Page 51

51

LUCIA

“ I t’s perfect.” Ofelia eyes herself shyly in the mirror. “Thank you, Luce.” Her dress is the cream silk we tried on several days ago. It’s sleeveless with a cowled halter neck and drapes elegantly to the floor, making the most of her height without overemphasizing her slender curves or exposing too much skin.

“I think it’s missing something.” I pull out the velvet bag with my mother’s Fabergé earrings and tip them into her hand. “These should match perfectly.”

Ofelia’s eyes widen, her mouth a perfect O of surprise. “They’re so pretty,” she breathes, fastening them in her ears and turning her head this way and that.

“They belonged to my mother.” I kiss her cheek. “She’d have loved to see you wearing them.”

“Oh, I couldn’t.” Ofelia fingers the earrings longingly. “Are they horribly expensive?”

“Not at all,” I lie. Those at the ball who recognize the earrings for what they are will respect her for wearing them. Those who don’t will simply think them a tasteful choice for a young girl.

“Ofelia, come—Wow.” Mickey slides to an abrupt stop, staring at his sister in somewhat unflattering amazement. “You look really good.”

“Really good,” she repeats sarcastically. “Gee, thanks.”

“But I’d take it off if I were you.” He looks over his shoulder and kicks the door shut. “The doorman just called. Mama’s downstairs.”

Ofelia stiffens. “Oh, shit.” She gives me an apologetic look. “Sorry, Luce.”

“That’s fine.” I try not to appear nervous.

Why the fuck didn’t Roman tell me she was coming?

“Why don’t you change out of the dress, and I’ll put it away for you? You can get Masha,” I add to Mickey, already unhooking the cream dress. “She’s coloring in her room.”

“Okay.” He shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Um—I’m not sure if Roman knows Mama is here or not. Somebody should probably call him.”

“Sure.” I force a smile. “I’ll take care of it, Mickey. There’s no need to worry.”

I’m not sure who I’m trying to reassure.

He leaves. Ofelia’s gone quite pale. “I thought she wasn’t supposed to get here until tomorrow.”

“She probably just wanted to spend time with you.” I force myself to smile, despite the uncomfortable prickling sensation under my skin. “Or maybe take you shopping.”

“I need to do my hair,” she says worriedly. Instead of her normal shorts and T-shirt, she reaches for a tight-fitting black Versace dress that shows a vast expanse of leg and a pair of very high heels. She exchanges my earrings for gold chains with the Gucci logo hanging from each end that drip down from each ear.

The outfit ages her by approximately a decade, particularly when she piles her hair up in a distressed bun and adds mascara and lipstick. It’s also completely inappropriate for a lunchtime outing.

Roman will have a fit.

But I’m not getting between Ofelia and her mother, particularly given our recent shopping expedition.

“I’ll head upstairs when she gets here,” I say quietly. “If you need me, just call.”

She nods distractedly. It kills me to see her tension.

The elevator dings, and a moment later I hear a piercing shriek. “Mickey! Masha, darling! Look how big you’ve gotten!”

I wait until I hear them all move to the kitchen, then slip down the corridor to the elevator, taking it up to Roman’s apartment. I hit call on his number as I go, my heart thudding uneasily.

He doesn’t answer.

I write a brief message instead: Inger is here, in the apartment with the children.

I stare at the screen, but the message stays unread. I try not to let it upset me.

Is it really possible that he didn’t know she was arriving?

In the penthouse there’s an empty vodka bottle on the dining table, with two glasses and the remnants of several cigars. The scene makes me feel vaguely uneasy. Then again, everything lately seems to do that.

Roman came home after midnight last night. Instead of summoning me, he just sent a message saying he’d see me tonight. I know he had a big presentation yesterday, so I’m guessing that ran late. Clearly, going by the empty vodka bottle, it went well.

Equally clearly, he celebrated his success with someone that isn’t me.

That hurts. More than it probably should, since going by the cigars, it’s unlikely he was drinking with anyone other than Dimitry.

It still hurts.

Normally I would have messaged him good luck yesterday. But since Ofelia’s comment about “wishing” I could attend the ball, I’ve been feeling more and more insecure.

Roman has rarely answered my messages from the beginning, usually just putting a thumbs-up on them. It never bothered me before. I know how busy he is; sending a photo of the kids or a short message was just my way of keeping him connected to the family as he was working.

But now I can’t help but think that the only times he ever messages me is either for logistical arrangements or to summon me for sex. We haven’t actually gone out for a meal together, minus the kids, since the night at the castle. It’s always lunch or dinner in the apartment, followed by a bedroom liaison in his penthouse, whether during siesta or late at night. Again, it never bothered me before. But he’s known about this ball for weeks and never mentioned it to me at all. If he’s planning to attend, and I can’t imagine a man in his standing in the Russian community wouldn’t, it isn’t with me.

If I needed further proof of his indifference, he doesn’t seem to have missed my daily updates. Last night’s late message is the only one he’s sent, other than the normal arrangements for the kids.

What makes it far worse is that my period is now almost a week overdue. And that terrifies me beyond rational thought. I still haven’t brought myself to actually take the test.

The sound of footsteps makes me start. I relax when I see Maria, the maid who always cleans the penthouse. “Hola, Maria.” I force a smile.

“Lucia.” She looks unusually worried. “Is everything alright with Mr. Stevanovsky?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” I feel a twinge of alarm.

“It’s just that room,” she says in rapid Spanish that betrays her nerves. “You know, the one that is always locked.”

“What about it?”

“Well, the door was open this morning. Just a bit, but it’s normally shut, so I thought maybe it had been left open for me to clean. I didn’t mean to look inside,” she adds hastily. “I just glanced inside briefly. But—and I know this is none of my business—I noticed that the safe inside it is open. And it’s empty.” Her anxious eyes meet mine. “I promise you I didn’t take anything out of it,” she says nervously. “I would never steal anything—”

My alarm ratchets up a notch.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” I say immediately. “Mr. Stevanovsky knows that, Maria. It’s why you’re the only person who cleans for him. He trusts you completely. Please don’t worry.”

“But that room, it’s never open. What if someone broke in?”

“I’ll call Mr. Stevanovsky and clear it up.” I smile reassuringly, despite the uneven thudding of my heart. “Please don’t trouble yourself. This will just be some kind of misunderstanding, I’m sure of it.”

“Okay.” She looks relieved. “I’ll just finish clearing up that bottle, and then I’m done.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” I wave her off. “You go. I’ll finish up here.” She argues for a few moments, but in the end, she goes.

I take the bottle and glasses into the kitchen and wash the glassware slowly.

Don’t go prying, Lucia.

Whatever he has in that locked room is absolutely none of my business. Doors are locked for a reason.

But what if he was broken into?

I know damned well I’m just going for excuses here. There’s no way anyone broke into Roman’s penthouse without him knowing. And he was clearly here himself last night.

Nonetheless, my feet are already carrying me down the hallway.

Turn back, Lucia. Spying on your lover is about as low as it goes.

The door is only just open. Maria clearly felt as guilty as I do right now and tried to leave it as she found it. It’s to her credit that she mentioned it at all.

Will you mention it, Lucia? Will you tell him you came and spied?

I push the door slightly open.

The room is windowless and entirely empty, but for a large, heavy, rather old-fashioned safe. It’s actually quite beautiful, with ornate decorative wrought iron that reminds me of something. But I’m more concerned with what Maria noticed: the door to the safe is wide open, the shelves completely bare.

Maybe he emptied it for the business deal yesterday.

I suppose that would make sense. Although, to be honest, I can’t imagine the sums of money Roman deals in fit easily into a safe, even a large one.

And again: none of your business, Lucia.

I need to get out of here. Whatever is going on with the safe is Roman’s affair, not mine.

Then I see the brass nameplate on top of the safe. And suddenly, I know exactly where I’ve seen that particular style of wrought iron before.

Shock runs icy cold through my body, followed by a hectic rush of heat that leaves my heart pounding. I cross the floor nervously and run my fingers over the name engraved on the plate.

Borovsky.

How many times have I seen that same nameplate, on the door to my family vault back in Miami?

Vilnus Orlov’s voice rings through my ears as if it were yesterday. Tell me how to open it, Darya...

I leap back as if I’ve been burned. Even touching the nameplate makes me feel sick and frightened.

I back out of the room, staring at the safe, and carefully close the door exactly as I found it, my heart pounding.

Why the hell does Roman have a Borovsky safe locked up in his apartment?

I know all too well how rare they are. Collector’s items, in fact, that sell for millions of dollars. Notoriously the hardest safes in the world to crack. A fact of which I am painfully aware, having watched my mother be tortured to death in Vilnus Orlov’s efforts to crack our Borovsky vault.

What possible reason could Roman have to own one?

I think back to the conversation we had during that wonderful, long-ago dinner at the castle. “I like going to auctions,” he said, “buying up treasures other people miss.”

Maybe the safe is just another one of those treasures?

I swallow, my throat dry. It seems like too much of a coincidence to simply be a chance purchase. And why hide it away in a secure room? If he bought the safe as a collector’s item, why not display it?

No matter how I try to suppress my unease, it just won’t go away.

My phone rings, startling the hell out of me. I’m almost desperately relieved to see Abby’s name on the screen.

“Hey, chica,” she greets me. I can hear a lot of noise in the background, and she sounds a bit rushed. “I can’t talk for long, I need to get back to Pillars. Just wanted to let you know that I’m at the post office. That package you warned me about is in my box. What do you want me to do with it?”

The passports.

For Chrissake. Can today get any more stressful?

I almost feel sick even thinking about the package from Argentina. Somehow I managed to conveniently forget about asking Papa to order the new identities. Well, not forget , I think. Just ignore.

But I can hardly leave them with Abby.

I glance back at the slightly ajar door. Suddenly that secure room feels like the basement in a horror film, as if something evil has been released. All I want to do is get the hell out of here.

“You’re heading back to Pillars now?” I ask.

“Yep. The boss is home today, apparently, so loads to do.”

Of course he is. My mind is swirling crazily. Nikolai probably sat next to Inger on the fucking plane. Masha’s casual reference to Nikolai and Inger recently being on Yuri’s old yacht together is yet another thing I haven’t had a chance to talk to Roman about. There just hasn’t seemed to be the right moment. And besides, I’m not sure whether it’s important or if it will just cause trouble.

How would I even know what’s important? Like Roman and I ever talk about anything, other than what lingerie set I’m wearing.

I feel overwhelmed by the threads of my different lives, caught in a confusing tangle of past and present. I’m angry, and I’m scared.

Which is probably a symptom of pregnancy.

Oh, FUCK.

“Earth to Luce,” Abby says impatiently. “Sorry, girlfriend, but I’m kinda on the clock here.”

“Can you slip out about four?” It’s two now. Going by what the kids have told me about previous visits, I’m almost certain Inger will want to take the kids out and show them off. I need to see Papa, but more importantly, I need to be out of this building. Away from everything to do with Roman and that damned safe.

“Yep.” Abby’s panting, clearly striding out to get to work.

“I’ll meet you by the marina and pick the package up, okay?”

“Yep. Done.” She hangs up.

I pass the kitchen and find myself staring blankly at the empty vodka bottle on the table. For the first time, I notice the label on it, and my tension level goes through the roof.

Graf vodka.

My father used to drink that brand— back in Miami.

He’s complained more than once that it isn’t sold here in Spain.

Roman always drinks Scotch.

So was it really Dimitry he was with last night, or was it someone else? Someone Russian, who just happens to drink vodka from Miami?

Ice-cold fear trickles down my spine.

My phone buzzes again, this time with a message from Ofelia: Going out shopping with Mama. Got whole security detail with us.

Not that any of that security detail bothered to let me know.

Then again, why would they?

Inger is the children’s mother, after all.

I get back into the elevator and return to the apartments, now empty and silent. One lone guard remains in the corridor. “Hey, Bryce.” I give him a small smile. “Kids went out okay?”

“Yeah. Luis’s team is with them, and Inger had security of her own, too. Don’t worry.” He gives me a rather more understanding smile than I’m comfortable with. “Inger’s visits are a nightmare tornado, but they never last long.”

His sympathy only makes it worse.

“Sure,” I mutter.

I go into my rooms, shower and dress, then go back to Bryce. “Can you take me to the villa? I think I’ll have lunch there today.”

“Sure.” He smiles easily and gives me a wink. “Don’t blame you, to be honest. We all run like hell when Inger’s in town.”

“I didn’t actually know she was arriving today.” I’m desperate to ask where Roman is, but I don’t want to be obvious about it.

“Mr. Stevanovsky probably didn’t know, either. He’s under the gun today.” Bryce gives me another of those sympathetic smiles that makes me feel like a complete idiot.

I check my phone again, but there’s no message from Roman.

Bryce pulls up outside the villa. “I’ll be right here when you’re ready.”

“To be honest, I’m just going to hang here today. I can give you a call when I’m ready to go, if you like. No point both of us waiting around.”

“Sure.” He gives me his easy grin. “Just call me, then. I won’t be far away.”

Knowing he’s probably watching, I head into the villa and close the door behind me.

Anna comes out. “Oh,” she says, frowning. “Papa is sleeping. I can wake him up, if you like.”

“No, don’t worry.” I smile at her. “I might just have a nap myself, if you don’t mind. It’s been a long morning.”

“Of course!” She beams, ushering me to the guest bedroom and closing the door behind her.

I wait for about half an hour, until the villa is completely quiet. Anna, I know, will be curled up on the sofa, taking her own siesta. I creep downstairs and wait until the security guard passes the front door. I glance around, but to my relief, Bryce’s car is nowhere to be seen.

I slip out and make my way toward the marina.