Page 170 of Lethal Legacy

My father is a traditional Russian man.

Roman ispakhanof the Stevanovsky bratva, which is about as traditional as it comes.

Secret or not, given that our relationship began via a sex contract, in his shoes I wouldn’t be too keen to face my father, either.

There’s no question that he has some explaining to do about the Borovsky safe. And maybe, if he’s from Miami, he might even have heard the rumors about the Petrovsky vault.

But I can’t believe, in my heart, that the same man who has let Masha spread caramel all over him, taught Mickey to box, and actually managed to connect with Ofelia can genuinely wish me harm.

My mind at least partially eased, I make my way up to Papa.

He’s sitting just in front of the terrace doors, a plume of smoke rising from the cigarette in his hand, which he hastily stubs out and tosses in the garden when he hears footsteps, waving the smoke away. Clearly, he’s managed to bribe one of the therapists. I’ve refused to buy him cigarettes for years.

“Docha!”He greets me with a slightly guilty smile, propelling his chair easily toward me, eyes bright and alert. It’s astonishing just how much his condition has improved with the daily therapy sessions.

Despite the damned cigarettes.

But I’m not going to berate him about them today. There’s too much else on my mind.

He glances behind me. “Gde deti?”Where are the children?

Papa has become very attached to all the children, particularly Masha, who can sit by him for hours, babbling away in Spanrush. The two seem to have a quiet understanding that exists amid the small flowers Masha likes to pick in the garden and the special rocks Papa collects to show her when she comes.

“Their mother, Inger, has come for a visit,” I explain in Russian.

It’s not a lie.

“Ah.” He touches my hand, nodding. “Now I understand the troubles on your face.”

It’s always hard hiding my emotions from Papa. And it’s been a long time since I’ve visited him alone. We often come here for lunch instead of going back to the apartment. The villa terrace is a pleasant place to eat, and the kids love the informality of Anna’s cooking. Papa likes playing chess with Mickey, chortling when Mickey inevitably beats him. And he loves listening to Ofelia play the piano. The villa feels oddly empty without them all here.

“Docha.” He’s frowning. “I would like to speak to Roman.”

You’re not the only one.

But there’s no time for all that now. “I’ll bring him,” I say, dodging the question. “Soon.”

I brace myself for what I need to say. Part of me wants to keep the existence of the passports a secret. But some secrets aren’t only mine to keep. It’s Papa’s contact who sent them, and he deserves to know they’re here.

Holding my finger to my lips, I nod at the terrace.

Papa reacts immediately, his eyes growing sharp and focused. I wheel him outside, over to the low wall, and he gestures to a small corner that is shielded from any prying eyes by a row of potted citrus trees. I take out the package. He nods curtly. “They came?”

“They came, Papa.” Opening the padded envelope, I withdraw two hardback novels in Russian and hand them to him.

His old hands run expertly over the inside of the covers. “Da.They are sewn inside.” He looks at me shrewdly. “I think we leave them inside the books,docha,no? It’s safer.” Despite being slightly hesitant, his speech is almost back to normal.

“Yes. Do you have a safe place?”

“Of course. There’s a loose tile in the bathroom, third from the left and four up from the bottom.” Papa speaks with his head down, his mouth barely moving. “I will wait here.”

I go into the bathroom. I’m almost certain there are surveillance cameras installed in the villa, but I doubt they’re in the bathroom. I find the loose tile, put the package inside the wall, and carefully replace the tile. Flushing the toilet, I go back out onto the terrace and lean over the wall, as if admiring the city lights.

Papa touches my hand. “I don’t think we will have to use them. Your Roman... I think he will not want you running again.”

There’s a question behind his words, but right now, it isn’t one I want to answer.

“I hope not, Papa.” I give him a small smile. “But we can never be sure, can we?”

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