Page 147 of Lethal Legacy

Only an uncomfortable feeling in my chest says that it isn’t.

I pause outside the half-open door.

“Abs,” Lucia says uncertainly from inside the room, “is that you?” The faint tremor in her voice breaks the last piece of my self-control.

She’s scared. She’s scared because of me.

“No, it isn’t Abby.” I push the door open. Lucia is backed up against the tiny kitchen sink, her eyes wide with fear. When she sees me, the kitchen knife in her hand clatters to the floor.

“Roman,” she whispers, slumping against the counter. “I thought—I was scared that you were someone else.”

“Well, I’m not.” I eye her across the room, anger and tension making my voice hard. “But I could have been. What the hell were you thinking, coming to this part of town? There isn’t even a decent security system on the door, for Chrissakes. I could have been anyone.”

“I didn’t think you’d...” She swallows, breaking off. Abby wasn’t wrong about the tears, I realize. Her eyes are puffy and swollen. And why haven’t I noticed how tired she looks? There are dark shadows under her eyes. She swipes impatiently at them, but not before I see the twin tracks leaking slowly down her face. She goes to move toward me, but she’s clearly drunk her own weight in wine, because she stumbles.

“You’ve drunk too much.” I grab her before she falls, steering her to one of the wooden kitchen seats. “I’m going to take you home. You need to sleep it off. We can talk in the morning.”

“No... point.” She shakes her head wearily, not bothering to brush the fresh tears from her face. “This was a mistake.”

An odd fear seizes my chest, overriding the anger. “It’s always a mistake to drink that much wine,” I say curtly. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

“No.” Her shoulders shake. “It’s not my home, Roman,” she whispers, looking at the floor. “And I don’t want the children to see me like this. They’re already scared.” She gulps, then takes a deep breath and meets my eyes. The shattered expression in hers breaks something deep inside me. “You’ve been very generous,” she says hoarsely. “But you don’t need me anymore. The kids trust you. And I know you’ll look after them. I think it’s better if you just... let me go.”

All the things I want to say, all the questions that have been racing around my brain, clash in my throat. I stare around at the tiny apartment, Lucia’s small cloth backpack in the corner. Somehow I know there’s money in there, a change of clothes. Maybe even another fake passport.

Lucia is getting ready to run.Because of me.

I pick her up in one movement, ignoring her gasp of protest. “I’m taking you home,” I say roughly. “We can talk there.”

45

LUCIA

Istare out the back seat window during the car ride back to the apartment. To my embarrassment, and probably because of the vast amount of wine I’ve consumed, the silent tears just won’t stop. Dimitry drives. Roman stares stone-faced ahead. He doesn’t say a word when the car pulls up in front of the building, just slams the door, opens mine, and propels me ahead of him into the building. Putting his arm around me to shield my face from the doorman, he herds me into the elevator. He hits the button for the penthouse floor without releasing me. I stand in the safe haven of his embrace, closing my eyes and inhaling his familiar scent, impressing it on my mind for the coming days, when I’ll have only the memory of it to comfort me.

I know we’ve hit the end of the road. I’ve seen it coming every day since we got back from the finca. I suppose I should be grateful he’s at least doing it in person.

“I’ll make coffee,” he says curtly when we get to the penthouse. “If you want a moment to freshen up.”

I half laugh, half cry. Roman isn’t a tears man, I already know that. And clearly he doesn’t want to deal with whatever emotional breakdown I’m having right now. I weave my way to the bathroom and turn the water on cold, trying to shock myself out of the weak, weeping mess I’ve become. I can’t seem to stop crying. I feel both ashamed and too tired to try to fight it.

At least he hasn’t got rid of my robe.Or not yet, at least.

I wonder why I even thought of it asmyrobe? A hundred women have probably used it before me.

That makes the slow tears start again. I mop them up, silently willing myself to get it together.

I wrap myself in the robe anyway. It was mine for a few weeks.That’s probably a record for Roman Stevanovsky.

I come into the main salon and pick up the steaming coffee on the dining table.

“You promised me you wouldn’t run.” Roman has his back to me, staring out the window.

I curl up in a small ball on the leather sofa, trying not to think of the times he’s thrown me down on it, tearing my clothes off in his haste to take me.

Those days are gone, sister.

I blow on the coffee, holding the hot cup between my hands, trying to stop the slow, rolling tears that just won’t fucking quit.

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