Page 137 of Lethal Legacy

“According to this article, Darya and Sergei disappeared from Miami about six years ago.” Pavel clicks to the next page. “The Petrovsky bratva virtually ran Miami until Sergei’s first stroke, a decade ago. He lay in a coma for months. Nobody thought he’d survive, which is probably why there was a coup, led by this guy. Vilnus Orlov.”

He enlarges one of the pictures. My gut churns as Vilnus fucking Orlov’s brutish, narrow-eyed face stares back at me.

“Problem was,” Pavel goes on, “Old Man Petrovsky didn’t die from his stroke. Orlov had killed all of the Petrovsky brigadiers and was in control of the Coconut Grove compound. There was no reason to spare the old man, yet instead of killing him, Orlov brought him home to the compound. The reason why Orlov didn’t just knock off his rival is a mystery that fascinated Lawrence.” He clicks back to the photo of Lawrence Carter Rydell. “He had a whole stack of wild theories about the Petrovskys, who, incidentally, he blames for killing his father. This article claims that for four years after Sergei’s stroke, the Petrovskys and Orlovs all lived together in the Petrovsky compound in Coconut Grove. Just one big unhappy family. Except for Lucia’s—I mean Darya’s—mother, that is. Her body turned up on a Miami beach about two years into the party. She’d clearly been enduring torture for a long time. She was covered in scars and had been repeatedly sexually assaulted.”

I want to punch something. I want to hit something so badly I have to clench my hands into fists to stop myself putting them through the nearest wall.

All I can see are the scars beneath the Orlov tattoo on Lucia’s back. The thought of Vilnus Orlov putting his hands on her, of taking a knife to her beautiful body, makes me so fucking dangerous that I almost don’t trust myself to speak.

“Go on,” I say through gritted teeth, glad Pavel can’t see my face.

“Lawrence clearly attracted a bit too much attention with this article. He was shut out of Russian circles, probably had his life threatened. He disappeared from the Miami scene and reemerged a year or so later in London, under the name Lance Ryder. Had a whole new ID made, changed the way he looked. He didn’t lose interest in the story, but he did get smarter. He made his latter pieces more puff and gossip, clickbait shit nobody takes that seriously. Like this one a couple of years ago, when he photographed Alexei Petrovsky attending a Russian Society ball in Miami. Alexei is Lucia’s—Darya’s—brother.”

I study the picture. Alexei resembles his father. Blond, tall and rangy, with Sergei’s hawkish features and deep-set blue eyes, although one is covered by an eye patch.

Courtesy of the fucking Orlovs, no doubt.

“Ryder makes a big deal out of the fact that despite being a prisoner of the Orlovs, Alexei Petrovsky still apparently runs his father’s empire, albeit on a tight Orlov rein. And this is where Ryder’s old academic papers meet the modern tabloid world.” He clicks again, and then, with a dramatic flourish, indicates a tabloid headline on the screen. “Behold,” he says theatrically. “Ryder’s theory about the Petrovsky family.”

Is the Naryshkin Treasure Buried Right Here in Miami?

The secret reason the Petrovsky crime family have survived the bloodiest coup in bratva history.

Iscan the tawdry article beneath a grainy photograph of Alexei, trying to keep a neutral expression with no small effort.

“So,” I say curtly when I’m sure my voice is steady. “Ryder believes Sergei Petrovsky is, in fact, Sergei Naryshkin. The son of a prince, raised in a Russian gulag. He theorizes that Prince Naryshkin had a fortune in pre-revolutionary treasure, hidden in a vault beneath the Naryshkin family estate in Russia that the communists couldn’t manage to break into. Ryder theorizes the old prince taught Sergei how to open the family vault. When Sergei left the gulag, he broke into the Naryshkin estate and escaped with the fortune locked away there, including some missing imperial Fabergé eggs.”

I don’t allow myself to think about the Swiss lockbox.

I know, without any doubt, where one of those missing imperial eggs is.

And the name Sergei, while not unusual, is too much of a coincidence to sit easily with me.

“Ryder thinks the eggs are the reason the Petrovsky clan rose so rapidly in the Miami crime world,” I go on, working hard to keep my voice steady. “According to this article, he thinks the Orlovs launched a coup on the Petrovskys to gain control of the rumored treasure, but for some reason couldn’t find it. So they kept first Sergei, and now Alexei, alive because they have either information or the means to access what the Orlovs want. That’s also why they tortured Sergei’s wife, trying to make him talk.”

“More importantly,” says Pavel, glancing at me, “Ryder thinks that’s why Sergei and his daughter ran from Miami. His theory is that Sergei left Alexei in charge and saved his daughter from suffering the same fate as her mother. But when they disappeared, they took either the fortune itself or the means to access it. Ryder’s theory is that Alexei is the Orlovs’ ace in the hole to trade for it when they eventually catch up with Sergei and his daughter.”

I stand back from the screen and eyeball Pavel. “And you believe this shit?”

He shrugs. “Ryder does. He’s a rich kid who found himself bankrupt. Went from having membership at every club that matters to being refused entry to any of them. He’s been reduced to grubbing a living from snapping pics of Z-list celebrities he despises. He wants to believe in buried treasure, and my bet is that he’s trying to get a piece of it. From where Ryder sits, I think he believes he’s actually entitled to it. He’s definitely obsessed with the story.” He meets my eyes somberly. “And he knows Lucia is Darya, boss. That much I think we need to be sure of.”

I drum my fingers on the back of his chair, my head spinning.

“Oh. I almost forgot. There’s one other thing,” Pavel says. “It’s about the trojan virus.” He throws me a manila file. “You can get Mickey to explain the details if you want, but basically, the upload didn’t come from Pillars. That is, the user hijacked their high-speed connection, but the actual upload came from a mobile location close by. Most likely a yacht at the marina.”

“Ryder?”

“Our best guess is yes,” he says, “but we don’t know for certain. Going by his obsession with Russian bratva, though, I think it’s a pretty good guess.”

“That’s a problem.”

Pavel looks uncomfortable. This is the part of my business he stays out of. It’s a conversation for me and Dimitry, rather than the tech heads. “This is good work, Pavel.” I stand up, clapping him on the shoulder, and he looks relieved. “And you know what the best part is?”

He looks at me uneasily. My lips twitch. I’m never really going to tire of fucking with the tech heads. “Now,” I say genially, “you can get the fuck on with the Mercura launch, instead of playing detective.”

The relief on his face is almost comical. “Thank God,” he says fervently. Then, clearly realizing how he sounded, he looks at me nervously. “I mean—that is, I didn’t mean—”

“I should fucking hope not,” I say sternly, suppressing my laughter with no small effort. I wish Dimitry was here. These moments are just wasted when I’m alone. “Go on, then,” I add, nodding at the door. “Fuck off.”

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