business transaction? Working her way into my circle while she made sure of who I was before doing the job?

  Or was it personal?

  She’d admitted it this evening: she was not Polish. She was clearly East European, though.

  I thought of the man I had most recently killed. Yvgeny Primakov, although we’d nicknamed him ‘Putin’ because he looked so like the Russian leader. I don’t think I ever knew whether he was actually Russian or Ukrainian.

  Maggie had said she’d lost her father recently... Surely not...?

  I stared at her. “Go on,” I urged her again. “Just do it. I deserve it.”

  I’d been waiting for this, or something like it.

  I’d thought I was ready, that I would take it calmly.

  But I hadn’t seen it coming in this shape and form. Hadn’t anticipated that it could be such a cruel thing, that my assassin might walk into my life and give me hope before dashing it.

  Maggie stared at me.

  Gave a minimal shake of the head.

  In that instant I experienced another of those mad moments when your world is flipped.

  The hurt in her look.

  The sense of betrayal, as if I were the one who had lied to inveigle myself into another’s life.

  And then she turned and stumbled towards the back door, fumbled with it before tugging it open, and ran out into the night.

  §

  I’d got it wrong. I’d fucked up again.

  I’d spotted the lie but not the truth.

  Made connections and leaped to the wrong conclusion.

  Why else would someone ever want to enter my world like this?

  And, underlying it all, how could anyone actually get close to me and care? That was the hardest thing of all to believe: that she had come here for whatever reasons and then allowed herself to get drawn in because she had any interest in what she found, in me.

  The door banged in the wind.

  She was probably halfway back to Tidingham by now.

  That was the best thing.

  Let her run from me, from the entanglements of my life.

  Let her go.

  §

  I went outside, and was immediately buffeted by a blast of wind.

  She would freeze! She’d left her coat.

  I went across the yard to the top of the track, where it met the cliff path. Peered into the darkness, the terrain lit only by the overspill of the house lights and a vague glow from where the moon hung behind the clouds.

  I couldn’t see her.

  She must have pretty much run to get away from me.

  Even in my jacket I was shivering, and that only made me think of how cold she must be.

  I turned and she was standing there, arms wrapped around herself. She was silhouetted by the kitchen lights, so I couldn’t see her expression, couldn’t tell if she was upset or cross or scared or some combination of all of them.

  She should be angry. If she hadn’t come here to kill me then she should want to now.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I don’t think she got the significance of that. It took a moment even for me to work it out. Put me on the spot and demand to know and I don’t think I could come up with another time in my adult life when I’d said those words and meant them.

  “I thought...” I said. “I don’t know what I thought. Can we at least go inside? You must be freezing.”

  She went ahead of me, went round to the other side of the kitchen so that when she turned the table was between us, mocking us with the domesticity of the cutlery, the bread, the glasses.

  Her expression wasn’t the anger, fear or upset I’d anticipated. It was one of determination. That girl had balls.

  “What is it?” I said. “You came here for a reason. Tell me what you want. Tell me what I can do.”

  “It is a family thing,” she said, her voice hesitant, contradicting the determined look on her face.

  “You said you were looking for something – someone.”

  She glanced down, then back up to meet my look. “My brother.”

  I struggled to make any kind of connection.

  “He is all the family I have,” she explained. “My father, he died last year, back home. Alfredas had already gone by then. I knew he had gone to England, to London. When my father die, I try to find Alfredas, but he was hard to find. My brother, he is, how do you say?”

  “A bastard like me?” I was getting there.

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Confirmation enough.

  “I find he working for a bad man. Everyone warn me away. The most ruthless gangster of them all. A man with a heart of ice.”

  “So you came looking for me.”

  I wasn’t exactly on a witness protection program here, but I’d taken steps to cover my tracks. That a girl like Maggie should be the first one to find me was either impressive, or a sign tha
t I wasn’t as well hidden as I’d thought.

  “I find you, but...”

  “I was a disappointment.”

  She shrugged. “Is it you? Are you really this Owen Bailey I hear about? You seem...”

  “An empty shell? A shadow of my former self?”

  She was shaking her head as I spoke. “No, no,” she said. “You seem – mostly – a good man. A sad man, yes, but... I do not know. Interesting.”

  “That’s the most roundabout way I’ve ever heard of telling me I’m not quite the bastard everyone makes out.”

  “Is it true? That you are not quite that bastard?”

  How had we reached this point? I leap to wild conclusions, drive her out into the stormy night, chase after her and find out what she’s really after and now, all of a sudden... the tone had shifted again.

  I’m a bastard.

  You’re not a bastard. You’re... interesting of all things.

  Jesus.

  I turned away. Checked the door, even though I already knew I’d shut it properly against the night.

  When I looked back she was watching me. I’m accustomed to reading people, to working them out, but I couldn’t get a read on Maggie then.

  “So,” I said. “This brother. You think he’s done some work for me? You think I know him?”

  She nodded. “A friend of one of his old friends... He say Alfredas works for the Bailey Boys.”

  I spread my hands. “Nobody works for me now. Not since... But maybe he did. I don’t remember anyone called Alfredas, but we had all kinds of people. I didn’t do all the hiring and firing. It was a big firm. An old family business.”

  “Sometimes they call him Freddie.”

  It took a second, then: “Freddie? Freddie the German?” It made sense: I’d been trying to think of any Poles I’d known, but of course she’d said she wasn’t Polish, she’d just used that as an in with my builder, Tomasz.

  “Not German. Lithuanian. That could be him. Tall, about 190 centimeters. Blond, eyes pale like mine.”

  It fit. “So you’re Lithuanian? Tomasz said you were a Pole, like him.”

  She shook her head. “Not Pole. Lithuanian. Everyone, they say Pole, Lithuanian, not much difference, eh?”

  “No, no,” I said. “There’s a world of difference. On the one hand there’s Chopin and Lipiński; on the other there’s... what... Balakauskas? He’s one of yours, isn’t he?”

  She was looking at me strangely. I couldn’t tell if she thought it strange that I knew some East European composers, or if she didn’t have a clue what I was talking about.

  “So... Freddie the German... He’s Lithuanian. Why did he let us think he was German?” But I could work it out. We were caught up in a war in the streets of London, shooting it out with Russian and Ukrainian gangs trying to take over territory held for decades by the Baileys. A young and ambitious man like Freddie was hardly going to ask us to call him Freddie the Lithuanian, was he?

  “I liked him,” I said. “He was a good ’un.”

  “‘Was’?”

  “No, no,” I leaped in. “He’s fine. Was fine, at least, last I saw of him. It’s just... I’ve been out of the picture for a while. I don’t keep up. Freddie the German! He’s really your brother? I liked him. There was something of me about him, I always thought.”

  “You know where he is?”

  I shrugged. “Not directly, no,” I told her. “But I know some people.”

  “You give me details?” She was fumbling in her bag already, came out seconds later with a pen and notebook and thrust them towards me.

  “These people,” I said, “They’re not good people. They won’t take kindly to a stranger asking questions. You want me to make some calls for you first, at least?”

  “I will call. I will be careful.”

  I hesitated, then took the pen and notebook, and wrote down a single number. “My cousin Ronnie. Tell him what you want. Tell him I said he should do anything to help. Tell him to keep you safe.”

  11

  Just fucking kill me.

  It was the anguish in his tone more than anything that had made Maggie flee into the darkness.

  He actually meant those words.

  He truly thought that’s what she was there to do.

  The night air shocked her system, pulling her up short.

  She couldn’t do this. Run.

  She couldn’t give up when she’d got so close.

  She’d done all the hard work.

  If there was one thing she had in common with Owen Bailey it was the realization that family was the most important thing. He had lost his brothers; she had lost hers.

  She couldn’t turn away now, just because he’d misunderstood.

  She had to confront him.

  And so she turned back, waited in the dark until he came after her; she told him the truth, and he had given her the number to call. The contact in London.

  She should go now. She had what she wanted, what she needed.

  She would go back to her room in Tidingham, make that call. Go to London and find Alfredas and dig him out of whatever trouble he would inevitably be in. They hadn’t spoken for nearly two years now, and it had been too long. Way too long when the only family you have in the world is that one person.

  It was the tenderness in Owen’s tone that made her falter.

  Tell him to keep you safe.

  The look in those dark eyes.

  Maggie looked down, then back up. Put her hands on the back of a chair.

  She should just go.

  She should remain focused.

  She didn’t need... whatever this was.

  An electronic beeper pierced the growing silence. The oven.

  They both looked across, and then back at each other, and then Owen said, “You want dinner, at least? No strings. Just... you don’t know how fucking hard it was.”

  “To cook?”

  A shrug. “I Googled. Found loads of Polish food and didn’t have a clue. Not that Polish would have been right, as it turned out. What do Lithuanians eat? Anyway, it’s lasagna. I figured that at least I know what that’s supposed to be like.”

  “You cook it? Not just from a foil tray?”

  He tried to look offended, then shrugged again. “I cooked it. Be warned. They don’t call me the most dangerous man in London for nothing.”

  She helped him serve it out. He took the dish from the oven and held it steady while she put two portions on plates. It looked and smelled good.

  She was impressed, but she didn’t say.

  They sat opposite each other, took salad, bread. She grated a dusting of parmesan onto hers while he poured wine.

  “It’s good,” she said a short time later, finally acknowledging his achievement.

  He raised his eyebrows in response.

  “No. I am not being polite. It tastes like... it’s meant to.”

  Eyebrows again, a pause, and then they both laughed.

  “So...” How to say it? “What is this?”

  He clearly knew what she meant, no further explanation required. “If this was... the old days, back down in London,” he said, “I’d win you with my charm. I’d tell you some stories. Make you laugh. You’d be at least a bit intimidated because of who I am. What I am. Excited by that, too, else why would you be here? I tell you, though, I wouldn’t have cooked the fucking meal. That’s a first.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I’d kiss you.”

  Her question had been genuine. She hadn’t known what this evening was to be. Hadn’t known what she had wanted from it, other than to continue her pursuit of Alfredas. But she had always known it must be more than just that.

  Still, it was a shock to hear him say these things. To tell her how he had once operated. To make it clear that she fell into that category, the category of women he would... treat that way.

  She took a piece of bread and broke it in two.

  “And now?”

  He shook his head.


  “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he said. “It’s that I want to more than I trust myself with.”

  Why was she so conscious of the beating of her heart? And what did he mean by that? Was he really saying he wanted her too much? Or was that him slipping back into the way of the ‘old days’, as he had put it? The days when he would have won her with a bit of charm...

  She broke the bread into smaller pieces, ate one of them. Outside, the wind whistled around the eaves of the building.

  “Tell me a story. You said you would tell stories. In the old days.” The days when he would have charmed, and told stories, and kissed her.

  “I broke Fearless Lloyd’s nose when I was eleven.”

  She waited for him to go on.

  “My old man had a gym. A boxing club. Me and Dean learned to fight there. Lee did later, when he was old enough. The other two, they were fighters but I was always the thinker. Didn’t like to roll my sleeves up. The gym came after that, though: the night I broke Fearless’s nose was when I decided I had to learn to fight properly... The coppers were after him. I don’t know what for, but it won’t have been pretty. They came to a pub we had, the Old Duchess, and in the confusion I found myself out in the back alley with Fearless, with one ugly bastard of a copper haring after us. Fearless, he said, ‘Hit me. Hit me good. Right here.’ I did what he said, didn’t hesitate because we only had a split-second and he was like that, you just trusted him.”

  “Why?”

  “A dozen bystanders saw him go out there, no injuries. Minutes later, he was being frogmarched back in with a broken nose and blood everywhere. His lawyers had a field day. Police brutality. Unlawful arrest. Nobody believed the copper that this weedy scrap of a kid had done it. Got off scot-free.”

  “And why is that a story you tell?”

  He shrugged. Said, “Because that was the first time I ever hurt someone I loved. And now he’s gone. And it’s the story that floated to the surface. No agenda. Just... I come from a strange background. Strange people. Strange ways of showing we love each other. It’s not normal, is it?”

  Maggie shrugged now. Looked away. Her own family was hardly normal. “My father, he died in a bar. A fight over nothing, like all of his fights. And my brother... Alfredas has done bad things. I hope he is not in trouble.”