Page 54

54

ROMAN

“ S o given the demands of my new contract, I can’t possibly take the children until July.” Inger rubs her lips together in the odd manner women do when they’ve pumped their mouths full of collagen. I’ve always wondered if they do it because their lips feel like an alien body on their face. For a procedure designed to increase a woman’s sensuality, plumped lips have always struck me as mildly repulsive. Inger’s might be a more subtle job, but I once had those lips wrapped around my cock, so I know exactly what they looked like in their prime.

They bored me back then.

Now they revolt me.

“And have you told the children that you won’t be taking them back to the States with you?” I sip my water, eyeing her over the glass. I haven’t touched the wine. Given the nightmarish day I’ve had, drinking is not a wise idea, particularly when I can’t look at Inger without fantasizing about putting a bullet between her pretty little eyes.

Not a joke, unfortunately.

If she were a man she’d already be fucking dead, after the way she treated the children and Lucia today.

Lucia.

My fingers clench the glass convulsively. Given the way she tried to slip her security detail earlier, I’m not entirely sure I don’t want to kill her, too. When it comes to Lucia— Darya Petrovsky —the line between love and danger is so blurred it’s goddamn nonexistent.

Given that Bryce’s news about Lucia’s outing to the marina came on top of an early morning call from Pavel saying there’s been another trojan attack on Mercura, I’m in absolutely no mood to deal with Inger.

“No, I haven’t told the children they won’t be joining me in the States. Not yet.” She pushes the food around her plate without taking a bite. “I’ll wait until after the ball. But that’s enough about the children.” She rests her chin on one hand and fixes me with what I’m sure she thinks is a seductive gaze. “Tell me about you , Romie. How is Hale Property going? What are you working on?”

I suppress a sardonic laugh with an effort. We’ve spoken for all of two minutes about the kids, which was ostensibly the reason for this dinner in the first place. I don’t know why I should be surprised. Inger’s never shown more than a superficial interest in any of her offspring.

“Hale’s doing fine. We’ve just signed a multimillion deal to restore one of the white villages in the mountains outside Malaga.” I’d normally never talk about this kind of bullshit outside of the office. But when it comes to Inger, mentioning large sums of money is the equivalent of giving a cocaine addict a little bump to get the party started.

“Oh, how fascinating!” She flutters her eyelashes. I’m willing to bet her mental calculator is busy deducing how many of those millions she might be able to persuade me to part with.

I don’t have time for this shit.

“Inger.” I keep my tone measured with no small effort. “You asked me here to speak about the children, so let’s do that. To start with, I don’t think bringing all three children to the ball tomorrow night is a good idea.”

Her eyes flash with annoyance. “I haven’t seen my babies for months, Romie, and now you want me to give up a night with them?” She rubs those damned lips together again. “Aren’t you always telling me I should spend more time with them?”

“Attending that ball isn’t spending quality time with the kids, Inger.”

It’s using them for a pap walk, and you know it.

I suppress the second part with difficulty. My patience is paper-thin tonight.

I woke up to a call from Pavel saying that three new trojans appeared overnight. Mercura is under attack, and I need to get back to the lab and work out what the hell is going on, not sit here pretending to give a single fuck about Inger’s woeful parenting.

Her eyes narrow dangerously. She’s more than capable of creating a horrific scene in public, as I personally witnessed on multiple occasions during her marriage to Mikhail.

“I agreed to escort you to the ball,” I say in a slightly softer tone, “and I’m allowing Ofelia to attend. Perhaps we could just stick to that arrangement?”

“Oh.” Inger crosses her cutlery with a loud clatter and arches a perfect eyebrow at me. “So now you’re allowing me to take my daughter out for an evening?”

Fucking seriously?

I’m dangerously close to blowing completely.

Correction: I’m going to fucking blow.

It’s just a question of where, exactly, I allow the bomb to explode.

“I’m Ofelia’s legal guardian,” I say tersely. “Whether you like to admit it or not, Inger, you willingly signed over full custody to Mikhail—”

“And then I tried to take it back when he died!” Her voice is becoming shrill. Heads are starting to turn.

“You tried to take Masha when he died, and only because having a baby in your arms made your grieving widow schtick look better in the tabloids.” I’ve lost patience. “We’re leaving, Inger. We’ll continue this discussion in private. No,” I cut her protests off curtly. “We’re not doing this here. You can leave with me now, or I can carry you out screaming. Believe me when I say I don’t particularly care which option you fucking choose.”

I push my chair back and stalk out, signing the check as I go. I don’t need to look around to know that Inger will follow. She might love creating a scene, but only if she’s the star of it. Being publicly humiliated in Malaga’s finest restaurant isn’t her type of role at all.

She pauses on the steps to pose for the waiting paps, smiling prettily, right up until the limo door closes, at which point her mask drops entirely.

“How dare you walk out on me,” she hisses. “The press was there.”

“Paps aren’t fucking press, Inger. And they certainly weren’t there for you, or did the distinct lack of clicking somehow evade you? Not that I could give a fuck.” I shake my head impatiently. “That’s not the point of this discussion.”

She stares at me, her mouth slightly ajar. I’ve been very careful, over the years, to avoid triggering the nightmarish scenes I witnessed between Mikhail and Inger. I’ve always managed her with polite detachment and a carefully calculated mixture of flattery and financial inducement.

But I’m fucking done playing that game.

“Whether you like it or not, Inger, I’m the children’s legal guardian. And unless you want a very ugly, extremely expensive legal battle—which, I assure you, I will fucking win—then it’s long past time we got a few things very straight.” I stare at her coldly. “I will always encourage you to spend time with Ofelia, Mickey, and Masha. What I will not do is allow you to use them as props in your photo opportunities. As for you ‘taking’ the children in July, until and unless I see a detailed schedule of your plans, and personally clear any and all individuals they will be spending time with, not to mention oversee their security detail, the only place you’ll be taking them is to the Malaga boardwalk for ice cream. And even then, my security will be with them.” I lean forward, pinning her with my death stare. “The days of you crashing in and out of their lives, upsetting them as you did today, are fucking done. You want to spend time with them? Then get on your hands and knees in the garden with Masha. Help Ofelia with her piano practice. Take some interest in the fucking amazing work Mickey is doing.

“And if I ever hear you speak to Lucia again like she’s your goddamn servant”—my face is barely inches from hers—“the only place you’ll ever be seeing the children is at your gravestone, when they show up to put fucking flowers on it. Is that clear enough for you, Inger?”

I realize with an odd detachment that I’m shaking with anger.

This isn’t tearing an employee over a mistake. This is me genuinely losing my temper, something I’ve spent the past couple of decades making damn sure I never do.

It’s oddly liberating.

I’ll hand it to her, though. Inger doesn’t look cowed. She doesn’t even seem surprised.

Instead, she’s got a calculating expression in her eyes that sets my teeth on edge.

“So this is about the nanny, then. I thought so.” She lights a cigarette and blows the smoke directly at me. “Not exactly your normal type, is she? But then again, from what I hear, there’s nothing normal about your little arrangement.”

What the fuck?

I buy myself a minute by snatching the cigarette out of her hand and throwing it out the car window.

What does she know about Lucia?

“What do you think a family court judge would make of my children being left alone at night while their nanny goes upstairs to sleep in her boss’s penthouse? Or being forced to amuse themselves on holiday while Uncle Roman spends siesta time getting his rocks off?”

Oh, thank Christ.

I almost sag with relief.

“I take it you had some enlightening conversations with Masha,” I say dryly.

“If you mean that she didn’t shut up about fucking Luce from the moment I picked her up, then yes. And since when have the children had the access code for your penthouse?”

“Since Lucia started spending her nights in it.” I give her an evil smile.

“Well, then.” Inger very deliberately lights another cigarette, a small, hard smile playing about her mouth. “Since we’re clearly done with games, we can have a proper conversation.” She lowers the window an inch and blows smoke out of it. “I want all three of my children at that benefit tomorrow night, Roman. My new cosmetics contract is for an all-natural line marketed at the traditional wife demographic. I’m still negotiating my rate, and I need to look the part. That means pap shots at the charity ball with all three children front and center.”

I open my mouth to argue. She shakes her head impatiently. “Clearly the only way I’ll get Masha to the ball without a screaming fit is if your darling Luce is there, so bring the nanny with you. Although I suggest you take her shopping first. It will be humiliating enough for her to be socially way out of her depth. The least you can do is buy her a decent dress.”

“Wait.” I stare at her. “You want me to bring Lucia to the ball?”

“I want my three children at that ball, Roman, which is the point. I need them there, and I need them to be perfect. If that means the nanny comes too, then so be it.”

“And that’s it?” I eye her warily. “What happens after the ball?”

Inger shrugs. “I go back to the US for my new contract. You bring the kids out for a few days over the summer, so I can get some pap shots. Your security detail, your schedule, just as you said.” Her eyes narrow. “But I’ll need a bigger allowance than what you’ve been paying me. Much bigger. And I’ll expect your little nanny to make sure the kids are picture-perfect when I need them to be.”

“No more surprise visits. And I approve every request from now on.”

Inger scowls.

“I’ll fall in with your rules, Roman. I won’t fight you over the children. I’ll even be nice to that damn nanny. Just make sure she gets all three kids there tomorrow night, dressed, smiling, and ready to cooperate.” The limo glides to a halt in front of her hotel. “Do we have a deal?”

My phone vibrates in my lap. It’s Dimitry. All I want to do is get the fuck back to Mercura.

Not to mention find out what the hell Lucia was playing at this afternoon.

“Fine,” I say curtly.

Inger smiles like the cat that got the cream. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, Roman.”

“ Y ou need to get up here immediately.” Dimitry doesn’t even bother saying hello.

“I’m on my way.” I end the call.

“To the lab,” I order the driver. “Fast as you can.” I sit back in the limo, eyeing the Scotch bottle. But booze isn’t on the agenda tonight. Not with the amount of unanswered questions I have, about both Mercura and Lucia.

My phone lights up again, this time with Nikolai’s name. I swear aloud. Will this fucking day ever end?

“Nikolai.” I don’t attempt to soften my tone. “Nice of you to bless us with your presence.”

“Fuck off, Roman.” He sounds unusually cheerful. “I needed a holiday. And besides, the publicity in Miami got Cádiz even more funding. We’re making decent coin out of it now.”

“Is that so.” I couldn’t give a shit. Nikolai’s little games are the least of my problems right now.

“I’m calling to let you know that Inger’s asked me to escort Lucia to that ball tomorrow night. I wanted to clear it with you first.”

Fucking Inger.

I knew she wouldn’t take the Lucia thing lying down. This is exactly the kind of shit I should have expected. She might tolerate Lucia’s presence at the ball, but she’s going to make damn sure Lucia knows her place.

Well, two can play at that game.

“Good of you to let me know, Nicky. Be at the kids’ apartment by seven. We’re all going together.”

Except that it will be Inger who Nikolai escorts into that damn ball. I feel a return of my earlier evil smile.

Inger is about to pay in spades for that goddamn insult about Lucia’s looks.

“Copy that. See you at seven.” Nikolai is clearly full of piss and vinegar after his endless party in Miami. He’s also obviously been spending too much time with Inger.

Given the paparazzi photographs taken of them both during the Miami summer, the two of them have been doing the horizontal tango for some time.

Inger’s always liked having a backup plan.

She probably sees Nikolai as an opportunity to worm her way back into the family bank accounts, and Nikolai would no doubt think all his Christmases had come at once if she gave him so much as a sideways look.

He can fuck her on every available surface for all I care, so long as they both stay the fuck out of my business.

And besides, if Inger and Nikolai are together, they’re unlikely to want the kids around. Which suits me fine.

And right now, I’ve got far more important things to worry about than who Inger is fucking.

I hit Pavel’s number. “Where are we?”

“Well, it’s not good.” He sounds exhausted. I know how he feels.

After I’d been drinking until well after two that morning, Pavel called at five a.m. Dimitry and I were at the lab before six. I spent almost the entire day cloistered in my secure office, on a series of extremely awkward phone calls to the same people who had activated their invitations the previous day, doing damage control. I think I’ve managed to pull it off, but to say it was a day of high-level tension is a definite understatement.

“So you’re saying it’s under control for now?” I try to make sense of Pavel’s fast-paced explanation. There’s also nothing more frustrating than standing by in a room full of stressed tech heads, unable to do a fucking thing to help.

“I’m saying that something is fucking off.” Pavel sounds uncharacteristically grim. “Are you bringing Mickey back up with you?”

I frown. “You’ll need to work without him today. His mother’s here, and she’s almost as much trouble as the trojans. I don’t want her asking him too many questions.”

Not to mention that there’s something up with Mickey. I caught him staring at me more than once today, with a wary look I can’t quite make head or tails of. I need to find out what the problem is, but today hasn’t allowed me time to scratch my balls, let alone have an in-depth conversation with an upset teenager.

“That’s unfortunate.” Pavel actually sounds pissed off with me. “He spent weeks turning that first trojan inside out, unraveling all the code. He’s ahead of the rest of us, and we need all the help we can get.”

“According to your own PR, Mercura had the best team in the world before Mickey ever turned up.” I’m in no mood for pissed-off tech heads. “Manage it without him. I’ll be there in fifteen.” I end the call, grinding my teeth in frustration.

This whole day has been a clusterfuck.

I haven’t even answered Lucia’s message about Inger. At first I was just busy, but after Bryce called to say Lucia had tried to give him the slip, I was too fucking angry to trust myself to send a message.

I’m still angry.

I don’t know what the fuck she’s playing at, but the fact that her disappearance coincides with the trojans fills me with unease. I haven’t had a chance yet to get Bryce’s debrief. Thank Christ he wasn’t stupid enough to take his eyes off her.

I walk into Mercura to find Pavel, Dimitry, and Bryce all waiting for me, faces longer than an airport runway. I point at Bryce. “You, in my office. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I wait until he’s gone then point at Pavel. “You first.”

“The trojans are definitely coming from Andersson. But not from the Guapa this time. They’re coming straight from his headquarters in Sweden. He’s not even trying to hide it. In fact, there’s something weirdly obvious about the viruses. It’s like he wants us to find them.” He takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. His eyes are badly bloodshot. “And the weird thing is, they aren’t trying to break our system. In fact, they’re doing the fucking opposite.”

“Explain.”

“Every single one of the trojans has pointed out a hole in Mercura.”

“How the hell is that not a problem?”

“Because it’s like Andersson is doing our vulnerability testing for us. None of the trojans have actually tried to do anything other than flag the weaknesses in our own platform. And before you ask, yes, we’ve fixed the holes he’s found. And no, I don’t like the fact that he’s found things we missed. But he’s not trying to break in, boss. If I’m honest, it looks like he’s trying to make the whole system stronger. Which makes no sense.”

Unless he’s planning to steal the whole fucking thing.

“And there’s something else, which is why I wanted Mickey here.”

I ignore that. “Just tell me.”

“Mickey’s been working on a theory about the first trojan. He thinks there’s some kind of message embedded in the code. He’s been working through it, and this afternoon, he found similar patterns in these ones. He was just starting to work on them when you made him leave.”

“I told you, today isn’t a good time for Mickey to be here. Surely your team can use his work?”

His face tightens. “To be honest, none of us are as fast as him. He just sees shit we don’t.” I have to hand it to Pavel—that must have cost him a lot to say.

And I’m not going to lie: I can’t help but feel proud of Mickey. Even if he has got some bug up his ass about me.

A bug I’d clearly better sort out sooner rather than later, if he’s going to be in the thick of this whole damn thing.

“I’ll do what I can to get him up here tomorrow. In the meantime, there’s only one question I need answering. Is there anything in what Andersson has done that will enable him to hijack Mercura?”

“No.” Pavel’s immediate answer is at least reassuring. “That would be impossible to do. He can’t take control of Mercura. Nobody outside of here can, not even Andersson.”

“So then we still don’t know what he’s actually trying to do.”

“Nope.” He looks as frustrated as I feel. “The annoying thing is that, right now, it seems that all he’s doing is actually strengthening the whole platform. I have no idea why.”

“Good enough.” I glance through the window at the operations center, which is littered with pizza boxes, soda cans, and the inert figures of several exhausted techies. “If it’s safe for now, then you all need to go and get some sleep. Leave a skeleton crew, take it in shifts. That’s enough for one day.”

Pavel looks like he’s going to argue. I glare at him. “Go.”

He nods reluctantly. “Boss.”

Dimitry waits until he leaves. “There’s something else, before you talk to Bryce.” He moves a mouse, and a radar image comes up. “The fucking Guapa is currently cruising just off the Spanish shore. Like, ten nautical miles off.”

“What?” I stare at the screen, feeling my blood pressure rising. “How did we not know it had left Miami?”

“Because technically, it didn’t. The Miami marina is still showing it moored there. Except it isn’t.”

“ Khuy .” This is getting worse by the minute. “Okay. There’s fuck all I can do about that for now. I need to talk to Bryce.” I hesitate. To be honest, I don’t particularly like the idea of either Bryce or Dimitry knowing what Lucia has been up to. On the other hand, given all that’s happening, I can hardly afford to keep them in the dark.

“Come with me,” I say shortly. We go into my office, and Dimitry closes the door behind us. Bryce gives him an uneasy look.

“Whatever you have to say, Dimitry can hear.” I give them both a hard look. “Nothing said here leaves these walls. Ever.”

They nod. Bryce swallows nervously. “I got the tech boys to help me compile the footage,” he says. “I’ll talk you through it.” He lifts a remote control, and the large screen on the wall flickers into life. He hits play.

“First we see Lucia leave the villa. She clearly waited until the coast was clear to go.” I watch Lucia slip out of the gate and hurry down the street. “I followed her all the way to the marina. She met Abby there.”

Dimitry folds his arms grimly, glaring at Abby’s figure on the screen.

Bryce shoots him an uneasy look. “Abby gives her this package.” He pauses the video, pointing it out and zooming in. “Books, apparently, from an online store.”

Like hell.

“Lucia headed back up toward the main road. Which is where our friend Lance Ryder caught up with her.”

He pauses the video and I tense, every nerve in my body screaming.

“I wasn’t filming,” Bryce adds. “I was out of the car, about to take the fucker down. But Lucia got away from him by herself, and I made the decision to stay on her. Pavel managed to pull CCTV footage from a camera in the alley afterward. It’s not great quality, and it’s a bit misleading.” He hits play again.

It’s grainy, and Lucia has her back to the camera, but Ryder’s face is clear enough. He’s leaning in close to Lucia, saying something to her.

I frown at the screen. “Play it again. Can we slow it down?”

“Yep.” Bryce plays it in slow motion.

It takes about three replays for me to make out the words, and even then, only a few.

But they’re enough.

Alexei is one of them. The others are he’s here.

“She wasn’t talking to Ryder willingly,” Bryce says, seeing my face. “He grabbed her. She was trying to get away. She was fighting him—”

“Just tell me what happened next,” I say through gritted teeth.

Lucia was definitely listening in the clip the camera caught. And it sure didn’t look like she was fighting to me.

“She ran all the way back to the villa,” he continues, “and called me shortly afterward to go home. But I thought you’d want the camera feed from the villa, so I got that, too.”

He hits play again, and this time, I don’t need anyone explaining shit to me.

I watch Lucia hand her father the package. Watch Sergei pull the books out of it, his hands running expertly over the inside covers. This footage is easy to zoom in on, since the cameras installed in the villa are ours, which of course means they’re top of the range. I could get a clear shot of a goddamn hair fiber if I wanted to.

It’s easy enough to see the passport shapes sewn into the books.

And if I had any doubt of what they might be, the following shot of Lucia hiding the books behind a bathroom tile is clear enough.

The only part missing is the audio.

The two of them face away from the camera during the entire exchange, so while I can see the books in Sergei Petrovsky’s hands, I can’t see his face, and no matter how Bryce manipulates the view, I can’t get a clear shot of their conversation. I’d bet that Sergei is aware of every camera in the place. Except, clearly, the one behind the bathroom mirror.

Lucia is planning to run again.

“Thank you for this, Bryce.” I nod at him. “Well handled. You can leave it with us now.”

Bryce doesn’t move, though. He shifts uneasily from one foot to another. “I know the footage looks bad. But I saw how scared she was when Ryder approached her. Whatever it looks like onscreen, I promise you, boss, she wasn’t happy to see him. Also she was—well, she was upset today. After she ran into Inger.” He looks slightly defensive. “I just haven’t seen her upset like that before.”

“Noted.” I’m only just restraining myself from punching him through the wall. “Good night, Bryce.”

He’s not dumb enough to hang around.

He shuts the door quietly, leaving Dimitry and me staring at the screen.

The Guapa is sitting just off the Spanish coast.

Lucia isn’t just planning to run. She’s planning to run with her brother—who, if I join some very obvious dots, seems to be working with Lars Andersson to try to hack Mercura.

Do I believe that Lucia knows what Alexei is up to?

No. I’m almost certain she has no idea about Mercura or what’s at stake.

But do I believe she’ll do anything to save her brother?

Yes.

Yes, that I’d believe.

Dimitry breaks the silence. “You think she’s planning to run?”

“I think,” I say slowly, “that Alexei Petrovsky might just be one very smart motherfucker.”

He turns to me in surprise. “Where are you going with that?”

“Think about it.” I’ve been doing nothing but thinking about it ever since the Guapa connection was turned up. Even when I was most of the way down a vodka bottle last night, I was still thinking, the cogs spinning in the back of my mind, trying to link the different moving parts.

“Alexei Petrovsky has spent years enduring humiliation and torture. All the while, he must have been waiting. Planning. Watching for an opportunity to regain everything he’s lost.”

Dimitry’s eyes slide sideways. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

I ignore that. “My point is, Mercura is one hell of an opportunity.”

“Okay.” He nods. “So in this scenario, what’s Petrovsky’s play?”

“Alexei’s been playing the part of Orlov puppet for years now. They trust him enough to pick up their yacht or to represent the family at public events. He’s won the Orlovs’ trust by pretending to be their cowed dog. Which means they’ve forgotten he can be dangerous.

“When he brings them Mercura, my guess is he’ll do it with just the right mix of fear and deference, like a servant giving a precious gift to his masters. He’ll dangle Mercura as bait. He’ll play just dumb enough to make it believable, but he’ll also throw around Andersson’s name and make himself the key to the Orlovs getting their hands on it.

“And when he’s hooked them, he’ll propose a trade: Mercura for his family’s freedom. The Orlovs give up on whatever treasure they think the Petrovsky family can give them and take the one Alexei is offering instead.”

“So we’re back to the idea of him trading it for his family’s freedom.”

“Except he won’t.” The cogs click in place in my mind, and I’m suddenly sure I’m right. “He’ll play the game long enough to be certain he’s got his father and sister to safety. But a man doesn’t endure what Petrovsky has, for as long as he has, without being determined to take his revenge. He’s planning to take Mercura for himself—and he just happens to be best buddies with Lars Andersson, the one man in the world with the ability to make it happen for him.

“How they found out about Mercura,” I add, “is a whole other question. One I’ll work out, sooner rather than later. Although I’m willing to bet Lance fucking Ryder was involved. Gregor told me that prick hung around Pillars for days during the first trojan upload, asking all sorts of weird questions. I’ll bet there’s a connection there somehow.”

“Okay.” Dimitry nods slowly. “Let’s say I agree that all this is plausible.”

“Because it is,” I interject.

“There’s still no evidence to suggest that Lucia has any idea about Mercura or the trojans. Bryce is certain she was trying to get away from Ryder, not conspiring with him. There’s no reason to believe she’s going to run—”

I laugh hollowly. “Except for new fake passports that she’s hiding, and the fact that she’s barely spoken a word to me in days. Not to mention that come tomorrow night’s ball, I’d bet my right ball the Guapa will be moored right offshore.”

“I think you should ask her—”

“If I wanted fucking advice, Dimitry, I’d be asking. I’m not.”

“Well, I’m giving it anyway.” His tone is unusually harsh. “Lucia wouldn’t betray you, Roman. Mickey knows it, and so do I. Talk to her. Ask her what’s going on. At least give her a chance to explain.”

I glare at him. “How is Mickey part of this discussion?”

“Because he’s not an idiot. He tracked the whole Petrovsky/Andersson link in the first place, and he understands the connection to Lucia.” He rolls his eyes when I frown. “Of course he’s worked out who Lucia is, Roman. You honestly think he’s this far into it with Pavel and hasn’t joined the fucking dots?” Dimitry doesn’t even pretend to be deferential. “Mickey’s in it now. And Pavel seems to believe he’s the best chance you’ve got of getting to the bottom of this.”

“And I’ve already told you: no . If Lucia is planning to fuck us over in any capacity, then Mickey needs to stay away. Pavel’s geeks were the best in the world before Mickey came on board, and so they still fucking should be. You can’t tell me an untrained kid is better than the elite team Pavel personally fucking recruited.”

“Well according to Pavel, Mickey really is that good.” Dimitry stares me down. “And he’s not a kid, Roman. Not really. He’s also just as worried about Lucia as you are—”

“ I’m not fucking worried about Lucia .”

There’s a pause. Even I can hear the killing note in my voice. Dimitry’s known me well enough to pick right about now to stop. Except the idiot doesn’t.

“Mickey loves Lucia. The kids all do. He’s afraid, with good reason, that you might decide to shoot her first and ask questions later.”

“Oh, so you two are sharing fucking notes now?” The thought of Mickey confiding in Dimitry infuriates me almost as much as the fact that Lucia is planning to run.

“Well, he can’t exactly talk to you about any of it, can he?” He sounds almost as angry as I do. “He knows you aren’t telling him the full story. And for what it’s worth—he’s not the only one.”

I stiffen.

Dimitry’s eyes narrow. “And there it is,” he says softly. “That, right there. The line you won’t ever cross, beyond which lies whatever secret it is that’s been festering all these years. Don’t try to tell me there isn’t more to this whole Petrovsky business than you’re saying. I was there when you were running from the Orlovs, remember? You say Alexei Petrovsky has been watching and waiting. Well, I’d bet your fucking MTT that your file on the Orlovs is even thicker than his. And now you just happen to have his sister, which is the part that’s starting to scare the hell out of Mickey.”

There’s a strange pressure on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I feel like I’m underwater, the room around me oddly indistinct. I inhale sharply through my nose, trying to regain control.

“Well, aren’t you two quite the fucking investigation squad.” My voice sounds rough even to my own ears. “I’d suggest you both give it a rest, Dimitry, and stay the fuck out of the way. I was handling business when Mickey wasn’t even a spark in his daddy’s eye and when you were still a skinny kid pissing your pants.”

It’s a low blow, and I know it. But I’m in no fucking mood for this shit. Not tonight.

“Have it your way,” Dimitry mutters, shaking his head. “Fuck knows you always do.”

I t’s past midnight when the limo drops me home.

I press the elevator button for the penthouse, then, halfway up, change my mind and hit the button for the floor below. When the doors slide open, I nod at the small army of security monitoring every screen and entrance and go into the children’s apartment.

It takes all of one minute to realize it’s empty.

I come roaring out of the apartment, ready to tear someone apart. One of the guards nods at the door to Lucia’s apartment. “They’re in there,” he says, shifting uncomfortably.

I grimly punch in my master code, and the door opens with a soft click.

The television’s blue light flickers on the walls, a logo bouncing around the dead screen. When my eyes adjust to the dim light, I make out Lucia sitting on the couch, Masha’s arms and legs wrapped around her like a koala and Ofelia curled into her side. Mickey is sprawled on the floor, his head resting on Lucia’s thigh.

They’re all fast asleep.

I stare at the little tableau for a long time. Part of me aches to carry the sleeping kids into their bedrooms, then carry Lucia upstairs and lay her down in mine.

But I don’t.

I cut myself off from this life the day I ran from my father’s lifeless eyes. I’ve always known that one day the past would come to reclaim me, that my world would erupt in blood and violence.

And for months now, I’ve been trying to convince myself that I can somehow balance two impossible extremes. That I can have a family, a woman I love, and somehow still weather the storm of revenge that must be taken.

Because I do have to take that revenge.

Not just to avenge my parents, or as payback for the years I spent running.

Now I also have to take revenge to protect the family that adopted me. And the simple truth is that taking that revenge means killing anyone, or anything, that threatens the legacy Mikhail and I fought so hard to build.

That means Alexei Petrovsky will likely have to die.

And his sister?

I stare at her face, pale in the blue wash from the television. The long eyelashes, covering those liquid amber eyes that make my breath catch in my throat. The sweet bee-stung lips I can never look at without wanting to kiss. The elegant length of her neck, stray curls stuck to it where Masha’s face has pressed them to her flesh.

Every part of my body aches with longing. Aches for her dancing figure in my kitchen, the scent of her cooking welcoming me home. Craves not just the touch of her skin on mine, but the way her heart seems to encompass my own, as if I fit inside her being as well as her body. Lucia isn’t simply the woman I love. She’s the missing part of my soul.

And now I have to let her go.

There isn’t really any other option. I know I can’t kill Lucia. I’m many things, and capable of darker deeds than most men will ever have to contemplate.

But killing Lucia?

Ordering someone else to kill her?

No.

I’ve known that, deep within myself, since the moment I learned her identity. There’s not a chance in hell I can put Lucia in the ground.

But nor can I risk her falling into the Orlovs’ hands.

And there’s no way I can risk Mercura.

Which means that the only real thing I can do, the only honorable thing I can do, is stand by and watch her run. Guard her retreat. And make sure that nobody, not even her brother, can ever find her.

Maybe I’ll win this fucking thing. Save Mercura. Bring the Orlovs down. Build an empire so fucking huge nobody can ever touch those I love again.

But I’ve lived this life for a long time. I know all too well that I might not survive what’s coming.

I also know that if I do survive, Alexei Petrovsky will be dead.

And that alone will mean the end of any future Lucia and I might have had.

I stare at her for a long moment, resisting the urge to simply kiss her forehead, to get close enough just to inhale her vanilla-and-coconut scent. Lucia will wake the moment I touch her, a legacy of the long years she’s spent running in fear.

Something she’s about to have to do again.

Heartsick, I close the door softly and go up to the penthouse.

Mindlessly I walk down the corridor, tearing off my shirt and tie, longing for the numbing power of vodka, hoping there might be an inch left in the bottle Dimitry and I hit last night. I stop short in front of the partially open door to the secure room, then remember with a hard jolt of relief that I got the vodka bottle out of the safe last night when Dimitry was here and forgot to close the door when we were done.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

It’s a measure of how unsettled I am that I forgot to close the safe and lock the door. That never happens.

I stare at the open safe. “I let you down, Papasha.” The words rasp painfully from my chest. “But I won’t let the children down.” I feel a strange coolness on my cheeks and realize in detached surprise that its tears. I don’t remember the last time I cried. Maybe when my mother left.

“I know you wanted a different life for me. I can’t have that. But I can make sure the children do.”

I kneel in front of the safe, my fingers touching the bronze nameplate.

“I’ll save Mercura, and I’ll win this war, Papasha. I swear to you that I will. I’ll win it so thoroughly that when Mickey and his sisters grow up, there won’t be anyone or anything left that can harm them.” My voice cracks, but I force myself to finish. I may never be able to say this aloud to anyone else, but here, in this room, to my father’s ghost.

“I’ll fight this storm so they don’t have to.” I slowly close the safe door, letting my fingers slip the intricate locks into place.

“I’ll end this thing, Papasha. Even if it ends me.”