Page 26

26

LUCIA

“ W ait.”

One word. Said in a rasping, gravelly tone so unlike Roman’s normal speech that for a moment, I don’t recognize it.

Is it his killing voice? Will I turn to find his gun pointed at my head?

I saw the killer in him as I spoke. Saw the white knuckles on his glass and the glittering fury in his eyes. I’ve seen men kill before. I know the expression they wear before they pull out a gun and spray somebody’s brains over the wall.

I’m not sure what particular strain of insanity made me believe this moment could ever end any other way.

But it’s too late to run from it now. I played my cards and lost. I knew I’d lost the moment he asked about my tattoo. Maybe I knew before I ever walked into the penthouse today.

Maybe I’ve known from the day Roman walked into the café.

And maybe part of me is just tired of running.

Perhaps, without consciously knowing it, I was ready to surrender. To accept that there was never any chance of winning the game I’ve been playing from the day I escaped Miami.

An old man, sick and close to the end of his life, and a girl born to pretty dresses and finishing schools?

Papa and I never really had a chance.

And now, whatever mad dream I’ve held on to is at an end. I just wish I’d had a chance to tell Papa goodbye. To tell the children this isn’t their fault, and that they shouldn’t be afraid. I close my eyes briefly, seeing Ofelia’s brittle mask in my mind, the fear she tries so hard to disguise, and say a mental prayer of apology.

I hate that you have this life too. I’d have done anything, given everything, to protect you from that.

But it’s too late for prayers now.

I turn around.

Roman’s eyes still glitter with the killing rage. He’s barely moved since I began talking. Now he puts the glass down on the table with deliberate care. It’s chilling to watch, like a leopard silently moving a branch aside in the moment before it takes down prey.

“You signed a contract, Miss Lopez.” His voice is low, silken, and dangerous. “I assume you read it through before doing so?”

He still hasn’t moved. The elevator doors are open right in front of me. I’m fairly sure I can make it into them before he pulls a gun.

“I wouldn’t try it, if I were you.” His lips curl, but the ice in his eyes is nothing like the sardonic humor I’m accustomed to seeing. “Even if you made it out of this room, which, believe me, is very unlikely, you wouldn’t get as far as the lobby before you were caught. Unlike the Orlovs, when something is mine, I ensure it stays that way.”

He crosses the floor with a lethal swiftness, punching the button with enough savagery it’s a miracle it doesn’t break. The doors close silently.

“I’m going to ask you again, Lucia.” He doesn’t try to touch me. He doesn’t need to. I couldn’t move if I tried. “Did you read the contract? Specifically, the part relating to termination?”

When I don’t answer, his mouth hardens into a grim line. “Feel free to nod, if speech has somehow failed you.”

I nod mutely.

“Good.” His eyes bore into mine. “Then you know you’re free to terminate our agreement at any point you choose. Am I to understand that you wish to do so now?”

I’m too bewildered to do anything other than stare at him. Is this some kind of cat and mouse? Does he want to play with me before he kills me? I’ve seen how ruthless Roman can be. I’m certain, though I’ve never seen direct evidence, that he’s killed before.

Naively, however, I’ve never imagined him being cruel.

“Cat got your tongue, Miss Lopez?” His eyebrows raise questioningly, though the hard glitter in his eyes hasn’t diminished a bit. “You seemed to have no trouble speaking minutes ago. You said quite a lot, in fact. Let me see if I can refresh your memory.”

He doesn’t move, his eyes pinning me to the spot.

“You said that it would be safer , for me, my family, and my business, if I don’t know your identity. You implied that I would trade you to the Orlovs. Then you said this is the last conversation we would have. Have I left anything out?” He pretends to consider. “Oh—wait.” He snaps his fingers. “That’s right. You also refused to tell me the truth. Because despite believing that I’m powerful , and assuring me that you don’t doubt my strength, you apparently believe that I’m incapable of protecting you.” His icy veneer has burned away, exposing the searing rage beneath it. Roman, in fact, is angrier than I have ever seen him.

And I’ve seen him angry.

His fists are clenched, his eyes no longer the glittering arctic but burning hellfire. Every muscle in his body is tightly coiled, rigid with tension. Yet he hasn’t taken a single step toward me since he crossed the room. Despite the almost vicious sarcasm in his voice, I don’t actually feel afraid of him.

With a sudden shock, I realize why.

Roman isn’t angry at what I said.

Correction: he’s angry, all right. He’s fucking furious. And I’m pretty sure that it’s taking every bit of his self-control not to do something pretty savage to my body.

But not because he’s threatened by what I told him.

He’s insulted by it.

I’m so stunned that for a mad moment, I almost actually laugh.

I’ve offended him.

I’ve just told the most powerful man in Spain—hell, for all I know, probably in all of Europe—that I don’t think he’s capable of handling business.

And now he’s pissed.

Not just a little bit pissed.

The kind of pissed that would usually result in his employees being verbally savaged to the point of quivering, sobbing meltdown. Actually, probably far worse than that. None of his employees would ever dare to push Roman Stevanovsky to this kind of pissed. They’d all have the brains to shut the fuck up long before.

I, however, have just run roughshod straight over the red caution line, directly into the danger zone.

“I—I didn’t mean to imply that you were...” I stammer.

“What?” he demands. “You didn’t mean to imply that I need to be protected ? That I’m somehow incapable of keeping my own fucking business safe, let alone my goddamn family ? Or are you saying that you didn’t mean to imply I would invite you into my home, ask you to care for my children, only to then trade you to a pack of butchers who torture young women and old men?”

He raises his hands in epic frustration.

“What, exactly, did you imagine I could possibly need or want so much that I would consider trading a human life for it? Particularly the life of a woman who is caring for my children? A woman that I—” He bites off whatever he was about to say, spinning around and stalking across the room, wheeling to stand with his back to me, hands on his hips, staring out the plate glass window. His shoulders lift and fall with a rapidity that makes it clear how hard he’s fighting for control.

I know better than to approach him. I’m also reeling from his unexpected reaction.

I’ve lived in fear for so long, kept my secrets so close, that both the fear and the secrets have become a mountain inside me. It never occurred to me that to a man of Roman’s power, that mountain might seem like more of a molehill. A minor obstacle, a problem to be managed. Just another threat, in a lifetime that has probably been filled with far worse threats than I’ve ever faced. His palpable indignation is a revelation.

But he doesn’t know the full truth, remember , Darya Petrovsky whispers in my ear. He knows you’re running from the Orlovs—but he doesn’t know why they want you.

But even the Petrovsky fortune seems insignificant now, in light of his reaction. Why would Roman Stevanovsky trade me for a fortune? Whatever treasures lie in that vault might be considered priceless by most, but Roman has enough money to indulge any desire he might have for priceless treasures. He has no need to traffic me for riches.

Isn’t that one of the very things that drew me to him in the first place? Didn’t I, barely a week ago, collapse on the floor and fervently wish for the hellfire and power Roman possesses?

And yet now I’ve just stood in the face of that hellfire and implied it isn’t enough.

Again, I feel the nervous urge to giggle. I’m being confronted with the wounded pride of one of the proudest men I know.

You fucking idiot, Darya.

“Roman.” I don’t move into the room, but I’m encouraged when he immediately doesn’t cut me dead. “I didn’t think—”

“No,” he says curtly. “You didn’t.”

“I—” I start, then stop.

What do I say?

That I don’t want to leave? That the last thing I ever expected was that he would want me to stay?

Does he want me to stay?

I don’t feel like I have any right to ask for anything. And by his rigid stance, the last thing Roman wants right now is reassurance from me.

“I—I’m going to leave. Go back to my apartment,” I add hastily. I pause, but Roman doesn’t say anything. “I’ll wait to... hear from you, before I go to see the children.” I pause nervously by the elevator doors, part of me hoping that he’ll turn around and tell me to stay where I am. Maybe throw me down on his sofa and punish me in his own way.

That thought is dangerous. It’s also stupid. The chances of Roman Stevanovsky ever throwing me down anywhere, ever again, are less than slim.

The doors slide open and I walk into the elevator, trying not to think of how much that thought hurts.

The last thing I see before the doors close is Roman’s back, stiff and uncompromising.

The elevator drops, taking my spirits with it.