Page 33 of Scarlet Angel

“You mean, like photographs?”

“That and I bought the place furnished. Had a designer redo a couple of rooms. I have no plans to waste my time or money on carpets and drapes.”

His gaze falls to my lap.

“What about Lina? She doesn’t like to decorate?”

“She doesn’t plan to stay long.”

“She mentioned country life’s not for her.”

“If she wants me to continue paying her bills, it will be.” He exhales. “The crowd she gravitates to in London is…questionable.”

“So you’re like a parent to her?”

“No.”

I pointedly narrow my eyes at him, calling bullshit.

“She’s my younger sister. Twelve years younger. And…our parents...”

A log breaks in the fire, and the crackling fills the room. It’s peaceful in here. He leans forward and picks up a handheld remote device. With a touch of a button, the shades fall.

I’m about to prompt him, but he continues on with his explanation.

“Our parents died in a car bomb when I was fourteen.”

Oh. Wow.

“And she was two?”

He nods and knocks back his drink.

“I’m so sorry.” As I say it, I feel the sympathy, and it’s an unusual sensation. It’s one I would prefer not to experience. When Willow found herself in her predicament, it was like I was watching frames in a movie flick, but I did my best to remove my heart from her drama. I didn’t wish for her to live my experience, yet I was powerless to stop her father. And here I am, hurting for Nick and Lina, for a past I am powerless to change.

“Long time ago.”

“Who did it?” Bombs are no accident.

“Putin. My father displeased him.”

“Is that when you moved to England?”

“We’d already moved when it happened. I was born here. But I suppose there were expectations.”

“You were too young to know the details.” I’m not sure why, but I sense that from him, in his posture and choice of words.

“I was off at boarding school. Around that time, several of those within Putin’s circle were eliminated. My grandfather was still alive and ensured my inheritance remained with me.”

“Not Lina?”

He gives a wry smile. “She’s a girl.”

“My god, she must hate you.”

“If she gets her head on straight, I’ll fix it. But handing her a sum of money right now would be akin to giving her rope and a hook.” He gets up and pours himself another drink. He gestures to me, holding a bottle, and I decline with a shake of my head. “I’ve shared,” he says as he returns to his spot with a fresh drink. “Your turn.”

He’s correct. “There’s not much to tell.” I twirl the liquid in the glass. It’s not a bad thing to share what happened to me. I’m not embarrassed. There’s no shame in being a victim. These are all things my therapist told me. The therapist I sought because I couldn’t sleep. “What do you know about the Lupi Grigi? I mean, you obviously know their business, but what do you know of our culture?”

---