Page 79 of Lethal Legacy

I especially didn’t like him talking about marriage.

Or babies.

It’s uncomfortably fucking close to my own recent thoughts, and that is not a road I want to go down any more than my overactive imagination already takes me there.

Which reminds me of my resolution to spend more time at home. A glance at my phone says I can still make it in time for lunch, if I hurry.

To my own surprise, I’m actually looking forward to it. My shower will have to wait.

That thought leads immediately to more treacherous ones, of Lucia naked in my shower, her legs wrapped around me while I fuck her senseless. No amount of time under Dimitry’s fists is going to drive away the memory of her luscious lips wrapped around my dick last night, the sweet heat of her whispered words in my ear.

For fuck’s sake.

I need to get my feelings for that littlevedmaunder control, before I find myself in serious trouble.

22

LUCIA

Iwalk through streets bustling with people returning to their homes for lunch, turning Abby’s words over in my head:“Maybe this isn’t about Roman, and who he will and won’t let in. Maybe it’s aboutyoubeing scared to let anyone in...”

It’s hard for me to separate my emotional defenses from the secrets I keep. They’re entwined, my inability to disclose the truth about my past preventing me from developing intimate relationships. The first, by definition, rules out the second. I’d thought I could maintain that distance in the context of the arrangement in Roman’s contract.

But that was before I met the children.

I’m potentially endangering them every day by not telling Roman the truth about my past. The journalist outside the café was just another reminder of how close I always am to possible exposure, to forces coming after me who won’t stop at anything—including torturing children—to get what they want.

I touch my shoulder, feeling the old scars beneath the tattooed cage.

I know what the Orlovs are capable of.

The right thing to do is tell Roman the truth about my past and take the consequences. The problem is that, unlike Abby, I don’t believe that telling him the truth will result in some kind of utopian happy family. Despite her assurances, I can’t see any evidence to support her theory that he cares for me. Roman might fuck me like a dying man having his last drink, but he hasn’t said one word that indicates he feels anything more than lust.

Besides, telling him the truth will almost certainly mean the end of my role with the children. If emotional intimacy isn’t on the table—and he’s made it blisteringly clear, in black-and-white print, that it isn’t—then I face a choice: betray my family or continue to place the children in danger.

Opening up to Roman will expose Papa and me to grave danger, not to mention Alexei. And given that I now know Roman has ties to Miami, it’s more than possible he will trade us to the Orlovs.

Continuing to lie, however, means putting the children in direct danger.

Which means that it’s no choice at all.

Even a short time living within Roman’s protective bubble has been a blissful respite from the exhaustion of constant vigilance. From a life where I’ve never been able to confess either my fears or my dreams to anyone. From looking over my shoulder every minute of every day. The comfort of a security guard outside my door, which is locked by a code only I know, is a relief nobody can understand unless they’ve slept with one eye open for years on end.

But that doesn’t justify endangering three innocent children who have already seen more than enough. Watching Roman with the children yesterday brought home how selfish I’ve been, thinking I could have all this without anyone paying the price.

Roman’s connection to Miami raises another possibility, of course. One I have to consider, even if it makes my gut churn.

Is it possible he’s known who I am all along?

Logically, I know it is certainly possible.

But unlikely.

If Roman wanted to use or trade me, he’d have done it already. He certainly wouldn’t have left me in charge of his godchildren.

No, I truly don’t think he has any idea who I am.

But it’s impossible that he could have grown up on the Miami streets andnotheard of the Petrovskys. Or the Orlovs. Which means that if he does find out who I am, he’ll know exactly what’s at stake.

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