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ROMAN

T he lab is humming, tech heads rattling away on their keyboards, staring intently at screens. Two of them have been throwing a ball one-handed back and forth for the past hour while simultaneously working with their other hand.

Mickey is hunched forward, his fingers moving lightning fast across the keyboard. Three other tech heads are standing around him, leaning over his shoulder.

“That’s it,” one of them is urging. “Yep. Yeah. Mick, you’re close. Go, go, go— yeah!” They all punch the air, then just as quickly, tense again. “Oh.”

I watch the drama in total confusion. “What the fuck is going on there, Pavel? Tell me Mickey isn’t gaming on Mercura time.”

Pavel gives me a look that’s as close to contempt as he probably dares. “The trojans change shape when you try to unpick them and track their location. I told you Mickey took the first one apart, traced it back to Andersson in Sweden. Mickey’s the fastest of us at decoding them, but Andersson is on the other end of the keyboard, and he’s faster. But only just.” He nods at the tense shoulders in the next room. “These guys are watching the equivalent of an Olympic race, with Mickey currently in second place.”

“There’s more at stake here than a fucking gold medal.” I’m not in the mood for geek Olympics.

Pavel’s eagerness slips a little at my tone. “If Mickey can make sense of the patterns he’s finding, or track Andersson himself, we might understand what Andersson is trying to do here.”

“Well, Mickey’s going to have to pass the baton to the B team.” I glance at the time on my phone. “Cinderella has to get ready for the ball, I’m afraid.”

He squints at me. “Seriously? This is important, Roman. Er—boss.”

That almost makes me smile. “Fine. I’ve got somewhere to be. I’ll come back for him in a couple of hours. But no later.” I glare at Pavel, who nods frantically. “When I come back, he needs to be ready to go, done or not.”

“Copy that.”

Mickey doesn’t bother turning his head when I call a goodbye. Luis drove him up here this morning. I know I need to talk to the kid, explain everything about Darya’s background, before things go much further.

Another part of me knows that the conversation we need to have isn’t likely to end well. Besides, there’s a visit I need to make, for which I’d rather not have an audience anyway.

I drive the Maybach down the mountain. It’s midafternoon when I pull up in front of the villa. I have a quick word with the security team, which I’ve doubled, then send Anna home for the rest of the day. Bryce informed me of Abby’s visit to Lucia this morning, and I’ve been monitoring the villa footage all day. I watched Abby collect the package behind the tile barely half an hour ago.

Despite the decisions I came to last night, I’m not happy.

I’m not fucking happy at all.

I walk slowly up the stairs, the terrace gradually coming into view.

Sergei Petrovsky’s wheelchair is by the wall, neatly folded up. He’s sitting in a wicker chair in front of a low table with a chess board on it. He has his back to me, long legs stretched out before him. I know his mobility has been increasing.

Going by Abby’s little expedition today, I can guess why he’s been working at it so fucking hard.

I stand for a moment just staring at his straight, tall back. He blows a stream of smoke in front of him, then turns to the side, his long fingers crushing out the cigarette in a decisive gesture that gives me a cold jolt of recognition.

Suddenly I’m back on the landing, watching the tall visitor talk to my parents in the kitchen.

The long-buried memory blends with current reality like a projector overlay. Any doubt that the man now sitting in my villa is one and the same as the man who once sat in my father’s kitchen is gone.

I watch him light another cigarette, cupping the flame with his hands, and wonder how I didn’t immediately recognize who he was the first time I saw him.

Sergei Petrovsky, the man who failed both of my parents, is sitting only a few paces from where I stand, nonchalantly smoking as if he has nothing better in the world to do.

“If it is a bullet you wish to give me, you have hesitated too long, my friend.” He speaks in Russian. Without looking around, he gestures to the wicker chair on the other side of the chess board. “Please, Roman. Sit.”

He might as well be the pakhan welcoming one of his vor who’s come to pay tribute. I can’t help but respect his air of calm.

My gait feels strangely stilted as I cross the terrace. I place a bottle of vodka on the table between us, with two small glasses.

“Ah.” Sergei smiles, though his eyes have narrowed. “Graf vodka. Where did you find it? Lucia tells me it isn’t sold here in Spain. Then again, she could be lying. She also tells me cigarettes are illegal, and yet.” He waves the hand holding a cigarette. “As you see, she lies.”

“Yes, she does.” I pour us both a glass and push one toward him. “But then, so do you, Sergei, do you not?” I raise my glass. “ Za znakomstvo, Mr. Petrovsky.”

I use the toast for a new acquaintance.

“ Za znakomstvo — Roman Aleksandervitch.” His pale blue eyes watch me shrewdly as he tosses off the glass.

I refill them both. “How long have you known?”

“For certain? Not until now.”

“But you suspected.”

“Yes, Roman. I suspected.” He leans back in his chair, hands folded loosely before him. “So. Ask your questions.”

“Ha.” It’s a mirthless sound. I sit back and fold one leg over the other. “Today is not the day for questions.”

“And yet you have not put a bullet in my head.” One thumb rubs over the other hand, his eyes fixed on my face. “We do not know what tomorrow holds, Roman. Perhaps you should ask your questions now.”

“Only one.” I toss off the vodka. “What made you suspect my identity?”

“You have your mother’s features, did you know that? No.” His eyes dull, the lines suddenly deeper on his face. “You would not remember her, I think.” He turns the vodka glass slowly in his hand. “But that is all you have of Rosa. Your eyes—these are Aleksander’s. The way you move is his. But those, most of all.” He nods at my hand on the vodka glass. “You have your father’s hands, Roman,” he says quietly. “Aleksander’s hands were his greatest treasure. We wrapped them a hundred times over on our journey, to protect them from frostbite. ‘Without my hands this is all for nothing, Sergei,’ he would tell me. You see this?” He grasps my hand, splaying the fingers wide on the table. “Aleksander always said that people think a man needs slender, nimble hands to create jewelry or work on an intricate lock. The truth is that a man needs strong hands to work metal. I remember watching him in the workshop, his hands over yours, teaching you—”

His voice breaks off, and he looks away. “I saw the earrings you gave Darya,” he says softly. “I would recognize Aleksander’s work anywhere. But it was the way you fastened them in her ears. So fast, so sure. You—it was like watching Aleksander.”

I’m not ready for this. I was sure his answer would just be lies and evasion. Perhaps involve Alexei. Or even Lance Ryder.

But not this. Not memories that cloud my brain and confuse past and present. Raw memories that remind me of who I lost—and of who was responsible for their loss.

“You failed them both.” My voice is as harsh as the life Sergei forced me to live. “You promised to get my mother to safety, but you must have failed, because she never came back. You told my parents you’d protect me, but when the Orlovs came and killed my father, you were nowhere to be seen. You failed us all.”

“Yes.” He meets my eyes squarely. “Yes, I failed you, Roman. And for that you have every right to take my life.”

“Then you admit it.” I stand abruptly. My body is restless, unable to simply sit, and if I pour more vodka, I won’t fucking stop. “You admit you betrayed them. I saw men with the Orlov tattoo drive through your gate, the same day my father died. That was years before the coup. You were working with them, and you let them kill my father.”

“No.” Sergei’s voice is almost as hard as my own. “I failed you all, that is true. I thought the Orlovs were allies, and I was wrong. It is a failure for which I will never forgive myself. But I never betrayed your parents, Roman. Or you.”

“That makes no sense.” I glare at him. My eyes fall on my phone, sitting on the chess board. It’s five p.m.

I don’t have time for this.

I pocket my phone and take a step toward the doors.

“Wait.” Sergei grips my arm with surprising strength. His eyes are no longer pale, but a fierce, hawkish blue, filled with a story I’m not sure I want to hear. “There is so much you don’t know.” He meets my eyes. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch at the killing fury in mine. “Kill me after I speak, if you must. But first, you need to know the truth, Roman. Your mother—”

“No.” I unpeel his hand and toss it aside, striding for the doors. “Not today, old man. I got what I came for. I only came to make sure you can’t fucking leave.”

You’ll only slow her down.

“Wait!” He’s reaching for his wheelchair, but it’s too far. He tries futilely to pull himself out of the wicker seat, his head twisting toward me. “Wait, Roman,” he gasps, his eyes widening as I start to close the doors. “Your mother. She—”

“No, you old bastard.” I slam the doors on him, leaving him mouthing silently behind the glass.

Whatever you’ve got to say, I’ll hear it when I’m damn well ready.

“ Y ou should have left me at the lab.” Mickey’s voice is hard and tense. “I don’t need to go to the damned ball. I’ve got work to do—”

“And it will have to wait,” I say curtly. “Your mother asked that you all attend tonight.”

“Since when do you give a shit about what Inger wants?”

“Don’t speak about your mother like that.” I glance sideways at him. His hands are clenched in tight fists, his face set and pale. “Whatever you’re working on isn’t anything Pavel and the team can’t manage. I know you’re incredibly good at this stuff, Mickey, and I admire that. But Mercura isn’t your responsibility. Trust me when I say I’ll manage this.”

“Trust you.” His mouth curls. “Sure, Roman.”

I wrench the car onto the side of the road and turn to face him. “Right. That’s enough. What’s going on? You’ve been giving me side eye for days now. And Dimitry tells me you’re worried about Lucia.”

“Don’t you mean Darya?” Mickey turns hard eyes to me. “I think we’re past pretending I don’t know who she is, Roman. And, yes, I’m worried about her. You should be, too.” His eyes narrow, studying me with a disquieting intensity. “Unless you’ve been playing her all this time for your own reasons.”

“I’d be very careful about what you say next,” I say grimly. “You might be family, but that doesn’t mean I won’t put you on your ass if you piss me off.”

“Right.” His eyes gleam with a rather dangerous light. I can’t help but admire the kid. It takes some balls to face me down. “Because you’re the only one who makes the decisions around here, huh? Even if it means using Lucia to get what you want.”

“Jesus, Mickey.” I’m not sure whether to be exasperated or impressed. “What exactly do you think I’m planning to do?”

“I think you’ve been planning to use her from the beginning.” He doesn’t back down at all. “And I think you’ve been lying to her. Just like you’ve been lying to us.”

“ Lying to you?” I frown, confused. “About what?”

“About who you are.”

My heart temporarily stops, then starts again, with an oddly irregular beat.

“Yeah.” Mickey looks at me narrowly. “That made you stop talking, didn’t it?”

I run through half a dozen scenarios in my mind, but the only one that makes sense is Sergei Petrovsky.

I’ll kill that bastard for talking to the kids.

It’s frightening how much I want to hurt that treacherous old prick. Lucky I saw Sergei before this particular discussion, or he’d be bleeding by now.

“Mickey.” I clench my fists in my effort to keep my voice even. There’s been way too many surprises today. And the side of the road is no place for this conversation. “Whatever you think you know, I doubt it’s the full story. Either way, I’m happy to sit down and answer any questions you have tomorrow. But right now, we’re already running late, and I’ve had a hell of a day. The last thing I want is to have a run-in with your mother—”

“Really.” His eyebrows arch skeptically. “You haven’t minded running into Inger in the past, though, have you? Is that the reason she and Papa split up?”

“ What? ” Now I’m genuinely confused. “Where the hell is all this coming from?”

He studies me closely for a moment, then his eyes cloud over, and he looks away. “Nothing,” he mutters. “Forget it.”

It clearly isn’t nothing. But again, there’s no goddamn time for this conversation. “Look,” I begin, trying to think how best to head this all off at the pass. “Whatever you think of me right now, Mickey, I would never do anything to hurt Lucia.”

Liar.

There’s a more than even chance I’m about to send her running for her life. But I don’t have time to explain to him why that’s a good thing.

“She’s part of this family,” I say quietly. “And I told you once before: we protect our family.”

Even if they betray us.

“Then you’re not planning to kill her?” Mickey asks the question so directly I’m almost lost for words.

I stare at him in absolute shock. “Of course I’m not going to kill her!”

What the fuck? I really need to start teaching him how we do and don’t operate in this family.

“And you’re not going to use her, in any way, that could hurt her?” He’s watching every minute shift of expression in my face.

“No!” My patience is running out. “Mickey, look. Tonight we have to attend this ridiculous ball as a family, including Lucia—Darya,” I correct myself, when he frowns. “We’re attending because doing so means that you kids won’t have to spend the entire summer being pushed from nanny to grandparent while Inger works. It’s the deal I made with her, a deal that means I can keep you here, safe with me. It’s one night, a few hours. Then it will be over, and you and I can go upstairs to my apartment, sit down, and talk this through properly. Will you at least trust me to do that?”

Not that I know what the fuck I’m going to say. This is a Mickey I don’t know, and given his clearly exceptional investigative skills, one I might need to treat with a little more respect than I have thus far.

“You need to know that right now I don’t actually trust you at all.” There’s nothing remotely childish about his hard return. Fourteen years old or not, the Mickey talking to me now is no boy. And the glare he’s giving me isn’t at all unlike those I delivered at his age. “I’ll give you tonight. But the minute this ball is over, you and I are talking. And if I don’t like the answers I get, Roman, I’m leaving. And I’m taking my sisters with me.”

“Jesus Christ, Mickey.” I shake my head. “Remind me of this conversation the next time we’re training in the ring. It will help me not go soft on you.”

I pull the car back onto the road. We drive the rest of the way back down the mountain in a tense, stiff silence.

Tonight is shaping up to be a real fucking treat.