Page 116 of Lethal Legacy

Mickey takes her other hand. “Me, too,” he says quietly.

Lucia’s eyes mist over. She glances at me over their heads.

Thank you,she mouths.

I smile.You’re welcome.

They move toward the doors. Lucia looks back briefly at the long, lean figure in the wheelchair, but she doesn’t linger. She knows as well as I do that this meeting is best done without an audience.

I wait until the glass doors click closed before speaking.

The old man is watching me. Despite his age and obvious infirmity, there’s no doubting he was once a formidable figure. His shoulders are still rangy and tough, his spine ramrod straight. He’s well over six feet, with hawkish features, fierce blue eyes, and the alert attention of one well used to danger.

I walk across to him and offer my hand. “Dobro pozhalovat’ v moy dom.”Welcome to my home.

He takes my hand, nodding sharply. His grip is strong. I smile internally. Nothing in the man’s manner indicates that he is anything other than my senior. I might as well be one of hisvor,come to pay tribute, rather than the man who effectively holds his life in my hands. In Russian tradition, it’s never proper to shake hands over a threshold. Increasingly, the old traditions matter less, but today I find myself rather relieved that this first meeting with Lucia’s father is taking place outside. I feel oddly aware of the formalities, as if I were sitting at my father’s table once again, being instructed on the correct manner of address.

The man gestures to a chair on the other side of the garden table, on which a chess set is laid out. I take the seat. A moment later, the terrace doors open and Ofelia emerges with a silver tray, atop which is a Russian samovar, two filigree glasses, and a small plate of halva. “Lucia asked me to bring tea,” she says, looking between us curiously.

The old man smiles at her. “Eta ochen’ mila s Vashey starany.”That’s very kind of you.

She returns the smile, coloring slightly, and leaves us.

The older man pours tea, once again as if the house were his. Only after we have sipped from our glasses does he meet my eyes again. “So,” he says, in labored, heavily accented English. “My daughter—living in—your home.”

It’s a hell of an opening. His words are slightly staggered, and I remember that Pavel said he had suffered a stroke. Despite his slow, hesitant manner of speech, every word rings with the authority of a man accustomed to command.

“Your daughter is safe in my home.”

The man’s lips harden. “My daughter—not—safe—anywhere.”

I nod slowly. “I understand that the Orlov family is searching for you.”

The blue eyes narrow, studying me closely. I meet them steadily. Finally, the man raises his tea glass and takes a sip, his eyes not leaving mine. When he lowers the glass, his lips twist in something approaching a wry smile. “Name—on passport—is Juan Ortega,” he says, this time in Russian. His eyebrows raise slightly. “But you—know—that.”

Oddly enough, his speech, though slow, seems to be improving with every rasping word.

I tilt my head slightly. “I am Roman Stevanovsky.”

Juan’s eyes narrow, and he studies my face curiously. “Stevanovsky.” He repeats the name slowly. “Hale Property.”

“Da.”

“Heir to Yuri Stevanovsky.” It isn’t a question. Anybody who reads an expat paper knows my name, and about Hale Property. But this man also knowswhatI am, and to which clan I belong.

He might be old, but he’s still tapped in.

“Yes.” I’m accustomed to men assuming that I am Yuri’s son. I’m not certain why it should make me uneasy that Lucia’s father assumes the same thing, but it does. I dislike lying to him, which is ironic, given that he is living in my home, under a fake name, no less.

He fixes me with a stern glare. “Why—are we—here?”

Now we get to business.

I push the plate of halva across the table and pour more tea. “The children’s nanny quit at short notice before the holidays. Lucia was working in the café across the road from Hale. I knew she spoke Russian, and she’s clearly well educated. She was working a lot of hours for very little money. It seemed a logical solution.”

My tone is even enough. I meet his eyes as I speak. And the man is in a wheelchair.

Given his narrowed eyes and steely glare, however, I suspect that none of that would be a deterrent from him doing his best to kill me, if he doesn’t like my answer. He’d never make it out of his chair, obviously. But that doesn’t mean I don’t fucking respect the intention.

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