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Which I have some trouble trusting, given the kind of life-and-death, highly illegal shit we’re talking about here.

“I understand your concerns.” He doesn’t avoid the question, or my eyes. He’s sitting opposite me, one leg slung over the other, his arm stretched across the back of the carved wooden chair. I’d place him in his mid-fifties, but he moves like a man twenty years younger than that, and his face has the same slightly hard edge I’ve come to associate with men in Dimitry’s line of work.

Which is interesting, since he’s supposedly an art dealer.

“Dimitry and I discovered we had quite a lot in common, not least a genuine love of art. I suspect he has the latter thanks to you, no?” His eyes crinkle at the edges as he raises his glass in my direction. “He told me that you paint and study art.”

He’s smooth.Leon’s expert pivot of the conversation doesn’t go unnoticed, but I’ll play along.

For now.

“I did study art, yes.” I return his practiced smile. “I also dragged Dimitry around the Prado in Madrid more times than he would probably like to remember, as well as use him as my study partner for my art exams. I guess that worked in his favor when he wound up in Miami, working with the Naryshkin pieces.”

“Definitely.” He pushes a plate of nuts toward me. “Although I’d say his knowledge goes considerably past that at this stage. Impressive, given his lack of formal education.” Hestudies me with that same half smile. “You seem surprised, Abby.”

“I am, I guess.” I take a handful of nuts.

Like I was when Dimitry started using Greek mythology as an analogy.

Or by the fact that my father seems to actually like him—or at least respect him.

Let’s face it—from the moment Dimitry burst into that hotel room, I’ve been forced to rethink quite a few of the assumptions I previously had about him, not least the one where he gave undying allegiance to Roman Stevanovsky.

“If you will forgive me,” Leon says, as if he’s read my mind, “I think you might find that Dimitry is a rather changed man from the one you knew back in Spain.” He takes a mouthful of his drink. “Heartbreak has a way of doing that to a person,” he says quietly. “It focuses the mind. Makes clear what is important and what isn’t. Ah!” He smiles as Dao brings out a variety of plates, all of which look delicious, from the papaya-and-prawn salad to a coconut-and-lemongrass soup that smells divine. “Please.” He gestures to the plates. “Eat.”

I do, savoring every divine mouthful. The events that followed my initial time in Thailand clouded my better memories, many of which revolved around the exquisite food. I eat with unadulterated pleasure as Leon and I talk easily about art, his London business, and the many places he’s traveled. I tell him about my parents and my recent stay back in Australia. We skirt around the trickier issue of why, exactly, he felt compelled to leap on a plane at short notice to help a man he barely knows out of a highly dangerous situation.

It’s only my loyalty to Dimitry, and faith in his judgment, that stops me from asking Leon some very hard questions. That doesn’t stop me from stiffening when his phone rings just as we’re finishing up eating.

He smiles when he sees the number on the screen. “Zinaida,”he greets the caller. “Yes, she’s right here.” I stiffen even more when he holds the phone toward me. “It’s for you,” he says, still smiling. “Please,” he adds, when the color drains from my face and I don’t move. “Trust me. This is a call you’ll want to take.”

I stare at the phone like it’s a viper waiting to strike, unsure whether to throw the remains of my food in his face and run or to scream for Dimitry. Then a familiar voice comes tentatively through the speaker.

“Abby?”

Tears spring into my eyes, and my throat closes over so much I’m not sure I can speak even if I try.

“Abby,” Darya says softly, “please pick up. I’m on a secure phone, and Roman isn’t here.”

I snatch the phone out of Leon’s hand. “Darya?” My voice is a rough whisper.

“Oh, thank God, it’s true! It’s really you?” She sounds as shaky as I feel. Vaguely I’m aware of Leon discreetly closing the glass doors behind him, but my vision has blurred so much I can’t see anything clearly.

It’s a moment before I realize I’m nodding instead of speaking, and I struggle to find my voice. “It’s really me.” My voice is barely there, and it physically hurts to try to speak. “I’m so sorry, Darya. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there when Alexander was born—or afterward—Oh, God, I’m so sorry for everything—”

“Shut up. Just shut up, Abs.” Her voice is equally quivery. “I don’t care about any of that. All I care about is that you’re alive. Iknewyou hadn’t just cut us off. I told Dimitry—and Roman—I’m so sorry that I couldn’t make them believe me.”

“No moresorrys.” I smile through my tears as I hear Darya’s sob of laughter at our old joke. “It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.” Tears are running down my face, and I can’t stifle my own sob as I catch my breath. “I wanted to call you somuch. I just didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t want to put you in danger...”

“Oh, because I’m such a safety girl?” Her dry tone makes me smile even more.

I give a choked laugh. “Bitch, you’re the original beacon for chaos. Not sure what I was thinking.”

“Damned straight. Don’t think you’re taking my crown, either, abductions or not. Now, tell meeverything.”

My smile fades. “I can’t tell you all of it, or not yet, anyway. And before I say anything, where are you calling from? Doesn’t that psycho Zinaida live in London? What are you doing there instead of Spain?”

Darya gives a gurgle of laughter. “Yes, she does. And Zin’s not a psycho, not when you get to know her. She’s also got an absolutely amazing women’s club, which is where I’m calling from. It’s got a secure room that Mak set up, with an encrypted private line,” she goes on, “and she told me Leon’s line is secure as well, so nobody is listening. Well, except the little tyrant currently sleeping beside me, but Alexander will keep our secrets, I promise.”