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“Any plans to come to Spain while you’re on this side of the pond?” His tone is carefully neutral, but I know his moods better than my own. I can almost see his clenched fists on the other end of the phone.

“Not this time, brother, no. Sorry.”

I’m not sorry, though. And Roman knows it, which is probably why his next words aren’t quite so neutral.

“I’ll level with you: I’m drowning over here. I need you back, Dimitry, at least for a while.”

“You asked me to oversee the return of the Naryshkin pieces,” I say evenly. “I’m doing that. And I plan to keep doing that, for as long as it takes.”

“Those pieces have been sitting in a vault for decades.” He sounds characteristically impatient. “This bullshit is hardly urgent fucking business, is it?”

It’s the bullshit you put me in charge of, asshole.

“And while we’re on the topic, I don’t remember saying you needed to base yourself in fucking Miami to get it done.” Roman is clearly past diplomacy. “Aren’t most of the pieces being delivered to Europe anyway?”

Yes. But thankfully, so far, not to Spain. Which is good, because it’s the one place I can’t face going anywhere near.

I kick the base of the iron fence hard enough to hurt my foot. Not nearly as much as I want to hurt something. Anything.

Right now, preferably Roman’s face.

“I know I’ve been away a long time.” I say it in as calm a tone as I can muster. “I’m sorry about that.”

The words taste like sawdust in my mouth. They’re also the best I can manage right now.

“Enough with the fuckingsorry. Just come home.” Roman pauses. “Is this still about Abby?”

I don’t have an answer for that, so I don’t try to give one.

“Christ, Dimitry. It’s been six months.” His frustration is palpable. “It’s bad enough she left you, but I’ll never understand how she could do this to Darya. Aleksander is three months old, and we still haven’t had a christening because she won’t give up the idea of her being godmother. If I ever get my hands on that girl—”

“Shut up, Roman.”

Miraculously, he does.

I rub a hand across my head. “Look.” I do my best to soften the terse hostility that seems to color every interaction I havewith Roman lately. “I’m running late for this delivery. I’ll call you tomorrow. Good enough?”

“Good enough.” His voice is a lot quieter. “I—That was out of line, brother. Between Mercura and the baby, I haven’t had a lot of sleep lately. Sorry.”

“Forget it.” Normally I’d never be able to turn down the chance to make the most of a Roman Borovsky apology. But lately, all the things that used to amuse me just don’t.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” I end the call before he can answer, another change in our relationship. There was a time, not so long ago, when I wouldn’t have dreamed of ending a call before Roman cut me off.

But those days are gone. And I’m not sure they’re ever going to come back.

The London street briefly disappears, replaced by a Madrid restaurant and Abby staring accusingly at me across the table.“You might be happy to spend the rest of your life taking orders from Roman Borovsky, Dimitry, but I never signed up for that.”

Christ.

The memory hits me like a fist in the stomach, temporarily knocking the wind from me. I grip the fence spikes, grateful for the solid, unyielding iron against my hand.

Am I ever going to stop hearing her voice? Seeing her face?

It’s been six months to the goddamn day, and Abby’s eyes still follow me wherever I go, even into sleep.

Especiallyinto sleep.

I thought it would be better by now. After the first, crippling blow of her departure, I clung to hope. At the time, I thought that was torture.