Page 29

29

LUCIA

I t’s late at night, and the children long in bed, when the baby monitor crackles to life.

“No!”

I jolt upright in bed at the first strangled cry. I’m not asleep anyway; I’m not sure I’m likely to sleep again anytime soon. I don’t stop to pull on a robe, just fling open my door and bolt across the corridor, past the startled security guard and into the children’s apartment.

Certain it’s Masha, I go straight to her bedroom, only to find her starfished on her back, mouth open wide in sleep. A brief glance into Mickey’s room confirms he, too, is fast asleep. Then I hear the sound again, a half-strangled cry of such anguish that it hurts to hear. I slip across the hall and open the door to Ofelia’s room.

She’s curled up in a tiny ball, and the sounds coming from beneath the cover are the choked whimpers of a nightmare. I know that sound well. I’ve woken up more than once in the same position, making the same sounds.

“Ofelia.” I say her name softly, standing slightly away from the bed so as not to frighten her. I switch the lights on with the dimmer switch low. “Ofelia, sweetheart, it’s only a dream. You can wake up now. Ofelia.” I keep murmuring quietly, until eventually the sounds stop. Slowly the figure uncurls beneath the covers. A moment later blonde hair emerges, smeared across her tearstained face. She stares up at me, her eyes still stark and haunted by her dreams.

“Lucia,” she whispers.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” I sit down on the side of her bed and pass her the glass of water on her nightstand. “You were having a dream, that’s all. Just a dream.” I smooth the blonde strands away from her face.

“Masha?” she says anxiously, her eyes darting around the room.

“Asleep. Mickey, too. They’re both fine. Don’t worry, you didn’t wake them.” Gradually her breathing calms, the frantic beating of her heart steadying. I gently rub the base of her spine, keeping my eyes down while she gains control of herself.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” she says in a small voice.

“You didn’t.” That’s honest, at least. “I couldn’t sleep. I was sitting out in the living room and heard you.”

“You were?” She frowns. “Dressed like that?” I realize, with a jolt of embarrassment, that I’m clad in nothing but a tiny silk cami and French panty set. No wonder the guard’s eyes nearly popped out. My boobs aren’t made for a no-bra situation.

He’s lucky I was dressed at all. I’ve never liked sleeping with clothes on.

“I left my robe on the sofa,” I lie.

“Oh.” Her eyes go slightly unfocused, and she chews her lower lip.

“Ofelia,” I say gently. “Do you want to tell me about your dream?”

Her eyes dart to me and away again. “It was the night Papa died.”

“Ah.” I know their father died in a car bomb, but little more than that. “Were you there that night? Is that what you were dreaming about?”

“No.” Her head shakes on the pillow. “We were at home. At our old home. The one we had before... everything.”

“Here in Spain?”

“Uh-huh.” She nods slightly. “We were with Babushka Vera.”

Yuri’s wife. I don’t have an overly good impression of Babushka Vera so far. From the muttered side comments I’ve heard when her name is mentioned, she holds extremely conservative, traditional views and is very critical of all three children.

“Was it Babushka Vera who told you about your papa?”

“No.” She frowns. “The phone rang, and she answered it. After a moment she screamed, and then she went into her bedroom and locked the door. We could hear her crying”—her voice cracks slightly—“but she wouldn’t let us in.”

I refrain, with no small difficulty, from the urge to say something extremely sharp about Babushka fucking Vera.

“What happened after that?” I ask gently. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Ofelia knuckles her eyes like a child.

“It’s okay.” She stares at the floor for a few moments. I keep rubbing her back in slow circles. “After a while, Mama came,” she says finally. “She tried to take Masha.”

My hand falters for a moment, then continues.

“Masha was crying.”

From the corner of my eye, I can see slow tears trickling down Ofelia’s face.

“Mickey was yelling at Mama to stop, and Masha was trying to hang on to me, but Mama took her anyway and put her in the car. She had a convertible,” Ofelia adds, her eyes cutting to me. “Papa wouldn’t let us ride in it. There wasn’t a proper baby seat, and he says— said —that Mama drove too fast. I was trying to tell her, and Mickey was trying to get Masha out of the car, but...” Her voice trails off dismally.

I can see the scene all too clearly. It’s hard enough for me to imagine, let alone for Ofelia to relive.

“Mama told me to stay and look after Babushka Vera, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to go with Masha.”

“Of course you did.”

“Then Uncle Roman came and made Mama stop backing the car out. He took us all inside and that’s when he...” Her voice chokes.

“That’s when he told you what had happened to your Papa?”

She nods, unable to speak.

“That must have been terrible.” I keep rubbing her back. “Is that what you dream about? Roman telling you about Papa?”

“No.” She shakes her head wearily. “I always dream the same thing. Always. I dream that somebody is taking Mickey and Masha away, and I don’t know where they’re going. And in my dream I can’t—yell. I can’t tell them to stop.” She’s weeping openly now, her body shaking with sobs. “I c-can’t do anything to fight back. And they’re crying, and they don’t want to go, but I c-can’t h-help them...”

“Oh, darling.” I lie down on the bed behind her and cuddle her close, stroking her hair and murmuring soothing nothings until she gradually quiets again and the sobs become soft hitches of breath. We lie like that for a long time, until finally her breathing slows and I feel her start to relax.

“Lucia?” she says sleepily.

“Hm?”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

I kiss the back of her head, squeezing my eyes shut to stop the sudden tears from sliding out. When I trust myself to speak, I say, “Me, too, darling. I’m glad I’m here, too.”

“Thank you for . . . procession . . .” She’s drifting.

“I can’t wait to see it.” I keep whispering to her as she slides back into sleep, stroking her hair long after I hear the long, rhythmic breathing.

I lie in the darkness beside her for a time, digesting what she said. I’m unwilling to leave in case the nightmare reclaims her.

I’d already deduced that Inger, the children’s mother, is quite a piece of work. But I still don’t understand how any mother could turn up after the death of their children’s father and not only keep the fact from them, but then try to split them up.

Not to mention Babushka fucking Vera, terrifying all three of them by screaming and then losing herself completely.

I try to remind myself that the woman had just discovered her son was dead; I want to feel sympathy for that. But my efforts to empathize with her are far outweighed by my horror at her abandoning three young children at the most terrible moment of their lives, to selfishly indulge her own grief.

In the few days I’ve spent with the children, it’s become horribly apparent that they’re entirely dependent on one another for emotional support. Their father, who appears to have been the most attentive of the various adult figures in their life, has been gone for two years. Since then, from what I can deduce from the files and sparse notes, they’ve been largely raised by a series of nannies, with the occasional visit to Inger’s parents in the US or to Vera in London. Roman has been their prime carer during that time, but from what I can see, he’s been distant at best, and despite his recent efforts, just plain absent at worst.

I will contact you in due course regarding the issues you raised. Meanwhile, rest assured that your privacy will be entirely respected and your safety guaranteed.

I’ve read his text message so many times I have it memorized.

I wonder if it’s wise to let Ofelia believe I’ll be here for any length of time. Given his fury in the penthouse, and the curt tone of his message, Roman seems just as likely to send me packing as he ever was.

I did as his message asked, of course. I gave the children the good news that they are permitted to take part in the procession. I cooked fajitas with them, took them out for gelato on the seafront, then tucked them in and waited until they were all asleep before returning to my own apartment. By the time Ofelia cried out with her nightmare, I’d been lying awake in the darkness for hours, turning over everything that was said between Roman and me.

I didn’t come to any conclusions, of course.

What conclusions are there to come to? Roman will make a decision, sooner or later. When he does, he’ll tell me. And then whatever way the chips fall, I’ll have to work with it. In the meantime, I’m grateful that at least it seems he won’t betray me to the Orlovs.

I touch Ofelia’s phone on the nightstand and it lights up: just after one o’clock in the morning.

The witching hour is close.

That thought brings me back to Roman calling me little vedma , little witch. I wish I could say I hated the name, but I don’t, any more than when he slips and calls me milaia , “darling.”

It’s unlikely that I’ll hear anything like that again anytime soon.

The uncertainty makes me restless and impatient. It’s an unfortunate side effect of having been the sole person deciding my and Papa’s future for the past six years. I’m always considering the next step, always making a plan. I find it deeply discomforting not to know what, exactly, Roman plans to do with me. Despite his assurances about my safety, our conversation has left me in limbo regarding how he feels, both about me and my past.

I check Ofelia’s breathing. It’s deep and even. I slowly withdraw my arm and ease myself off her bed. I leave the lights on low in case she wakes up again and pad restlessly out into the living room. I’m wide awake, sleep a distant dream. I walk over to the wide window that looks down onto the street below, staring out at the city lights. The streets are quiet, only a rare vehicle traversing them. I watch as a motorbike roars down the road at high speed. To my surprise, it pulls into the driveway leading into the basement parking garage. The rider halts and puts his feet to the ground, stabilizing the bike as he points the clicker to raise the security door.

It’s Roman.

I can tell by the way he moves, the shape of his body. Even from this many floors up, I know it’s him. My body leaps in immediate response, an insistent pulse thudding between my legs.

Where has he been? With whom?

I know I have no right to answers to those questions. Nor even to feel this sense of anticipation. Our earlier conversation in no way changes the contract I signed, nor the boundaries around our relationship that Roman has made so clear.

I know I can’t ask him for what I want. This arrangement is about his needs, not mine.

That doesn’t stop me wanting him with a fierce, almost desperate hunger.

All I can hear is his low, rough voice: “ On your knees, Miss Lopez .”

Desire licks through my body, hot and demanding.

Right now I don’t want to try to make sense of what Roman and I are. I don’t want to think of plans or next steps.

I don’t want to think at all.

I have a sudden, vivid memory of kneeling before him, his massive cock driving into my mouth and his rough voice guiding my every move.

My pussy spasms.

I’m so ready I feel like I’ll explode the minute he touches me.

If he touches me.