Page 145 of Lethal Legacy

“My point is that you never stopped being lonely. Not when Yuri adopted you. Not when you built Hale. Not even when you made enough money to buy all the women you could want. No matter what you’ve achieved, part of you has always lived in the shadows. Right up until the day you moved Lucia into your home. And fuck you,” he says, holding up his hand to ward off my protests. “I’ll say her name if I want to. She’s a beautiful girl, Roman, and she fucking adores you. Whatever your problem is with her, you need to sort it out—or you’ll be living in those shadows forever. And that’s not tough, Roman. It’s just fucking sad.”

We stare at each other over the punching bag for a full minute. Then I pull my gloves off and throw them at my bag.

“Fuck this,” I growl. “Let’s go and get drunk.”

44

ROMAN

It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a bar.

Dimitry and I picked one far away from the beach bars and tourist haunts, the international hotels and the trendy nightclubs. This is a backstreet taverna, where old men eat peanuts and throw the discarded shells on the floor in the bar while their wives gossip in the dining room, juggling babies and small children. Music blares from a television in one corner while a bullfight shows on the other. In the dining room, some game show plays on a third. The various televisions compete with the raucous conversations. Amid it all, the barman serves endless drinks while his wife serves up superb plates of tapas to accompany them. Dimitry and I lean against the bar with our beers, though he doesn’t quite match my intake.

“I thought we were getting drunk,” I say when I down my fifth, along with a vodka shot, and he’s still on his first.

“Abby’s out tonight.” He turns his bottle on the bar. “I just want to make sure I’m sober in case I get a late-night pick-me-up call.”

I give him a sideways look. “That’s all getting a bit serious, isn’t it?”

Dimitry shrugs. “Maybe.”

I don’t ask any more questions. Frankly, I’ve had more than enough emotional discussion for one day. I focus on the drinks and the bullfight. It’s been outlawed in the north of Spain, and plenty of people protest it wildly. But in Andalucia, bullfighting is a religion. And unpopular as my opinion might be in some circles, I fucking love it. Nobody who hasn’t sat in that sawdust-filled arena and watched the terrifying dance between bull and toreador can ever really understand the drama and passion. But in this traditional southern bar, every man, woman, and child gasps and shrieks at each pass, applauding both man and beast with equal fervor.

“Khuy.”Dimitry frowns at his phone.

“Pick-me-up time?” I ask sarcastically, trying to suppress a faint twinge of something horribly like jealousy.

Why the fuck am I jealous?

It isn’t like I want Lucia—fucking Darya—texting me late at night. I just shut her down this afternoon, for Chrissakes.

So why does it piss me off so much that it doesn’t seem to bother her at all?

Apart from necessary communication relating to the children, Lucia hasn’t crossed the line with me at all. No sudden lingerie-clad appearances in my elevator. No demands as to why I haven’t been calling her to my apartment. Nothing at all, in fact, other than some concerned sideways looks, but even those she’s kept largely to herself, no doubt to save worrying the kids.

Which only makes it fucking worse.

And I’m sick and tired of trying to work out what to call her in my head. Darya, Lucia—I don’t actually care what her name is, but I really fucking hate that when I was deep inside her I was calling her by a name that she knew wasn’t truly hers. It’s as if I was sleeping with a lie this whole time. Making love to a body, but not a soul.

And the fact that you’re referring to it as making love should be enough to make you end this thing right now.

Not to mention souls. It’s fucking Dimitry’s fault, talking about all that bullshit before we came out.

“Hey.” He shoots me an uncomfortable look. “I’ve got somewhere I’ve got to be.”

“Well, I’m not hanging around to drink on my own. You can drop me off on the way.”

“Actually, I’m going in the opposite direction. I’ve got to, errr... drop something off at Abby’s place.”

“You’re doing her shopping now?” He’s pissed me off enough tonight that I’m taking a rather evil satisfaction in making him squirm.

“She has a girlfriend around, and they’ve run out of booze.” Dimitry meets my eyes rather challengingly. “With everything that’s happening with that journalist, et cetera, I told her I didn’t want her heading out at night on her own, so she called me to ask if I’d mind coming over with a couple of bottles.”

I’d give him shit about it, except that it’s exactly what I’d do in his shoes, and he knows it. “Yeah,” I mutter, spinning the glass in annoyance. “Fair enough.” I glance at him. “You stopping there?”

“No. They’re still drinking, apparently. Want to come?” Dimitry finishes his beer and pulls out his keys. “We’ll drop the car off afterward, keep going.”

“Sure.” I down the last of the bottle. The drinks have barely taken the edge off. “Why not.”

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