Page 14

14

LUCIA

“ H e rented an entire apartment ?” Abby stares at me over the belongings strewn across the motel bed. “And medical staff for Juan?”

I nod, color creeping up my neck. I had to tell someone, even if I can’t disclose the entire truth. “Wow.” She lifts a skeptical eyebrow. “CEO Man must really need an au pair.”

“I got the impression he’s run out of agencies, and it’s short notice.” I bury myself in the task of packing to avoid her scrutiny.

“Hm.” Abby looks entirely unconvinced. “And the kids? Have you even met them yet?”

“Not until tomorrow. But he sent me a file half a mile long to study before they arrive.” In fact, I spent most of last night reading over it, trying to pick up everything I can. I’m desperately relieved I also have today to read more. The medical team came for Papa when I got back from that hellish meeting in Roman’s office. I lied to Papa, of course, though keeping the story as close to the truth as possible. I told him I gained a job with a wealthy English family who need a multilingual live-in au pair on short notice. Papa became very agitated when he realized my new employers know of the connection between him and me, but I smoothed it over by reassuring him they don’t know he is my father. I said they had an empty villa previously used for their own elderly relatives, and that it was no trouble for me to rent it. I also said I hired the medical staff.

I didn’t make any mention of my new employer being a single man.

Or Russian.

I definitely didn’t mention him being bratva.

In short, I lied like hell.

Even so, I think the only reason Papa eventually agreed was because he saw someone lurking around the motel today when I was in Roman’s office. Going by the description he gave, I’m fairly certain the person he saw was Dimitry, which is all the proof I need, after our encounter this morning, that Roman is intent on digging up my past.

I know that calling him out as being bratva was probably the most foolish, reckless thing I could ever have done.

But if he plans on looking into my past, and clearly he does, it’s also a calculated risk. My identity won’t withstand a Hale security check. Roman might not be able to work out who I am, but if he’s determined to look, then sooner or later, he’ll find enough to make him concerned about what danger I might pose, either to the children or his business. Given his incredible generosity, or perhaps despite it, the thought of him suspecting me of being some kind of spy or danger to his family makes me deeply unhappy. I might have spent only one night reading that file, but I already feel a strange bond with the story I read in between the cold lines of fact.

“Earth to Lucia.” Abby clicks her fingers as she folds Papa’s clothes. She took the morning off to help me, even before I insisted on paying her double what she’d normally earn at the café. Although, to my private amusement, I suspect her eagerness might also have something to do with Dimitry being my driver for today. “The children,” she prompts me. “Tell me what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“Right.” After studying their files all night, I can see their faces in my mind as if they were standing in front of me. “So Ofelia is the eldest. She’s a few months away from her sixteenth birthday. Apparently her mother is a model, and it shows, because this girl is stunning. And I do mean stunning .”

No wonder Roman is stressed out about keeping an eye on his eldest goddaughter. Ofelia is a vivid example of classic Russian beauty, with a sheet of white-blonde hair, arctic blue eyes, high cheekbones, and perfectly shaped legs that go on forever. Physically, she looks like she stepped straight off the catwalk. Emotionally, however, one look into those wary, shuttered eyes was enough to convince me she’s a trainwreck. “She lost her father when she was thirteen,” I tell Abby. “And her parents had been engaged in a vicious divorce long before that. From what I can gather, her mother spends more time on magazine covers than tucking her children under bedcovers. And given that Ofelia has just been expelled from her third school in as many years, I’d say that Roman’s parenting skills leave a little to be desired.”

“Roman, huh?” Abby shoots me a sly gaze. “Dropping the formalities already?”

I flame red. “Mikhail,” I go on, mustering as much dignity as I can, “is called Mickey for short. He’s just turned fourteen.”

If his sister looks more guarded than the Kremlin, Mickey looks awkward and withdrawn, hiding behind a pair of thick glasses and floppy dark hair that conceals much of his face. Neither of the elder two Stevanovsky children are smiling in their respective photographs. “He’s academically off the charts, apparently, particularly math and science. He wrote an actual software program for a school project.”

Abby snorts. “Can’t imagine CEO Man relating to a computer nerd.”

“Hm,” I say noncommittally, though inwardly I wince, since I had exactly the same thought.

“Masha is the youngest. She turned five a few months ago.” I can’t help but smile. I imagine it would be hard for anyone not to, looking at Masha’s picture. She has a riot of dark curls, the same bright blue eyes as her siblings, and a gap-toothed smile that could light up a room. In the photographs of all three children together, the elder two stand on either side of their little sister, both turned inward as if to shield her from any perceived threat. Masha is the only one smiling in any of these shots, always clutching the hands of her brother and sister as if they were a lifeline. “Masha was born during the marriage breakup, from what I can make out.” There’s not a lot more to know. While Ofelia’s file is pages long, with one tirade after another from a series of teachers and head mistresses, Masha’s is more or less a blank slate, with nothing more than a few childish drawings as examples of her interests. In all of them, there are no adults shown, just her two siblings, standing on either side of her as they do in the photos.

“Well, you’re going to have your hands full.” Abby gives me another sly smile. “With more than just the children, I’m guessing?”

I give her another noncommittal “hmm” and bury myself in packing our meager possessions. Close friend or not, and even if Roman hadn’t made his orders more than explicit, there isn’t a chance of me admitting to Abby, or anyone for that matter, the exact nature of my new employment status.

Dimitry drives us both to Papa’s new apartment, but thankfully, doesn’t enter. Abby and he bicker for the entire duration of the journey, which makes me smile. Bratva or not, I’d rather see her flirting with Dimitry than the idiot footballer Miguel, who seems to give her little more than red eyes and a defeated look.

Abby helps me upstairs with the bags, but doesn’t come in. It’s one of the unspoken boundaries I’ve always been grateful that she doesn’t overstep. Generally, I keep Papa well hidden. I’m not at all at ease with the heavy-handed way Roman has simply rehomed him without even consulting me. Even if I can’t deny the sheer relief I feel at knowing Papa will finally get the help he needs, the thought of him coming face-to-face with Roman or Dimitry terrifies me. There’s no chance they wouldn’t all instantly know each other for what they are. I can only hope that the medical staff aren’t quite so astute.

The villa itself is luxurious beyond even my wildest imaginings. An elevator whisks me straight up from the basement garage to the middle level, where I wander through the sunlit rooms, all tiled for easy wheelchair maneuvering. There’s a gleaming modern kitchen on the same level as Papa’s bedroom, with the fridge set up for disabled access and low benches that will offer him some independence in getting his own food, if he wants to. An entire room is equipped as a rehabilitation studio, another set up as a hospital room. His actual bedroom is a wide, pleasant studio with an enormous bed, comfortable furniture, and a window that looks over the garden below. From the central salon, doors open out onto a large central terrace overlooking the sea. Grape vines and wisteria twist overhead, and a chess board is set up on one table. Tears prick my eyes as I take in the peaceful vista and gentle scent of growing plants all around. I can’t imagine anywhere more suited to Papa’s personality than the villa’s rustic yet modern elegance. It’s simple, calm, and luxurious.

The staff are just as reassuring. They all speak both Spanish and fluent English, which means Papa will be fine, as he speaks both. The majority are male, except for the housekeeper, Anna, who is similar in her welcoming manner to Mariam.

I find Papa in the central salon, eating a delicious-looking fresh salad at a wide wooden table that, for once, is spacious enough to easily accommodate him.

“This.” He lifts his fork and gestures around at the villa. “Expensive,” he manages, his brows lowered in a frown.

“We can afford it, Papa.” I sit down opposite him and smile reassuringly. “My salary is more than enough to cover all of this, and more besides.”

But his frown only deepens. “Who—pay—so much?”

He might be handicapped, but his brain is as sharp as ever.

“I think they have family money, Papa. And the Holy Week school holidays are coming soon. They couldn’t find anyone on short notice. Like I said, they’ve previously used this when their own parents come to stay.” I cross my fingers under the table and mentally apologize for the lies. “It would have just been empty if you weren’t in it. And besides, it’s only for a few months.” I cover his hand with my own and lower my voice. “We’ll move on after that. And this place is secure. Nobody can get in or out without the codes.” This is probably my biggest relief. At least here, Papa will be safe from whoever might be looking for us.

If locked up in a bratva-owned villa is considered safe, of course.

But then again, that’s the kind of safety I understand. And which, at the moment, we both need.

I just have to make sure Papa doesn’t learn who, exactly, is offering us that safety.

He looks only marginally relieved. “Need—to—move,” he grunts. “Not—safe.”

“I know.” I squeeze his hand. “We will, Papa. But we need this money, too. And you need medical care. You’ll have physical and speech therapy while you’re here, which means that when we move next time, you will be even fitter than you are now.” This at least gets a grunt of approval.

“As soon as school holidays finish I can come and see you every morning, after the children are off to school. But this week, I will be caring for them full-time, so I might not come often. I will call every day, though, so you know I’m safe.” He nods, but the frown is settling in again.

“Shouldn’t—be—working,” he says, and I suppress a sigh. I know how humiliating it is for him to think of me, who was raised with my own au pair, caring for somebody else’s children. But this is our life now.

And at least he doesn’t know all of it.

“It’s a much better job than the café, Papa.” He grunts again, this time slightly less begrudgingly. I know how much he hated watching me work those hours. “But I do have to go.” I stand up. “I need to get settled in before the children arrive from London.”

One of the male nurses appears at the door, a smiling, strong-looking man who has a gentle manner and, clearly, the strength to move Papa about. By the time I leave, they are engaged in a game of chess on the terrace, and Papa actually manages a smile.

I lied about getting settled in.

What I actually need to do is shop.

Roman’s contract did, in fact, give quite explicit instructions about the dress code required—for both aspects of my job. And Dimitry has clearly been given equally explicit instructions about where to take me to purchase what I need.

Over the next few rather bewildering hours, I’m dropped off at one boutique store after another, where I’m met by staff who greet me by name and with an assortment of clothes that all carry price tags I would have balked at even back in the days when I had access to a black credit card of my own.

For daytime there is a selection of casual but elegant outfits, from designer jeans and knit tops to dainty summer dresses. Everything from beachwear to yachting has been considered, as well as multiple options for entertaining the children at home. It’s divine to feel quality fabric against my skin again, to wear clothing that looks and feels like me. The more formal daywear of pantsuits, neat skirts, and blouses will cover any meetings with teachers or other parents. But it’s when we get to the boutique catering to the other part of my contract that things get really interesting.

Dimitry, thankfully, drops me at the door, which has innocent-enough evening gowns in the window, and diplomatically offers to collect me a little later. After being fitted out for gowns for everything from a cocktail gallery opening to a royal visit, the assistant opens a door into another room, and I almost choke on my complimentary glass of champagne.

No wonder Dimitry made himself scarce.

The room is gilded as any palace—and full of a vast lingerie selection that makes Victoria Secret look like a bargain basement.

“We have our own designers,” explains Nina, the French woman outfitting me. “But we also have pieces from Italy, and France, of course. Now, we start with the basics.”

The basics are matching sets of lingerie in a variety of luxury fabrics and sexy, if reasonably demure, cuts. They’re actually surprisingly low-key, though still sensual enough against my skin to send a thrill through me.

Daywear, I’m guessing.

These are followed by nightwear I imagine is for the children’s benefit, silk lounging pajamas and cami sets with matching robes.

Then, however, come Roman’s choices.

“So now we think of the nights, yes? We think of the man.”

Oh, yes, we do. Much more than we should.

I shiver slightly as the businesslike assistant maneuvers me into a series of increasingly risqué scraps of silk and lace, all of which reveal far more than they cover. All of the pieces are tasteful and of exceptional quality—but all of them scream to be torn off or peeled away, inch by silken inch.

I’ve never owned anything like the bewildering array of lingerie piling up in boxes on the counter. Never had anyone to buy things like this for .

I was too highly protected before I left my family’s compound, and in the years following, whatever encounters I’ve had with men have been largely unplanned and, by necessity, fleeting. Up until a couple of recent purchases, both of which Roman hasn’t even seen, I’ve never bought lingerie explicitly intended to be taken off my body. There’s a deeply erotic thrill in choosing pieces while also imagining, in disturbing detail, exactly how Roman might remove them.

Will he fuck me while I’m still wearing this? I think, staring at a balcony bra that pushes my breasts up so high half my nipples are visible. Then, picking up a thong with a strategic part missing, Will he want me to wear these while we’re out somewhere, so he can touch me? The thought of him slipping a finger onto my clit under a restaurant table has me wet and quivering.

There are corsets and suspenders, lacy stockings and camisoles that can be easily slipped off. Bras that have my nipples obscenely exposed and corsets that take a full five minutes to lace up. The thought of Roman slowly unwrapping me almost brings me to orgasm in the dressing room.

By the time we’re done, I’m in a heady state of arousal, my head spinning with a thousand dark fantasies. Every piece of lingerie sets another scenario racing through my mind, especially those chosen specifically by Roman himself.

Then a terrible thought occurs to me. “Mr. Stevanovsky,” I say to Nina. “Does he—do this often?” She looks confused. “I mean,” I say, stammering slightly and turning fire red for the fiftieth time today, “does he send many women to you for fittings?”

“Oh!” Her face clears, and she gives me an understanding smile. “ Non , ma petite , this you do not worry for. It was Mr. Stevanovsky’s brother, Mikhail, who was our biggest customer.” She leans in and winks. “And he was a prolific customer, if you take my meaning. Mr. Stevanovsky used to bring his brother’s mistresses here to shop, back when we were just a small boutique. But Mr. Roman, he knows the good business, yes? So a few years ago now, he give me some funding to expand, et voila! ” She gestures around her. “Now, we are not so small, I think!”

I’m desperately curious. “Mikhail’s mistresses,” I repeat. “What about his wife? Inger, I think her name is?”

Nina’s face screws up with distaste. “This one! Pah!” she says scathingly. “This one I do not allow in my store. It is no wonder Mr. Mikhail, he had the mistresses. Inger, all she want is money.” She leans in close. “I am not sorry when the divorce is happening. But those poor children!” She shakes her head sorrowfully. “I remember little Ofelia when she was just a baby. So beautiful. But her mother... no taste. And the way she dressed that child! Making her look like a movie star, when she was just a baby.”

She tsks disapprovingly. Then, catching my eye in the mirror, immediately returns to professionalism. “Of course this is none of my business,” she says hastily. “But no, to answer your question, Mr. Roman does not bring anyone to visit me before now.” She assesses me critically in the mirror. “But I think I see why, non ?”

Embarrassed by that, I hurry out soon after, even more embarrassed at the mountain of boxes the boutique staff load into Dimitry’s car. He makes no comment other than when we arrive at the apartment building and he murmurs instructions to the doorman to have the obscenely large amount of purchases taken upstairs and unpacked.

“There’s a maid who will take care of it,” he says before I can argue. He gets into the elevator with me, explaining the security codes as we rise to the floor I will share with the children.

“This is your apartment.” He punches in a code to open the door. “I’ll show you how to reset the door code, so only you will have access. The children have their own security, obviously, so the entire floor will be attended at all times.”

Obviously.

He holds the door open for me and then turns to leave.

“Wait.”

Dimitry turns back, eyebrows lifted in polite inquiry.

“I wondered—that is,” I say, rather nervously, “do you know the children very well?”

His hard face softens. “I’ve known them all from the day they were born.”

“Can you—is there anything I should know, before I meet them tomorrow?” Seeing his rather reluctant expression, I hurry on. “I don’t mean to put you in a difficult position. I just wondered if you might have any advice. I’d like to do the best job I can.”

“Well.” Dimitry gives me a rather hard look. “What I can say is that you won’t have an easy time of it. Those kids have had more disruption in their lives than most people ever face. They don’t like outsiders, and they don’t trust anyone, with good reason. They need stability, Miss Lopez, and they need a lot of care. My advice?” He fixes me with a distinctly grim eye. “If you plan on leaving, then go sooner rather than later. Those kids deserve better than to get attached to someone else who doesn’t plan on sticking around.”

He nods curtly, leaving me feel uncomfortably like I’ve just been given a warning rather than advice.

I spend the remaining part of the afternoon meeting the staff and getting settled into my new home.

My apartment is spacious without being overwhelming, two bedrooms and an enormous bathroom with a deep tub I can’t wait to sink into. There’s a small but functional kitchen. The maid tells me most of the children’s meals are prepared in the separate chef’s kitchen on the floor below and that I will usually eat with them. There’s a central salon with a deep, plump sofa and a bigger flat screen than I know what to do with. Wooden doors with glass insets open onto a large balcony terrace. The salon alone is bigger than the old apartment Papa and I shared.

The maid, a sweet-faced woman called Maria who, to my surprise, seems to absolutely worship Roman, shows me into the children’s quarters. These cover the rest of the floor and are almost as lavish as Roman’s penthouse. Each bedroom has its own en suite. There are a number of smaller rooms, one with sophisticated-looking computer equipment I imagine belongs to Mickey and another containing numerous musical instruments, including a huge grand piano. Despite the luxury and amount of money that’s clearly been spent, I can’t help but notice the sterility of the environment. It looks more like a hotel suite than somebody’s home. The toys in Masha’s room are all neatly put away, the clothes on hangers neatly dry-cleaned, the bedspreads neutral colors and tucked in with hard hospital corners. The only photographs are formal portraits from the children’s earlier years, in which their father beams and their mother poses with ice-cold elegance. I walk through the empty rooms feeling a strange sense of loneliness. It’s like a museum, in which the central display is yet to arrive.

I try to reassure myself that the building is only newly finished, that the children have had little time to make it their home. But somehow, I suspect that the soulless feel has little to do with time and everything to do with the absence of any real affection. When I look in the pantry, there are no indications that children even live here, no cookie jar or stash of lollipops. Going by the menu on the fridge and the gleaming, immaculate dining table, meal times are as rigid and formal as a hotel as well.

I remember back to my own childhood, before everything went wrong. I think of my mother dancing in the kitchen as she cooked up a wild storm of sweet South American treats, my father shaking his head and laughing at the chaos of flour and butter in which my brother and I inevitably wound up covered during these explosions. I think of corn kernels popping on the stove and eating around the kitchen counter or snuggled up on the sofa watching a movie. Sure, we had formal dinners. But those were for show or special occasions. Most days we just ate around the long wooden kitchen table, often joined by many of Papa’s men, who were as much family to us as our own.

And none of whom are alive now , I think with a sudden pang of sadness. Papa’s vor meant almost as much to me as my own blood. Knowing they all lost their lives trying to save ours still breaks my heart. They had families, too. Children who are orphans now, all thanks to the Orlovs’ savagery.

I push the memories aside determinedly.

Of course I’m thinking of my past. Given what Roman is, it’s only natural. It’s also not remotely surprising that the children have known tragedy. As I know all too well, for the children of bratva, tragedy is almost inevitable. At least that much I can understand. After Dimitry’s warning, I just hope I don’t cause them any more.

I close the door on their apartments and go back to my own.

My phone buzzes with a message from Roman.

Come upstairs in one hour, Miss Lopez , it says. Then a photo comes through, and my heart skips a beat.

It’s one of the lingerie sets from today’s shopping. One that Roman had picked out.

I go into the bathroom and run water into the tub, every nerve ending on fire with anticipation.