Page 171 of Lethal Legacy

The old eyes narrow, scrutinizing me closely. “Is there something you need to tell me, Darya?”

I’ve never told him that Roman knows our real identities. I told myself it was because I didn’t want to worry him.

But the truth is, I didn’t want him to make me run again.

Today, though, perhaps because I feel surrounded by secrets, I don’t want to keep them myself.

“Roman knows who we are, Papa. I didn’t tell him,” I add hastily. “He... found out.”

He doesn’t seem surprised. In fact, he smiles wryly. “When?”

I grimace. “Two months ago.”

He nods. “This is why he avoids me, then.”

“I didn’t realize you...” Papa arches a subtle brow, cutting me off. “I don’t know why he’s avoiding you.” I glance at him. “Do you?”

“Hm.” His smile lessens, but doesn’t fade completely. “I have some ideas.” He pats my hand. “But you don’t worry for this,docha.This is between your Roman and me.”

53

LUCIA

It’s past seven when I call Bryce to go home.

The apartment is dark and deserted, the children’s discarded belongings exactly where they were when I left. I move around, picking things up and tidying them away, keeping mindlessly busy.

Take the test, Darya.

It’s the first time in a while I’ve heard that steely voice inside me. But I guess it’s Darya’s strength I need right now, not Lucia’s fudgy complacence.

“Time to face the gallows, girl,” I say aloud. Just hearing my own voice helps, in some weird way. It almost makes me laugh, in a slightly hysterical kind of way.

I go across the corridor to my own apartment, smiling at Bryce. “If the kids come home,” I say, “tell them I’ll be in shortly.” I lock the door behind me, get the test, and go to the bathroom.

It’s the longest damned five minutes of my life.

Or it might have been, if the little pink plus sign didn’t flash neon bright within about thirty fucking seconds.

“Holy shit.” I stare at the white stick, completely unable to stand up. There’s a dull roar in my ears, and the room swirls queerly about me.

None of it feels real.

Sitting on the closed toilet lid in this gleaming white bathroom.

The Borovsky safe in the room upstairs.

The passports stashed in Papa’s villa.

Lance Ryder grabbing my arm.

Roman’s face swirls just beyond my mental reach. I can’t even conjure the sound of his voice.

How did I get here?

And I don’t mean, physically, how did pregnancy occur. The only real miracle, given the manic rush of the past few months, is that it took so long to happen.

It’s more that the road between the days when I served Roman his morning coffee to this moment of being served a pink plus sign on a white fucking stick seems incredibly short. As if I missed some important signpost on the way. One that says something like,Hey, Darya? You’re about to completely blow your fucking life up.

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