Page 189 of Lethal Legacy

“Well, Mickey’s going to have to pass the baton to the B team.” I glance at the time on my phone. “Cinderella has to get ready for the ball, I’m afraid.”

He squints at me. “Seriously? This is important, Roman. Er—boss.”

That almost makes me smile. “Fine. I’ve got somewhere to be. I’ll come back for him in a couple of hours. But no later.” I glare at Pavel, who nods frantically. “When I come back, he needs to be ready to go, done or not.”

“Copy that.”

Mickey doesn’t bother turning his head when I call a goodbye. Luis drove him up here this morning. I know I need to talk to the kid, explain everything about Darya’s background, before things go much further.

Another part of me knows that the conversation we need to have isn’t likely to end well. Besides, there’s a visit I need to make, for which I’d rather not have an audience anyway.

I drive the Maybach down the mountain. It’s midafternoon when I pull up in front of the villa. I have a quick word with the security team, which I’ve doubled, then send Anna home for the rest of the day. Bryce informed me of Abby’s visit to Lucia this morning, and I’ve been monitoring the villa footage all day. I watched Abby collect the package behind the tile barely half an hour ago.

Despite the decisions I came to last night, I’m not happy.

I’m not fucking happy at all.

I walk slowly up the stairs, the terrace gradually coming into view.

Sergei Petrovsky’s wheelchair is by the wall, neatly folded up. He’s sitting in a wicker chair in front of a low table with a chess board on it. He has his back to me, long legs stretched out before him. I know his mobility has been increasing.

Going by Abby’s little expedition today, I can guess why he’s been working at it so fucking hard.

I stand for a moment just staring at his straight, tall back. He blows a stream of smoke in front of him, then turns to the side, his long fingers crushing out the cigarette in a decisive gesture that gives me a cold jolt of recognition.

Suddenly I’m back on the landing, watching the tall visitor talk to my parents in the kitchen.

The long-buried memory blends with current reality like a projector overlay. Any doubt that the man now sitting in my villa is one and the same as the man who once sat in my father’s kitchen is gone.

I watch him light another cigarette, cupping the flame with his hands, and wonder how I didn’t immediately recognize who he was the first time I saw him.

Sergei Petrovsky, the man who failed both of my parents, is sitting only a few paces from where I stand, nonchalantly smoking as if he has nothing better in the world to do.

“If it is a bullet you wish to give me, you have hesitated too long, my friend.” He speaks in Russian. Without looking around, he gestures to the wicker chair on the other side of the chess board. “Please, Roman. Sit.”

He might as well be thepakhanwelcoming one of hisvorwho’s come to pay tribute. I can’t help but respect his air of calm.

My gait feels strangely stilted as I cross the terrace. I place a bottle of vodka on the table between us, with two small glasses.

“Ah.” Sergei smiles, though his eyes have narrowed. “Graf vodka. Where did you find it? Lucia tells me it isn’t sold here in Spain. Then again, she could be lying. She also tells me cigarettes are illegal, and yet.” He waves the hand holding a cigarette. “As you see, she lies.”

“Yes, she does.” I pour us both a glass and push one toward him. “But then, so do you, Sergei, do you not?” I raise my glass. “Za znakomstvo,Mr. Petrovsky.”

I use the toast for a new acquaintance.

“Za znakomstvo —Roman Aleksandervitch.” His pale blue eyes watch me shrewdly as he tosses off the glass.

I refill them both. “How long have you known?”

“For certain? Not until now.”

“But you suspected.”

“Yes, Roman. I suspected.” He leans back in his chair, hands folded loosely before him. “So. Ask your questions.”

“Ha.” It’s a mirthless sound. I sit back and fold one leg over the other. “Today is not the day for questions.”

“And yet you have not put a bullet in my head.” One thumb rubs over the other hand, his eyes fixed on my face. “We do not know what tomorrow holds, Roman. Perhaps you should ask your questions now.”

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