He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and fought to focus his rage-scattered thoughts. He could feel his heart hammering inside his chest. He felt as if he were floating in space.

Think! Who!

The Russians… it had to be the Brighton Beach Russians. They’d been allies of his early on but lately they’d become jealous of his success. Only they would have the nerve to do this to him.

But this wasn’t their MO. They preferred more direct methods—a bullet or two in the face was their style. No, this had to be someone with more control and calculation, someone who knew his weak points and was not afraid to ram a blade into one and twist.

Who, damn it!

And why? Milos wanted to know that as badly as who. If he knew why, he could figure who, and then he’d know what… what in particular he had done to make some sick govno set out to ruin him.

And that was what he was: ruined, pure and simple. Who would deal with him again? Who would take him seriously? After that tape, how could anyone fear him?

A ragged scream ripped from his throat and echoed off his office walls.

The only solution was retribution. He had to find whoever it was and destroy them. He had to send a message to the world that no one fucked with Milos Dragovic and lived.

Even that would not restore his respect, but it would be a start.

But where to start? The only lead was a public phone in the East Eighties and a man on a videotape, a man in a car owned by a woman who lived on Sutton Place.

This man could be the key. He might not be the mastermind, and most likely was not, but he could be the helicopter pilot. He could have been scouting the house in the day to plan the best place to drop his garbage at night. Or involved in some other way. If he could speak to the man, Milos could make him tell.

Could be the man had no connection at all. If so, too bad. For him.

Milos was through with caution. Something had to be done, and now. The Sutton Square house had been empty all weekend but the holiday was over. Time to move. He stalked to his office door and kicked it open.

“Ivo! Vuk! In here! Now!”

Milos watched the two men jump up and leave their paper coffee cups on the cocktail table where they’d been sitting. They hurried toward him across the dance floor—or what was supposed to have been a dance floor. He couldn’t imagine opening Belgravy after what he’d just seen. None of the people, the beautiful people he’d planned it for, would show their faces. The place would wind up filled with smirking hoi polloi hoping to catch a glimpse of the buffoon they’d seen on TV.

I’d sooner torch the place, he thought.