Page 139 of Lethal Legacy

“Uncle Roman . . . about Lucia.”

Darya, you mean.

My hands clench the steering wheel, but I keep my voice even. “What about her, Mickey?”

“She’s your girlfriend, right?”

I keep my eyes staring straight ahead, trying rapidly to think of how best to answer that one.

“We don’t mind,” Mickey says quietly. “None of us do. We like her. I just thought you should know that.”

“That’s good.” I grip the steering wheel and start taking the bends a bit faster. “I’m glad you like her.”

Except that after everything I’ve just learned, I’m not so sure that I should be glad about that at all. I’m not sure that allowing the kids to get attached to Lucia is even safe. And as for her being my girlfriend, as Mickey put it?

The truth is, I don’t know what the fuck Lucia is to me now.

Darya.

Ever since she came into my home, I’ve been gradually breaking every rule I’ve ever set for myself. Some of them I don’t regret, like making the kids my priority. Part of me has always known I should have taken more responsibility for them, and now that I have, I know it’s the right thing to do. For better or worse, Mikhail left his children in my care. At the least I owe it to him to make sure they’re safe and loved.

But when it comes to how I feel about Lucia?

Darya.

I wrench the car around a corner with enough speed to make Mickey give me a side look.

Fuck.

If she knows even half of what Pavel has turned up, then Darya Petrovsky has been lying about a lot more than just her identity. And as much as I don’t want to face it, there’s more than just a chance that her presence in my house is no accident.

I need time to read through Lawrence Carter Rydell’s paper. To find out about the Naryshkin family. Whether or not the journalist’s theory is right about the name change to Petrovsky. And if so, what connection there might be between the Petrovskys and the Borovskys.

Because if my hunch is right—and they’re rarely fucking wrong—then the Sergei I once overheard talking to my father in the kitchen is actually Sergei Petrovsky, aka Sergei Naryshkin, heir to a legendary fortune.

The same man who my father trusted to get my mother to safety, and whose secrets he fucking died to protect, is now living in my villa. And his daughter is sleeping in my bed.

Can that really be a coincidence?

My entire focus all this time has been on making Lucia feel safe. Gaining her trust. But she’s never trusted me enough to so much as tell me her real name.

Now I’m left wondering if I’ve been played.

If she’s an enemy, I’ll find out. I’ve never let emotions get in the way of business, and I’m not about to start now.

Except that the thought of putting a bullet between those beautiful almond-shaped eyes makes me sick to the gut. And even the suspicion that she might have been playing me all this time is like feeling the earth crack under my feet.

Worst of all, I’ve got nobody to blame but myself. For breaking my own rules. For letting her into my home without knowing everything I needed to. For making this about anything more than just sex.

I should have stuck to that contract. Better yet, I should have fucked her and then walked away.

But it’s too late for that now. Lucia—fucking Darya—is in my house now. In my children’s lives. Which means I’m going to have to just let this one play out, at least for a while. No matter how furious I am.

I grip the steering wheel hard and take the bends home at a high enough speed to turn Mickey’s face white.

I have no fucking idea who to trust, nor how to make sense of any of this.

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