Page 117 of Lethal Legacy

“All—this?” He gestures around at the villa, plainly questioning why housing him is part of Lucia’s employment. I hope that’s the only aspect of the arrangement he questions. I have no desire to defend the less honorable part of the contract. I suspect that might result in a test of the killing theory.

And if I’m being entirely honest, lately I haven’t been too proud of that goddamn contract myself.

“I work unpredictable hours,” I say, pushing that uncomfortable thought aside, “and require Lucia to fit in with my schedule. The villa was empty. Again, it seemed logical.”

“Logical.” The old man sits back in his chair, eyeing me skeptically. “What—about—Orlovs?”

I can tell it hurts him to ask. This is a man who clearly would once have murdered any man who came for his family. Something tells me he’d still do his damndest to try, bare-handed if necessary.

“I have no interest in trading you to the Orlov family.” I hold his eyes steadily. “My home is yours. Unless and until you decide to leave, you and your daughter are under my protection.”

His mouth tenses. Something hard flashes in his eyes, a piece of the warrior he clearly once was. I don’t need to imagine the insult such a man might feel at my offer. But if I’ve read him right, and I am sure I have, Lucia’s father is also a realist. His eyes shift sideways, considering what he might say. I remain quiet, waiting. When he turns back to me, his face is set and hard.

“They—know.” He meets my eyes directly. “Orlovs. That we are—here. Orlovs—coming.”

The fuckers are coming?

Savagery surges through me in a primal rush.

Come, you bastards.

“Let them come.” Despite my customary restraint, even I can hear the edge of war in my voice.

Juan nods, but his face is grim. “Your children.” He addresses me with a quiet dignity, despite his rasping voice. “Not safe with—us.”

I turn my tea glass in slow circles on the table. “Lucia said as much. I will tell you what I told her.” I stop the tea glass and meet his eyes directly. “I protect what is mine. No matter who, or what, comes at me.”

Nothing more. Either this man understands that I can take care of my own or he doesn’t. I’m long past the time when I justify anything I do. To anyone.

There is a pause, during which the old eyes study my face keenly. I don’t flinch from the scrutiny, and after a time, Juan inclines his head. It’s an oddly poignant gesture. That of a proud man accustomed to offering, rather than accepting, protection. His nod is one of resigned acceptance, but definitely not of surrender. I can see the mind still active behind his eyes. It almost makes me smile.

Juan Ortega, or whoever he truly is, will reluctantly accept my help.

But he hasn’t given up on whatever still drives him. I suspect he won’t until he is in his grave. Somewhat to my surprise, I find myself rather admiring Lucia’s father. And I’m not a man who takes a liking to many people, let alone admires them.

“I understand you can’t share your identity. I will accept that—for now.” I lean forward. “But not indefinitely.”

The man searches my face carefully. After a time, he raises his eyebrows slightly and tilts his head in acknowledgment. “So,” he says, with a hint of his earlier wry smile. He nods at the chess board. “Shall we play, then?”

35

LUCIA

We take lunch on the terrace, beneath a trellis dripping with purple wisteria. The air is scented with citrus and jasmine from the trees, and the terracotta tiles are cool underfoot. The table is wrought iron topped with Moroccan tiles, and is currently covered with a variety of dishes, silver cutlery Ofelia took from an old wooden box, and linen napkins in monogrammed rings. The samovar has been replaced by pottery jugs of watered-down wine and a soft drink for the children.

“I’m a cactus,” Masha is telling Papa proudly. “Luce made my costume.”

“A cactus.” Papa nods solemnly over his soup, his blue eyes twinkling.

“We do the cactus dance. ’Felia,” Masha says authoritatively, “show Deda the dance.”

Ofelia and Mickey both tense, looking nervously around the table. My knife clatters onto my plate. I glance furtively at Roman, unsure what he’s going to make of Masha referring to Papa as “Grandfather.”

“Perhaps another time, Masha.” Roman grins, seemingly entirely unconcerned by the familiarity. “Deda and I have a game of chess to finish after lunch.” He’s seated at one end of the long table, Papa at the other. I’m sitting opposite Masha, who insisted on sitting next to Papa. Ofelia is next to me, Mickey on the other side.

“Okay.” Masha wriggles in her seat. “May I be ’scused? I want to find Mr. Potato.”

“Mr. Potato will be fine for a little while.” I smile at Anna as she clears our plates. “Let’s wait until after we’ve eaten, shall we?” I put some salad and chicken on Masha’s plate, cutting the meat into smaller pieces.

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