Page 118 of Lethal Legacy

“Mickey,” Roman says, turning to his godson. “Tell me about the sound you’ve set up for the parade tomorrow. What program did you use?”

I’ve been too worried to really look at Papa since the moment Mickey called Roman. I’ve been caught in a nervous storm, unsure both of how Roman would handle the situation and, perhaps more pertinently, how Papa would react to meeting Roman. As relieved as I was to emerge onto the terrace and find them amicably playing chess together, the lack of guns blazing is still a far cry from domestic bliss. I’m not sure what my proud father is going to make of being called grandfather by children he’s only just met.

But when finally I dare to glance at him, I find no trace of the grim, hawkish man calculating the odds, nor of the hard expression that precedes an argument. Even the polite mask he reserves for carers seems to have been dropped. Instead of being upset by Masha’s use of the wordDeda, Papa’s face is strangely soft.

“Will you help me look for Potato?” Masha asks him, spearing a piece of chicken.

Papa’s mouth twitches at the corners. “After—chess—Deda needs—siesta.” Masha knocks over her cup, and he catches it just in time, setting it gently back upright. “Masha—siesta—too,” he says, smiling at her.

Masha pouts. “Chess is boring.”

“Nyet.” Papa shakes his head. “Lucia learned—when she was—your age.” His eyes flicker to me. Suddenly I am back in our Miami home, sitting in a courtyard not unlike this terrace, my brother and father laughing as they try to teach me the names of the pieces.

Alexei.My heart clenches as I remember my conversation just before Roman arrived. Alexei has been in touch. Has tried to warn us. Anxiety races through my system again, the permanent reminder that no matter how calm this setting might be, danger lurks just beyond the terrace.

“Prawn,” my father says softly. I look up to find him watching me, his eyes shadowed with memory.

“Prawn?” Ofelia looks at me curiously.

I swallow hard to clear the lump in my throat. “I couldn’t remember what the little chess pieces were called,” I explain. “So my brother called them prawns, because there’s so many of them in the sea.”

Mickey’s head lifts in interest. “You have a brother?”

Oh, crap.“Yes,” I mutter, glancing surreptitiously at Papa. His lips press together, emotion flickering behind his own eyes. He glances at Roman. Something passes between them, the kind of silent understanding I recall seeing between Papa and his men, years ago.

“Ofelia,” Roman says, breaking what was about to become an awkward pause. “After lunch, perhaps you could play piano for us? Masha can show us her dance before I take you home for siesta.”

Ofelia flushes with pleasure. Papa asks her how long she’s been playing, and the awkward moment passes as conversation resumes.

Lunch passes pleasantly. Afterward, Papa and Roman resume their game, and Ofelia sits down at the piano inside, beginning to play as Mickey and I clear the table, waving Anna away. “I can take care of the dishes,” I say, smiling at her. “We’ve kept you late enough as it is. Why don’t you go home, join your own family for lunch?”

Mickey and I wash up to the sounds of hilarity upstairs, as Masha demonstrates her cactus dance moves, encouraged by Ofelia. I hear the low rumble of my father’s laughter. I can’t remember the last time I heard him laugh. It’s a bittersweet joy, one full of memories, of the life we once led and of a happiness I thought forever lost.

It seems incredible that I should hear that sound again. I feel almost overwhelmed by the surreal nature of the gathering, like I’m living a day in someone else’s life. It’s hard to trust the feeling of happiness, especially when I remember who we are running from and the fact that we are still living under assumed names. My two lives are merging, and yet still there remains so much that is unsaid, so many secrets that must be kept.

And I still haven’t spoken to Papa.

Roman comes into the kitchen as Mickey and I are finishing up. “Can you go and catch Masha for me?” He smiles at Mickey, who returns it. I don’t know what, exactly, Roman said to the children earlier, but whatever it was seems to have completely reset the dynamic, for which I can only feel grateful. He waits until Mickey has left before turning back to me.

“We’ll leave, give you and your father some time to talk,” he says quietly. “Come back when you’re ready. There’s no rush. Take all the time you need.”

“Roman.” I fold the tea towel slowly. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. The carer called me—”

“It’s fine.” There’s an odd gleam in his eye, a slight tension in his body that I don’t quite know how to read. “I’m glad I’ve met your father. I think it’s better, like this. And I was long past due to have an honest conversation with the children.”

“Did you?” I frown, trying to imagine what anhonest conversationmight have looked like.

His mouth quirks. “Honest enough. I skipped over Ofelia’s question about whether or not you were my girlfriend.”

“Oh,” I manage. It’s more of a gasp than a word. Color floods my face.

“I left that part out of my discussion with your father, too.”

“Uh.” That one doesn’t sound much better.

He’s leaning against the sink, his arms folded, watching me with a faint smile, as if he knows exactly how unsettling I’m finding this entire conversation.

Not to mention how unsettling I find his nearness.There’s something intensely intimate about being together in such a domestic space, the children’s laughter echoing off the tiles and the scent of cooking all around. Seeing Roman in a kitchen, shirt sleeves rolled up and tie loose, feels dangerously good, like the promise of forbidden fruit.

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