You Don't Own Me (The Russian Don 1)

‘I’m afraid you can’t take public transport while you are with me.’

‘Why not?’

‘There is always the risk of kidnap and harm.’

‘Surely no one with half a brain is going to kidnap the new toy of the great Russian Mafia boss.’ My voice is heavily laced with sarcasm.

‘This is true, but there are people with less than half a brain and I have to be very wary of them. They will be unbelievably sorry afterwards, but the damage would have been done. While you are my property you are my responsibility.’

I raise my palm up. ‘OK, you’ve made your point, but I don’t want Noah to take me. Can’t I just take a taxi? They’ll send someone to come right to the front door, wait at the destination, and bring me back.’

His eyes narrow. ‘Are there men in your agency?’

‘Men? No, there are no men there except for Mr. Hawthorne, the bookkeeper who comes in on Tuesdays, but he’s at least a hundred and twenty years old.’

‘Then why don’t you want Noah to take you? Has he done something to upset you?’

‘No,’ I deny immediately, ‘of course not.’ I sigh. ‘It’s not him. It’s just that I have not told anyone at work about our … arrangement and I don’t want to arrive in a blacked out Mercedes.’

He finishes his drink in a single gulp. ‘Then Noah will take you and park in the next street and walk up the road with you.’

‘What? No way. Noah looks so dangerous.’

‘He can wait across the road,’ he says haughtily.

I sigh again. ‘Fine. But he can’t be seen with me.’

‘I will tell him.’

‘Good. Thank you. I appreciate that.’

A waiter arrives to escort us to our table and we follow him to a round table spread with a snowy white tablecloth and, unusually, set with two pure white serving plates. There is no pattern or the restaurant’s monogram on it. Once we are settled in and glasses of champagne have been placed in front of us, Zane resumes our conversation.

‘So what is it that you do at this literary agency of yours?’

I take a mouth full of bubbles. ‘Well, it’s my job to help read the massive pile of manuscripts that come in the post every day and try to find raw talent that our agency would like to represent.’

‘Do you find many?’

‘No. Unfortunately, everybody thinks that just because they can craft a sentence they can write a book.’

He leans forward. ‘How many have you found since you have been at the agency?’

‘I’ve found three, but two were vetoed out by the other girls as not good enough. So I guess I found one, but she was a really good one. Fey, the owner of the agency, put her book to auction with the big four publishers and she got a £250,000 advance.’ I grin. ‘And that’s just for her UK rights. She got a similar amount for her American rights. Cool stuff, huh?’

He nods slowly. ‘Not bad. How many manuscripts did you have to read to find this gem?’

‘I don’t know, sometimes it feels like a million. But to give you an idea of the statistics we deal with, the agency gets in the region of 200 to 250 submissions per week, but we only signed up four authors last year.’

He leans back in his chair, surprised. ‘That’s almost like winning the lottery.’

‘Exactly what I say,’ I agreed.

He drags a finger down the condensation on the flute glass thoughtfully. ‘Have you never wanted to write a book yourself?’

‘I don’t consider myself a writer. I guess I never have. I do scribble down my thoughts when my mind gets so overwhelmed that I feel I have to empty the box. Since they are all random often they make no sense at all, but occasionally I sound like a wizard or Einstein. Those pieces I’ve stashed away and maybe one day I’ll read them to my kids. Something for them to remember their mom by when I am gone.’

Zane stares at me as if he is seeing a ghost.

‘What?’ I ask defensively.

‘Nothing,’ he says quickly.

Embarrassed that I carelessly shared something so personal with him, I pick up a prawn cracker, nibble on it as if I don’t have a care in the world and say, ‘So tell me about your job.’

He smiles. ‘Are you asking me to incriminate myself?’

‘I won’t tell a soul. Girl Scout’s honor.’

He takes a sip of champagne. ‘Maybe you won’t, but the walls have ears.’

I put the remainder of the prawn cracker into my mouth and let it melt on my tongue. ‘Someone told me your real name is Aleksandr Malenkov.’

‘Is he the one who told you I ate my own heart?’

I pierce him with my eyes. ‘Actually, he told me you are a very dangerous man.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Yeah?’

I lick my dry lips. ‘He told me you’re a killer.’