Page 34

34

ROMAN

“ L ucia.” She’s kneeling on the tiles, poking about in the bushes with Masha, presumably in search of the elusive Mr. Potato. She jerks around at her name, her eyes darting worriedly between Ofelia and Mickey.

She isn’t concerned for herself , I realize. Lucia is worried about the children.

“I’d like to have lunch served here, so we can all eat together.”

Her face is a picture of confusion. She looks at the children, then glances behind her, at the old man in the wheelchair.

“Ofelia.” I turn to my goddaughter. “Would you guys like to take Lucia in and show her how we set the table? And Masha, perhaps you might like to pick some flowers to go in the center?”

Ofelia smiles shyly at Lucia. “I’d like that.”

“I can pick flowers,” says Masha proudly, immediately heading for the doors.

Ofelia slips a tentative hand into Lucia’s, leaning her head on her shoulder briefly. “Sorry,” she mumbles.

“Oh, no.” Lucia kisses the top of her head. “Don’t be, darling.”

Mickey takes her other hand. “Me, too,” he says quietly.

Lucia’s eyes mist over. She glances at me over their heads.

Thank you , she mouths.

I smile. You’re welcome.

They move toward the doors. Lucia looks back briefly at the long, lean figure in the wheelchair, but she doesn’t linger. She knows as well as I do that this meeting is best done without an audience.

I wait until the glass doors click closed before speaking.

The old man is watching me. Despite his age and obvious infirmity, there’s no doubting he was once a formidable figure. His shoulders are still rangy and tough, his spine ramrod straight. He’s well over six feet, with hawkish features, fierce blue eyes, and the alert attention of one well used to danger.

I walk across to him and offer my hand. “ Dobro pozhalovat’ v moy dom .” Welcome to my home.

He takes my hand, nodding sharply. His grip is strong. I smile internally. Nothing in the man’s manner indicates that he is anything other than my senior. I might as well be one of his vor , come to pay tribute, rather than the man who effectively holds his life in my hands. In Russian tradition, it’s never proper to shake hands over a threshold. Increasingly, the old traditions matter less, but today I find myself rather relieved that this first meeting with Lucia’s father is taking place outside. I feel oddly aware of the formalities, as if I were sitting at my father’s table once again, being instructed on the correct manner of address.

The man gestures to a chair on the other side of the garden table, on which a chess set is laid out. I take the seat. A moment later, the terrace doors open and Ofelia emerges with a silver tray, atop which is a Russian samovar, two filigree glasses, and a small plate of halva. “Lucia asked me to bring tea,” she says, looking between us curiously.

The old man smiles at her. “ Eta ochen’ mila s Vashey starany .” That’s very kind of you.

She returns the smile, coloring slightly, and leaves us.

The older man pours tea, once again as if the house were his. Only after we have sipped from our glasses does he meet my eyes again. “So,” he says, in labored, heavily accented English. “My daughter—living in—your home.”

It’s a hell of an opening. His words are slightly staggered, and I remember that Pavel said he had suffered a stroke. Despite his slow, hesitant manner of speech, every word rings with the authority of a man accustomed to command.

“Your daughter is safe in my home.”

The man’s lips harden. “My daughter—not—safe—anywhere.”

I nod slowly. “I understand that the Orlov family is searching for you.”

The blue eyes narrow, studying me closely. I meet them steadily. Finally, the man raises his tea glass and takes a sip, his eyes not leaving mine. When he lowers the glass, his lips twist in something approaching a wry smile. “Name—on passport—is Juan Ortega,” he says, this time in Russian. His eyebrows raise slightly. “But you—know—that.”

Oddly enough, his speech, though slow, seems to be improving with every rasping word.

I tilt my head slightly. “I am Roman Stevanovsky.”

Juan’s eyes narrow, and he studies my face curiously. “Stevanovsky.” He repeats the name slowly. “Hale Property.”

“ Da .”

“Heir to Yuri Stevanovsky.” It isn’t a question. Anybody who reads an expat paper knows my name, and about Hale Property. But this man also knows what I am, and to which clan I belong.

He might be old, but he’s still tapped in.

“Yes.” I’m accustomed to men assuming that I am Yuri’s son. I’m not certain why it should make me uneasy that Lucia’s father assumes the same thing, but it does. I dislike lying to him, which is ironic, given that he is living in my home, under a fake name, no less.

He fixes me with a stern glare. “Why—are we—here?”

Now we get to business.

I push the plate of halva across the table and pour more tea. “The children’s nanny quit at short notice before the holidays. Lucia was working in the café across the road from Hale. I knew she spoke Russian, and she’s clearly well educated. She was working a lot of hours for very little money. It seemed a logical solution.”

My tone is even enough. I meet his eyes as I speak. And the man is in a wheelchair.

Given his narrowed eyes and steely glare, however, I suspect that none of that would be a deterrent from him doing his best to kill me, if he doesn’t like my answer. He’d never make it out of his chair, obviously. But that doesn’t mean I don’t fucking respect the intention.

“All—this?” He gestures around at the villa, plainly questioning why housing him is part of Lucia’s employment. I hope that’s the only aspect of the arrangement he questions. I have no desire to defend the less honorable part of the contract. I suspect that might result in a test of the killing theory.

And if I’m being entirely honest, lately I haven’t been too proud of that goddamn contract myself.

“I work unpredictable hours,” I say, pushing that uncomfortable thought aside, “and require Lucia to fit in with my schedule. The villa was empty. Again, it seemed logical.”

“ Logical .” The old man sits back in his chair, eyeing me skeptically. “What—about—Orlovs?”

I can tell it hurts him to ask. This is a man who clearly would once have murdered any man who came for his family. Something tells me he’d still do his damndest to try, bare-handed if necessary.

“I have no interest in trading you to the Orlov family.” I hold his eyes steadily. “My home is yours. Unless and until you decide to leave, you and your daughter are under my protection.”

His mouth tenses. Something hard flashes in his eyes, a piece of the warrior he clearly once was. I don’t need to imagine the insult such a man might feel at my offer. But if I’ve read him right, and I am sure I have, Lucia’s father is also a realist. His eyes shift sideways, considering what he might say. I remain quiet, waiting. When he turns back to me, his face is set and hard.

“They—know.” He meets my eyes directly. “Orlovs. That we are—here. Orlovs—coming.”

The fuckers are coming?

Savagery surges through me in a primal rush.

Come, you bastards.

“Let them come.” Despite my customary restraint, even I can hear the edge of war in my voice.

Juan nods, but his face is grim. “Your children.” He addresses me with a quiet dignity, despite his rasping voice. “Not safe with—us.”

I turn my tea glass in slow circles on the table. “Lucia said as much. I will tell you what I told her.” I stop the tea glass and meet his eyes directly. “I protect what is mine. No matter who, or what, comes at me.”

Nothing more. Either this man understands that I can take care of my own or he doesn’t. I’m long past the time when I justify anything I do. To anyone.

There is a pause, during which the old eyes study my face keenly. I don’t flinch from the scrutiny, and after a time, Juan inclines his head. It’s an oddly poignant gesture. That of a proud man accustomed to offering, rather than accepting, protection. His nod is one of resigned acceptance, but definitely not of surrender. I can see the mind still active behind his eyes. It almost makes me smile.

Juan Ortega, or whoever he truly is, will reluctantly accept my help.

But he hasn’t given up on whatever still drives him. I suspect he won’t until he is in his grave. Somewhat to my surprise, I find myself rather admiring Lucia’s father. And I’m not a man who takes a liking to many people, let alone admires them.

“I understand you can’t share your identity. I will accept that—for now.” I lean forward. “But not indefinitely.”

The man searches my face carefully. After a time, he raises his eyebrows slightly and tilts his head in acknowledgment. “So,” he says, with a hint of his earlier wry smile. He nods at the chess board. “Shall we play, then?”