by AJ Adams
His fists balled at my cool answer but he wanted me at his side when he went out and a black eye would put a stop to that. That need was my only hold on him: Kowalczyk might pull my hair, twist my arms and pinch but he was damn careful not to do any visible damage. Swimming daily in a tiny bikini in the heated inside pool meant he'd not even dared take a cane to me when I'd refused to let him tie me up or bugger me.
I might be too cowardly to kill him but in mind games, I could hold my own. "Well, do you want me to go out or not?"
"Get. Changed." He bit the words out. "Five. Minutes."
The mansion was massive. Mercifully, I had my own room. I gazed at myself in the long mirror and winced. My makeup hadn't run – it had galloped, smearing from forehead to chin. The silky wrap I'd designed was totally trashed as well. By the time I'd swapped it for a frothy little number in amber silk, and done my face, the best part of an hour had gone by.
"I told you to hurry the fuck up!"
"Perfection takes time."
"Get in the fucking car! We're late!" Kowalczyk was champing at the bit but he daren't push it. Empire has just reopened after a month of refurbishment. That night was about publicity, celebs galore had promised to drop by, and he wanted me beside him, looking pretty.
It was an opportunity. "I feel sick. I'm sure I'm going to throw up again. I can't go."
The fists balled but stayed at his side. "Come, and we renegotiate the debt."
"How much?"
"I'll forgive you for today. I won't add an extra week's vig."
Great. Interest payments were sky high, so it was a glorious opportunity to reduce the overall debt. "It's not enough. I want that, and an extra week's credit."
He growled but nodded. "Fine."
I breathed again. "I'll have Colin meet us there, with the paperwork." Because I wasn't trusting the Polish sleaze to keep his word.
"Bitch."
"Suck it up, buttercup."
He hissed but took it. Yes, I was on top. At least, for now.
Empire was packed and the queue outside ran to the end of the block. We pulled up in style, in a stretch limo, an absurd vehicle straight out of Vegas, and the foul four stepped out and cleared the path.
It was an entrance calculated to impress, especially with Kowalczyk acting the big man, nodding hellos and beaming for a dozen photographers. As the crowd had no idea he paid for press coverage through Gold Ticket, his PR agency, they wowed.
"Look at that limo! It's bigger than a bus."
"That's Jacek Kowalczyk, the owner."
Kowalczyk expanded with pride, delighted his money was working for him, and when two local film stars turned up and embraced him as a long-lost friend, his grin reached to Prague.
The PR people had also arranged the celeb appearances, but they went down well, as did the supporting actor from Dr Who, the latest reject from Big Brother, and a porn star who'd been caught boinking a cabinet minister.
As the celebrities hugged Kowalczyk and posed for the press, the crowd lapped it up.
"The owner must be mega rich."
"I saw him in The Sun, in one of those richest bachelors in London lists."
That had been a PR job, too.
"He's with Persia York, the model."
"Ohmigod, really? The one who does bikers by the dozen? Gangbang Persia?"
"Yeah, the catwalk bad girl."
That's me. Face like an angel and a reputation that's pure gutter.
"Jesus, she looks good."
See? I'm pretty.
"Kowalczyk's a lucky bastard. I wish I were rich and successful."
Which was exactly why Kowalczyk wanted me. The fucker.
The photographers all spotted me at the same time.
"Hey Persia, over here, love."
"Over here, Persia."
"We missed you at the London fashion show yesterday, Persia. Were you in jail?"
I gave that one the finger, and they all laughed.
"Who made the dress, Persia?"
"You back to modelling, love? Who's the client?"
I'm not famous like Jourdan Dunn or Edie Campbell, but I started at fourteen and after working with names like Gap, Dior and Victoria's Secret, I rated almost as good as the Doctor Who sidekick.
"I'm taking a course at the London College of Fashion. The dress is my design." Advertising had become an instinct.
It caused a nice stir, too. "Really? We're looking at the next Vivienne Westwood?" a ponytail with a Nikon called out.
"I sure hope so!"
The pestilent Pole didn't like that at all. "Persia's joking." Kowalczyk's paw was heavy on my shoulders. "Her future's with me."
The crushing weight silenced me as much as a tide of shame and disgust.
The ponytail gawped. "You're kidding!"
Kowalczyk bridled instantly. "We're in love."
The ponytail had clearly been out of town. "You and Persia York? The girl who's seen more traffic than London Bridge?"
Yeah, ten years on the catwalk and a wild past had earned me a rep. But while I was no angel, I'd never sunk as low as this.
"Yes, Persia and me," Kowalczyk snapped. By the sudden swell under the belly and the tightening fingers, my shame was providing him with another woodie. "We're made for each other."
"Fucking hell!" The ponytail was snapping away. "That's a cover story, all right. Hey Persia, you got Daddy issues? Or do you have a thing for fat bastards?"
I gave him the finger again, and Kowalczyk was about to explode, when a loud squawk cut through the crowd.
"Persia!" Laura Griffin tripped along, her smile at full wattage and her hands waving dramatically. The air kiss was as fake as her joy at seeing me. "Darling! It's been ages!"
"Hello, Laura."
"The Gold Ticket PR people begged me to come." Her cat-like smile said it all. "Are you waitressing here?"
The bitch. "Nice dress. Last year's fashion suits you."
Laura's eyes narrowed. "You're always a little out there, aren't you, Persia?" she cooed. Then, maliciously, she fingered my dress. "But sweetie," she exclaimed fake-horrified. "Don't tell me you're reduced to wearing home-made?"
I powered up automatically. "Look, I'm busy here. If I throw a stick, you'll leave, right?"
I would have walked away but Laura's tits spilling out of her dress had Kowalczyk mesmerised. "Hello!"
Batting her eyelashes, she was all over him in an instant. "I've been dying to meet you. I just love your club." Her arm linked in mine, she announced, "Persia and I are old friends."
"You were with La Perla and now you're with the Rampage," Kowalczyk was drooling, the ponytail forgotten. "Come and have some champagne."
"Ooh, I love bubbles!" A split-second later, she elbowed me out of the way. Then, tits out and teeth bared, she posed for the cameras. "Laura Griffin. That's with two fs."
"As in eff off," I grumbled.
Modelling is hugely competitive but we girls are friends. Laura was the exception, always stirring and creating drama. She'd retired three years before, promptly landing a fashion column in the Rampage, one of the grubbier national dailies. Rather than boost the industry, she spent most of her time slagging off models. I always avoided her if I could because seeing her inevitably brought out my bad side.
"Oh dear," Laura sighed. "Time of the month, sweetie? You're a little bloated."
Kowalczyk muffled my four-letter reply, elbowing me in his haste to get between us. "Any friend of Persia's," he was loud, practically yelling, and quick to snake out an iron hand, cleaving me to his side and making sure the photographers got a shot of him with both of us. Then, with an eye on the line of waiting punters, he hailed the chief bouncer, "Pavel, can't we let all these people in?"
The man crawled instantly. "Sorry, boss. We're full."
Kowalczyk bawled his message. "We should get more space." A significant pause, "I know, we'll take over Bubbles. The owner will quit town soon."
The press sharpened up. "Are you serious? Bub
bles is closing down? Jorge Santos's place?"
"Yeah. Santos is broke."
There was a short silence. "You want that in print?" a beard with an Olympus frowned.
"Yeah." Kowalczyk reset to impassive.
"There's no way Bubbles is closing. It's way too popular," the ponytail decided. "Are you pissed off with him because he contracted Pussy Wave?"
"No!" Kowalczyk was puce. "Santos was at my place today, begging for help. His business is a train wreck."
"I'm not printing that," the beard muttered.
"Me neither," the ponytail agreed.
Kowalczyk's hiss was serpentine. "Santos is broke. Print it."
"You print it."
"Yeah, it's your funeral, mate."
Their response sent a quiver of warning through me. These men didn't give a stuff about anything, as long as they got their story. The beard had a bent nose, a souvenir from being belted in the smacker too often, and the ponytail paparazzi was in and out of court on both sides of the Atlantic for defamation, harassment and invasion of privacy. If they wouldn't print a slur that fifty people could vouch for, it meant Jorge Santos was one scary bloke.
"He's a loser," Kowalczyk snarled. "Persia loathes him."
"Does she?" Ponytail twitched.
"Yes." Kowalczyk scented interest and ran with it. "He was in my office today, making eyes at her."
"Really?" The beard was sceptical.
Kowalczyk went for it. "She told him she was way out of his league."
Hell! I'd laughed at the Zeta, not realising how damn dangerous he was. Who would have guessed he was the kind of nut capable of scaring the gutter press?
I was so caught up kicking myself that it hardly registered when Kowalczyk said, "Persia recognises a loser when she sees one and Santos is on his way out." He was secretly squeezing my tit. "Isn't that right?"
I heard myself spout automatically, "Absolutely."
Then, before I could gather my wits, he swept up the hired celebs, including Laura, announcing, "Enough of this, let's party."
And that's how I dissed the Zeta boss in front of all of London.
Experience told me there was nothing I could say. If I denied it, the press would just use it to make it look worse. Hopefully, fear would prevent them from printing the story. At least, I was hoping it would. Jorge Santos sounded real trouble.
Inside, the only free table was Kowalczyk's. Sectioned off with a velvet rope, and on a platform a foot higher than the rest of the club, it ensured everyone could see and admire.
As the staff brought bottles of vodka and champagne, I checked out the room. It was filled with rent-a-crowd faces. Kowalczyk's PR people had gone all-out to be sure Empire looked popular and that the press photos were glam but I thought it a mistake to keep real punters outside.
People will wait if it gets them into a fantabulous club but make them queue and then disappoint them and they may not try again - especially if none of their mates has first-hand knowledge that the experience is worth it.
Kowalczyk had remodelled because Empire had never been above middling popular but if he wasn't careful, his club would not cultivate its cadre of paying regulars, no matter how much had gone into the makeover.
Still, it wasn't my problem. I ducked into the loo to ring Colin but as the music made calling impossible, I ended up texting. When I finally returned to the table, Laura was sweet-talking the Big Brother star into introducing her to his agent. She was so focussed on her future, that she'd turned her back on Kowalczyk, leaving him upstaged and fuming.
The pale eyes narrowed with fury again. "Where the fuck did you go?"
"To call Colin."
"Where are your friends?"
Isa, Orabelle and Tazanna, my BFFs. He wanted them because lingerie models are mini celebs, but they didn't like him very much. "They'll look in later."
"Why can't we pay them to turn up?"
"Because unlike me, they're not whores."
The thin lips were white with rage. As I slid into my seat, his thumb dug into my thigh. "Pour. My. Drink." His snarl in my ear promised trouble to come.
Pushing back was automatic. "Pour mine. Maybe someone will mistake you for a gentleman."
"Persia!" Colin's hand was on my shoulder, hand clamping down in hidden warning as he smiled at a fulminating Kowalczyk. "I love what you've done with the club."
A dour nod was all he got.
Colin dropped his voice. "I thought you should know, the restaurant's doing great."
"Your sister isn't."
Colin's face fell. "I'll talk to her." He had me outside, well away from the line, a second later. "Are you insane? That man can destroy us."
All the tears I'd been holding back welled. "He's a pig."
"But you knew that, right?" Colin ran a nervous hand through his hair. "You said you'd cope."
So I had. "I hate him."
"He's an entitled arse. But as an influencer all you have to do is hang out and pretend you're enjoying yourself," Colin's eyes were roving up and down the street. "It's just smiling and being seen, right?"
My brother had no idea about the true state of affairs. A flash of that disgusting dripping dick came rushing back. Swallowing the sick, I held it together. "Yes, but it's harder than I thought."
Colin twitched. "Are you calling it quits?"
I considered what would happen. "No."
"I've redeemed most of the mortgage," Colin assured me. "And the loan payments are up to date."
Our family home was safe and so was the business. The spectre of my Mum and Dad being made homeless, and my brother a cripple for life, or counting worms, receded.
"We should be clear soon," Colin punched numbers into his phone. "It's just a few more weeks, less now you've renegotiated again."
"Good."
Colin tucked away his mobile. "I feel this is my fault," he sighed. "I should have told you that the restaurant redecoration was too much for my budget."
"It was my idea to avoid cheap and cheerful Ikea." Although it hadn't been me who'd gone to Kowalczyk for a loan. "We both should've been more careful."
"If only I'd checked," Colin lamented. "But the loan company looked legit."
"And that's how they get you." I wasn't blaming him. Colin was so honest and upright that he had no clue about real evil. "Never mind. A few more weeks and we're all clear."
Colin gazed with disapproval at the throng. "I don't like this place much. Too much drink and some customers look high. I think they're doing drugs."
"Well, that's the London club crowd for you."
Colin looked worried. "Persia, you're not tempted, are you?"
I hastened to reassure him. "Of course not!"
"Right." He gave me a hug. "Sorry. We said we'd never mention it again, didn't we? Mea culpa."
The one and only time I'd tried coke, they had caught me. It was my own stupid fault but the photo of me doing a line went viral. While the police left me alone after I convinced them it was just a joke, and that the white stuff was sugar, the newspapers were all over it.
It had horrified my family and even now, they worried. Especially my brother. I put an arm around him. "I don't mind, Colin. Policing sisters is what big brothers do." The thought made me feel warm. Like we were blood kin.
Colin hugged me instantly, no doubt understanding me exactly. "You're doing a good job on Kowalczyk's PR," he said warmly. "So many famous faces. And you brought Laura in, too. Really, excellent work, Persia."
"Thanks." Taking credit for Gold Ticket's work was automatic. If my brother knew I was Kowalczyk's whore instead of his public relations consultant, he'd never, ever forgive himself.
"With the restaurant doing okay and your PR work, we're paying off this debt right on schedule," Colin continued.
"Lovely."
A drunk girl tottered out of the club and threw up in the gutter. Colin stiffened with disgust. "Really! Disgraceful."
I bit back the impulse to say I'd love to get plastered a
nd forget the horrors of the present. On the rare occasion my brother opened a bottle of wine he wouldn't have more than a glass.
Colin took my hand and smiled at me. "I know I'm a fusspot, Persia, but are you sure you can work with Kowalczyk? He comes across as rough."
My decorating bill had put us in this mess, so I crossed my fingers and lied. "You know me, I love a walk on the wild side. I'll be fine."
"Oh, well, if you're sure."
My brother's unmistakable relief told me I'd done the right thing. When he'd taken out the loan, unexpected fees plus an eye watering interest had piled up until the debt had crippled us. We'd been within a hair of destitution.
My staying with Kowalczyk kept payments reasonable but three months of being treated like a whore was getting to me. "How much longer exactly before it's all paid off?"
Colin pressed my hand. "As long as we keep this up, another three weeks."
I'd have to suck it up. "I'll survive."
Chapter Three
Jorge
"He said what?" James asked astonished.
"You heard." I was still steaming but watching the others react with amazement made it better.
"And he wasn't stinking drunk or high?" Paco couldn't take it in.
"Nope."
"You think it's because you signed Pussy Wave?" Paco asked.
"Maybe. Or because Bubbles is doing better than his place."
"Que pendejo!"
Lencho was matter-of-fact. "We'll need permission and a plan to break through his security."
"No way will the jefe turn us down," Paco huffed. "This is not just an insult to Jorge. It's an insult to the Zetas."
"Yeah, but the fucker needs to suffer." Lencho's eyes were hard. We all learned the business together back in Nuevo Laredo, our hometown in Mexico, which made us closer than brothers. He was also aching for revenge. "We send a message: nobody fucks with us."
"That's my take too." I was raging but determined to handle this with professional detachment. "But first I want to settle the property issue."
"How can you sit there so calmly, Jorge?" Lencho exclaimed.