Page 44 of Lethal Legacy

Seven hours to go.

14

LUCIA

“He rented an entireapartment?” Abby stares at me over the belongings strewn across the motel bed. “And medical staff for Juan?”

I nod, color creeping up my neck. I had to tell someone, even if I can’t disclose the entire truth. “Wow.” She lifts a skeptical eyebrow. “CEO Man mustreallyneed an au pair.”

“I got the impression he’s run out of agencies, and it’s short notice.” I bury myself in the task of packing to avoid her scrutiny.

“Hm.” Abby looks entirely unconvinced. “And the kids? Have you even met them yet?”

“Not until tomorrow. But he sent me a file half a mile long to study before they arrive.” In fact, I spent most of last night reading over it, trying to pick up everything I can. I’m desperately relieved I also have today to read more. The medical team came for Papa when I got back from that hellish meeting in Roman’s office. I lied to Papa, of course, though keeping the story as close to the truth as possible. I told him I gained a job with a wealthy English family who need a multilingual live-in au pair on short notice. Papa became very agitated when he realized my new employers know of the connection between him and me, but I smoothed it over by reassuring him they don’t know he is my father. I said they had an empty villa previously used for their own elderly relatives, and that it was no trouble for me to rent it. I also said I hired the medical staff.

I didn’t make any mention of my new employer being a single man.

Or Russian.

I definitely didn’t mention him being bratva.

In short, I lied like hell.

Even so, I think the only reason Papa eventually agreed was because he saw someone lurking around the motel today when I was in Roman’s office. Going by the description he gave, I’m fairly certain the person he saw was Dimitry, which is all the proof I need, after our encounter this morning, that Roman is intent on digging up my past.

I know that calling him out as being bratva was probably the most foolish, reckless thing I could ever have done.

But if he plans on looking into my past, and clearly he does, it’s also a calculated risk. My identity won’t withstand a Hale security check. Roman might not be able to work out who I am, but if he’s determined to look, then sooner or later, he’ll find enough to make him concerned about what danger I might pose, either to the children or his business. Given his incredible generosity, or perhaps despite it, the thought of him suspecting me of being some kind of spy or danger to his family makes me deeply unhappy. I might have spent only one night reading that file, but I already feel a strange bond with the story I read in between the cold lines of fact.

“Earth to Lucia.” Abby clicks her fingers as she folds Papa’s clothes. She took the morning off to help me, even before I insisted on paying her double what she’d normally earn at the café. Although, to my private amusement, I suspect her eagerness might also have something to do with Dimitry being my driver for today. “The children,” she prompts me. “Tell me what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“Right.” After studying their files all night, I can see their faces in my mind as if they were standing in front of me. “So Ofelia is the eldest. She’s a few months away from her sixteenth birthday. Apparently her mother is a model, and it shows, because this girl is stunning. And I do meanstunning.”

No wonder Roman is stressed out about keeping an eye on his eldest goddaughter. Ofelia is a vivid example of classic Russian beauty, with a sheet of white-blonde hair, arctic blue eyes, high cheekbones, and perfectly shaped legs that go on forever. Physically, she looks like she stepped straight off the catwalk. Emotionally, however, one look into those wary, shuttered eyes was enough to convince me she’s a trainwreck. “She lost her father when she was thirteen,” I tell Abby. “And her parents had been engaged in a vicious divorce long before that. From what I can gather, her mother spends more time on magazine covers than tucking her children under bedcovers. And given that Ofelia has just been expelled from her third school in as many years, I’d say that Roman’s parenting skills leave a little to be desired.”

“Roman, huh?” Abby shoots me a sly gaze. “Dropping the formalities already?”

I flame red. “Mikhail,” I go on, mustering as much dignity as I can, “is called Mickey for short. He’s just turned fourteen.”

If his sister looks more guarded than the Kremlin, Mickey looks awkward and withdrawn, hiding behind a pair of thick glasses and floppy dark hair that conceals much of his face. Neither of the elder two Stevanovsky children are smiling in their respective photographs. “He’s academically off the charts, apparently, particularly math and science. He wrote an actual software program for a school project.”

Abby snorts. “Can’t imagine CEO Man relating to a computer nerd.”

“Hm,” I say noncommittally, though inwardly I wince, since I had exactly the same thought.

“Masha is the youngest. She turned five a few months ago.” I can’t help but smile. I imagine it would be hard for anyone not to, looking at Masha’s picture. She has a riot of dark curls, the same bright blue eyes as her siblings, and a gap-toothed smile that could light up a room. In the photographs of all three children together, the elder two stand on either side of their little sister, both turned inward as if to shield her from any perceived threat. Masha is the only one smiling in any of these shots, always clutching the hands of her brother and sister as if they were a lifeline. “Masha was born during the marriage breakup, from what I can make out.” There’s not a lot more to know. While Ofelia’s file is pages long, with one tirade after another from a series of teachers and head mistresses, Masha’s is more or less a blank slate, with nothing more than a few childish drawings as examples of her interests. In all of them, there are no adults shown, just her two siblings, standing on either side of her as they do in the photos.

“Well, you’re going to have your hands full.” Abby gives me another sly smile. “With more than just the children, I’m guessing?”

I give her another noncommittal “hmm” and bury myself in packing our meager possessions. Close friend or not, and even if Roman hadn’t made his orders more than explicit, there isn’t a chance of me admitting to Abby, or anyone for that matter, the exact nature of my new employment status.

Dimitry drives us both to Papa’s new apartment, but thankfully, doesn’t enter. Abby and he bicker for the entire duration of the journey, which makes me smile. Bratva or not, I’d rather see her flirting with Dimitry than the idiot footballer Miguel, who seems to give her little more than red eyes and a defeated look.

Abby helps me upstairs with the bags, but doesn’t come in. It’s one of the unspoken boundaries I’ve always been grateful that she doesn’t overstep. Generally, I keep Papa well hidden. I’m not at all at ease with the heavy-handed way Roman has simply rehomed him without even consulting me. Even if I can’t deny the sheer relief I feel at knowing Papa will finally get the help he needs, the thought of him coming face-to-face with Roman or Dimitry terrifies me. There’s no chance they wouldn’t all instantly know each other for what they are. I can only hope that the medical staff aren’t quite so astute.

The villa itself is luxurious beyond even my wildest imaginings. An elevator whisks me straight up from the basement garage to the middle level, where I wander through the sunlit rooms, all tiled for easy wheelchair maneuvering. There’s a gleaming modern kitchen on the same level as Papa’s bedroom, with the fridge set up for disabled access and low benches that will offer him some independence in getting his own food, if he wants to. An entire room is equipped as a rehabilitation studio, another set up as a hospital room. His actual bedroom is a wide, pleasant studio with an enormous bed, comfortable furniture, and a window that looks over the garden below. From the central salon, doors open out onto a large central terrace overlooking the sea. Grape vines and wisteria twist overhead, and a chess board is set up on one table. Tears prick my eyes as I take in the peaceful vista and gentle scent of growing plants all around. I can’t imagine anywhere more suited to Papa’s personality than the villa’s rustic yet modern elegance. It’s simple, calm, and luxurious.

The staff are just as reassuring. They all speak both Spanish and fluent English, which means Papa will be fine, as he speaks both. The majority are male, except for the housekeeper, Anna, who is similar in her welcoming manner to Mariam.

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