Page 125 of Lethal Torture

Liana will always be my family. But she no longer needs me.

Zinaida does.

And tonight, so does Ofelia.

Roman didn’t just ask me to come tonight to sit in the front row and cheer his daughter on. He asked me to come because he knows that, if it comes to it, I will put my body between his daughter and any threat she might face, without a second’s thought.

Because that is what family does.

The door to Ofelia’s dressing room closes behind her and Zinaida, and I stand outside it, hands folded.

I standin the wings with Ofelia until the stage manager frowns at me to leave.

“It’s fine, Uncle Luke,” she whispers, although I can almost hear her teeth chattering. “Go and take your seat. I’ll be fine now. There’s security everywhere.”

She’s right. Beyond the theater security, Luis, one of Roman’s drivers, is hovering discreetly in the background. We’ve exchanged a few words, but wisely, Luis knows better than to exert his authority over me when it comes to Roman’s children.

“You’re sure?” I smile gently at her.

“She’s fine, Luke.” Zinaida slips her arm through mine again and touches Ofelia reassuringly on the shoulder. “You’ve got this, Ofelia. I know you do.”

“Thank you.” Ofelia squeezes her hand gratefully, looking between us. “Thank you both so much for being here tonight.”

We turn away to find our seats, but not before I notice the way her eyes still scour the hall, sweeping back and forth over the empty chairs in the front row with “Reserved” signs on them.

“Mickey hasn’t answered my texts,” I tell Zin as we make our way to our seats, checking my phone for the umpteenth time.

Her smile is slightly oblique. “I’m not sure it’s Mickey she’s waiting on.”

Before I have a chance to ask her what she means, a man shuffles into the row next to us and takes the chair beside my own.

“Excuse me,” he says. His cultivated accent is oddly familiar.

I glance at him, then do a double take. “Ambassador Stewart?”

He turns, slightly startled, then his mouth spreads into a genuine smile. “Macarthur!” He puts his hand out, gripping mine warmly. “Good lord, man. Didn’t take you for the piano recital type.”

That is hardly surprising, given that last time we met I was in full tactical gear, sitting atop Ambassador Rhys Stewart’s armored car with a machine gun, firing at the high-level Taliban leaders to whom we’d just paid a sickening sum of money.

“I take it you’ve left the foreign office, then?” I ask, my question covered by the clatter of those around us taking their seats.

“Oh, one never really leaves, exactly.” Rhys gives me a wry smile. “But I have left that particular post, yes.” He eyes me curiously. “I’m glad to see you again, Luke. I wasn’t entirely sure you’d make it home the last time I saw you.”

I smile, ignoring his question. Some topics are best not explored. “Are you here for the music or because of a personal interest?” I change the subject as the lights dim and the final bell rings to warn people to take their seats.

“Personal.” Rhys accepts the change of subject with the diplomacy that is his profession. “My son is playing.” He points to the first name on the program. “Top of the bill, actually.”

“Ah.” I nod, smiling. “You must be very proud.”

“And you?” He gives me a quizzical look.

“Third and final of the night.” I point to Ofelia’s name.

Rhys’s smile slowly fades. “Ofelia Borovsky,” he says slowly. It isn’t a question. His gaze slides past me, landing on Zinaida, and his eyes narrow. “You’re here with Zinaida Melikov?”

I nod curtly.

Rhys shakes his head. “Tell me you’re not running security for that woman. Or for Ofelia Borovsky’s family.”