1

NIKOLAI

Roman and Andrei, both over six foot five, retired Special Forces soldiers, and the most loyal and reliable of my security team, are already waiting outside the entrance of Zigurat. You’re thinking because I’m a Russian billionaire, it’s fancy and probably built in a

pseudo pyramid style, aren’t you? Nah.

The location is discreet, and it’s sandwiched between some plain, gray offices on a deserted backstreet. There are no bright lights to announce its existence. In fact, the nicest thing you could say about the entrance is it’s nondescript. No cameras, or reporters hanging around. Exactly the way I like it. We neither advertise nor court any attention.

One has to be recommended by another member to enter, then there is a rigorous vetting process. Before a punter can step a foot through our door he must understand exactly what’s on offer inside … and the risks … of non-payment. This way there are no, well, let’s call it, misunderstandings.

Roman opens my door. I slide out, and stand on the sidewalk for an instant, while Roman and Semyon with military precision step into place on either side of me. Their cold, expressionless eyes dart around, alert and wary. Andrei, he’s always scowling, remains holding the front door open. I shoot my cuffs before heading for the door, my bodyguards closely shadowing me.

It sounds like too much?

Trust me, you can’t be too careful in my business. I have more enemies than friends. Come to think of it. I have no friends. They are all enemies in disguise.

It’s a different world inside the plain black door. Rich velvet curtains, glossy marble floors, chandeliers, and burnished gold fittings. It’s every nouveau riche oligarch’s wet dream. I walk through the splendor without seeing it. Anastasia, who mans the front desk, nods and smiles at me. She doesn’t expect me to smile back. I don’t.

I head upstairs to the first floor. Roman remains on my heels. He enjoys his job and takes his task of protecting me very seriously, which I am rather pleased about.

“Good evening, Mr. Smirnov,” a cocktail waitress, greets me on the landing. Her smile is wide and

promises all kinds of things. She is tall, willowy, and very beautiful, quite honestly, catwalk material. She licks her lips. Ah, that age-old invitation.

She’s new, but she’ll learn soon enough. I don’t ever mix business with pleasure. As a matter of fact, I don’t mix anything with business. I haven’t had a girlfriend since I was seventeen. That’s twenty years ago.

In my world, everything has a price. If I want pussy, I don’t chase it around the room. That’s bullshit. I just pay for it. That way I get exactly what I want, when I want it. It’s worked real well so far.

“How many in the Blue Room?” I ask her. “Six, Mr. Smirnov.”

“And next door?” “Six as well.” “Excellent.”

“Thank you, Mr. Smirnov.”

I look at my watch. Eight-thirty on the nail. I head downstairs and make my way to the purple room, where I normally dine, and where, very occasionally, the richest punters are invited to dine too, but never with me, obviously.

Vanessa, a sweet little thing, greets me. “Good evening, Sir.”

I take a seat. With military precision, a glass of Chateau Petrus arrives. I let its opulence slide over my tongue. Yes, this is the life. In five minutes Vanessa brings seared fillet mignon and girolles in truffle sauce. My head has stopped banging so I enjoy the food. It’s Friday, and I have a good feeling about today. A very good feeling.

I skip dessert, but accept the small, strong expresso she puts in front of me. Standing up, I make my way back upstairs to my offices. Roman follows silently at my heels.

Passing through reception again I see a number of punters milling around waiting to hand their coats over to the cloakroom staff. Some stare, some attempt to make eye contact, others are oblivious, one tries to dash over to shake my hand. He is one of those fools who hope that knowing me personally will make his situation somewhat more favorable should he lose. He is wrong. It doesn’t.

Roman ensures there is no contact, and I keep moving.

I pass the main gambling room. As I put my foot on the first step of the stairs that lead to my office, my ears tune in to a loud voice. Every sinew in my body tightens. Here is another one of those fools. Slowly, I turn around and look towards the commotion. Nigel Harrington. Look at him. In his sharp pinstripe suit.

“Nico,” he calls. Looking directly at me, he attempts to barge past security and come to me.

Three feet away from me Andrei slaps his huge palm on his chest, effectively stopping him in his tracks. Well, well, who knew today was the day. I walk towards him, my face wiped clean of the joy

and excitement surging in my veins. This is it. This is the moment I have been waiting for. “You got my money?” I ask.

Nigel’s facial expression doesn’t alter. “I will. By tonight. I promise.” I raise one eyebrow. “By tonight?”

“Yes, yes, by tonight. You have to let me play tonight and I’ll be able to pay you back.” “You don’t have the money now.”

“No.”

I turn towards Roman.

“Wait,” Nigel shouts desperately. I turn back towards him.

“You see, I had a dream. I dreamt that I would win big tonight, so I will. I will win it all back. I can feel it in my bones. You’ll get it all back, Mr. Smirnov.”

“Take him to the pit,” I instruct.

Roman and Andrei oblige by grabbing his forearms and shoulders. “Hey,” he screams in a panicked voice. He is still shouting when they quickly frog-march him down the hall to the cellar. I walk behind, keeping a small distance. Nigel pleads over his shoulder. There is nothing in the cellar but a badly stained pool table and a couple of chairs. They have already pushed him down onto a chair by the time I go in.

I close the door quietly behind me and stand for a moment looking at him. Every time I see him I am shocked by how unbelievably pathetic he is. I don’t speak, and he rushes to fill the dank silence.

“What are you going to do to me?” he asks, wild fear in his eyes. I shrug. “Nothing … if I get my money.”

I watch him lean forward in the chair and shuffle his feet. “You’re going to get your money, Mr. Smirnov. I told you, I had a dream. It was so vivid. I was playing in this very club, and I just couldn’t lose. I won a lot of money. Much more than I owe you. You just need to let me play tonight. Please, I won’t lose, I swear. You’ll see.”

Sudden laughter erupts from my throat. Roman and Andrei join in. Our laughter reverberates around the carpetless, curtainless room.

I stop laughing suddenly and step closer. I remove my jacket and hold it out. Roman steps forward to take it from me. I roll up the shirt sleeve of my left arm, and then my right arm. It’s just drama. Adds nicely to the tension. Actually, I’ve never done this before. I suppose I could be a gangster. It’s not too bad if I only had to knock off whiney excuses for human beings like him. Nigel’s eyes dart anxiously from me to my men and back to me. His hands are trembling.

“I’ll pay you back. You know I’m good for it.” “Do I look like a fool to you?” I ask pleasantly. “No. Not at all.”

“You must think I’m a fool. You actually thought you could come here without my money, and I would let you play again.”

“I know you’re not a fool. It was an honest mistake.” I raise an eyebrow. “An honest mistake?”

“Look, I won’t play tonight, all right? I’ll leave this club, get the money, and come here tonight.” “How will you get the money?”

“I … have the money.” “You have the money?”

“Well, not, right now. But, I … I … can get it. Just give me one day.” “One day?”

“I’ll get it by tomorrow.”

I shake my head. “That’s not the deal, Nigel. The rules are clear. Every member has three months. Run up as big a debt as you want during that time. Then you have to settle in full. Your three months was up last night.”

“But I can settle it tonight. If you just let me play. My dream …”

“This is no dream, Nigel. This is your fucking reality.” I stare at him. “Put him on the table.” Before the sniveling liar can say another word, he is thrown face down on the pool table.

“Hold his right hand out.” Roman takes one and Andrei the other. I walk slowly towards the wall cabinet and pick up a hammer. My staff have a sick sense of humor, there is blood still on it. I go back and hold the hammer close enough so that he can see the blood. His eyes bulge with terror. Ridiculous fool.

“Please, please, Mr. Smirnov. I’ll get you the money,” he begs. I lift the hammer above my head.

“Wait, wait,” he screams. “You can have my Mercedes. It’s the latest model, worth one hundred and fifty grand.” Sweat is pouring down his pale face, and there is a wild tick in his jaw. I try not to smile as I lower the hammer and drag the metal claw against his face. How could he fall for this shit?

“You owe four hundred and fifty grand you piece of shit. What else do you have?”

“Take my house. It’s worth one point eight million. You can have everything. Anything. Just let me go,” he cries wildly.

That’s the thing about gamblers. Even when they’re in danger of taking their last fucking breath they’ll try to con you.

“Is that all you have?”

“I swear, Mr. Smirnov, that’s everything I own. I only owe less than half a million, but you can have it all. Everything I own.”

I walk across the room and stand with my back to him. For a few moments, I let the silence ride while I turn inwards. Why Nikolai you’ve won. You’ve played the game, you never flinched or gave up, and you won again. I smile. Yeah, I won. I wipe the smile off my face, turn around and walk back to him.

“Well, Nigel, in that case, you are completely fucked. We both know the bank owns everything you have offered me. Break his hands, boys,” I snarl.

“No, no,” he sobs. “I beg you don’t hurt me. Please.”

“I don’t understand,” he wails. “If you know I have nothing why do you keep asking for what I haven’t got? What do you really want?”

I grab a fistful of his sweaty hair and raise his head. His eyes search mine, hoping for a glimmer of vulnerability. He sees none. Only icy cold eyes. He knows this is one debt he must pay. I smile coldly.

“I want your wife, Nigel.” 

STAR

It’s still dark when I wake up. The first thing I do is glance at my mobile phone. No messages from the hospital during the night. Good. No news is good news.

Relieved, I slowly turn my head and look at Nigel. He is sleeping on his side and facing my direction. A lock of his dark hair has fallen over his forehead, and the little lines of stress around his eyes and mouth are less noticeable, making his boyishly handsome face look almost sulky. The sight makes me smile.

No matter how bad things are with Dad at the moment, all I have to do is look at Nigel’s face to make me realize just how incredibly lucky I am. I have everything I have ever dreamed of. The perfect husband. The ability to spend my days doing the thing I love; writing. Never having to worry about financial problems. Living in my beautiful house tucked away in a leafy area of fashionable Fulham. I sometimes even think I live in a little slice of heaven.

And …

Next year, I will be twenty-three, and that is the age Nigel and I have earmarked to start our family. Nigel wants six children. Obviously, we won’t have that many. I think I’ll be happy with four, or even three for that matter. Gently, I brush the lock of hair off his forehead. He is a deep sleeper and doesn’t stir. I hope all my children have his gloriously dark hair. Especially the boys.

A little flutter sets up in my stomach at that thought.

After all these years, six to be precise, my love for him has settled into a delicious warmth inside my chest. Of course, I don’t pretend to understand the hectic world Nigel inhabits when he gets into his suit and walks out of our front door.

In fact, if I can help it, I don’t want to know that world. Once when we were first married, I travelled into the city to meet him at a swanky bar. At first, he seemed to be the Nigel I knew. Then, without any warning, right before my astonished eyes, he morphed. He was unrecognizable. Veins bulged in his neck, his face became red, and his eyes filled with murderous rage. The most foul language imaginable began to pour out of his mouth. He even used the C word. Absolutely horrified, I watched him mercilessly rip into a poor barrista. All that fury and venom because the man had let too much water run into his coffee!

I couldn’t say a word. I was too shocked. I had never seen that side of him before. All I could do was stare blankly while he explained to me that to succeed in the city one has to be willing to unleash the ugliest, cruelest and most intolerant version of oneself, and watch it run wild.

I felt horrible.

I told him that I didn’t care if he didn’t bring home as much money as he did. I didn’t want him to have to do that. I offered to get a job and help with the household finances if he wanted to take a different career path than the high-pressured world of being a broker.

He laughed and said he wouldn’t give up what he did for the world. That it was actually a liberating thing to be wild and cruel and ferocious. I can even remember his exact words.

“Especially, when you haven’t slept all night, and you have ten callers lined up, and you know every one of those fuckers wants to call you a four-letter word.”

No, I don’t understand his world at all, but I love him dearly so I try and do anything I can to make his life better.

I reach up and gently kiss his naked shoulder.

He is so tired he doesn’t respond, but I have a vague stirring between my legs, probably because of what he did last night. He had to work late and by the time he came home I was already asleep.

He woke me up with butterfly kisses all over my body, and then he made love to me. Mad, passionate love. It’s been a very long time since he was that hungry for me. He couldn’t get enough.

When it was over and I had come hard, he held my face gently between his palms and whispered that I was the most important thing in his life. That he would die for me. It reminded me of how it was at the beginning when we were in the first flush of love.

He was thirty-four and I had just turned sixteen when we met. I had gone to a friend’s birthday party and her uncle came along. The uncle was Nigel. He was so crazy for me he would wait outside my school. At first I wasn’t sure, but he was so handsome and so experienced that from the moment he kissed me I was a goner. Since I was so young we had to keep it a secret from my father.

I hated that, but I think the idea of our relationship being taboo turned him on. I feel like a dirty old pervert he used to say as he had me in lifts and the toilets of nightclubs. Then I turned seventeen, and I refused to hide it anymore.

I told my dad.

Oh, my, he was furious. He called Nigel every awful name in the book and said he was going to call the police. I told him if he did that I would run away from home and he and Mum would never see me again. It was Nigel or no one else for me. So, we carried on uneasily. Me sleeping over at Nigel’s at the weekends, and Dad huffing and puffing when I returned home.

When I was eighteen Nigel asked me to marry him. The next day, I brought him home and introduced him to my father. Dad distrusted him on sight and never took to him. It made me unhappy, but what could I do? I loved Nigel. When Dad walked me down the aisle, there were tears in his eyes, and he

told me my wedding day was the saddest day of his life.

Dad was wrong. Nigel has been good to me. The real irony is that it’s Nigel’s money that’s keeping Dad alive now. That hospital room he is staying in costs thousands per week.