Page 177 of Lethal Legacy

I suppress the second part with difficulty. My patience is paper-thin tonight.

I woke up to a call from Pavel saying that three new trojans appeared overnight. Mercura is under attack, and I need to get back to the lab and work out what the hell is going on, not sit here pretending to give a single fuck about Inger’s woeful parenting.

Her eyes narrow dangerously. She’s more than capable of creating a horrific scene in public, as I personally witnessed on multiple occasions during her marriage to Mikhail.

“I agreed to escort you to the ball,” I say in a slightly softer tone, “and I’m allowing Ofelia to attend. Perhaps we could just stick to that arrangement?”

“Oh.” Inger crosses her cutlery with a loud clatter and arches a perfect eyebrow at me. “So now you’reallowingme to take my daughter out for an evening?”

Fucking seriously?

I’m dangerously close to blowing completely.

Correction: I’mgoingto fucking blow.

It’s just a question of where, exactly, I allow the bomb to explode.

“I’m Ofelia’s legal guardian,” I say tersely. “Whether you like to admit it or not, Inger, you willingly signed over full custody to Mikhail—”

“And then I tried to take it back when he died!” Her voice is becoming shrill. Heads are starting to turn.

“You tried to takeMashawhen he died, and only because having a baby in your arms made your grieving widow schtick look better in the tabloids.” I’ve lost patience. “We’re leaving, Inger. We’ll continue this discussion in private. No,” I cut her protests off curtly. “We’re not doing this here. You can leave with me now, or I can carry you out screaming. Believe me when I say I don’t particularly care which option you fucking choose.”

I push my chair back and stalk out, signing the check as I go. I don’t need to look around to know that Inger will follow. She might love creating a scene, but only if she’s the star of it. Being publicly humiliated in Malaga’s finest restaurant isn’t her type of role at all.

She pauses on the steps to pose for the waiting paps, smiling prettily, right up until the limo door closes, at which point her mask drops entirely.

“How dare you walk out on me,” she hisses. “Thepresswas there.”

“Paps aren’t fucking press, Inger. And they certainly weren’t there for you, or did the distinct lack of clicking somehow evade you? Not that I could give a fuck.” I shake my head impatiently. “That’s not the point of this discussion.”

She stares at me, her mouth slightly ajar. I’ve been very careful, over the years, to avoid triggering the nightmarish scenes I witnessed between Mikhail and Inger. I’ve always managed her with polite detachment and a carefully calculated mixture of flattery and financial inducement.

But I’m fucking done playing that game.

“Whether you like it or not, Inger, I’m the children’s legal guardian. And unless you want a very ugly, extremely expensive legal battle—which, I assure you, I will fucking win—then it’s long past time we got a few things very straight.” I stare at her coldly. “I will always encourage you to spend time with Ofelia, Mickey, and Masha. What I will not do is allow you to use them as props in your photo opportunities. As for you ‘taking’ the children in July, until and unless I see a detailed schedule of your plans, and personally clear any and all individuals they will be spending time with, not to mention oversee their security detail, the only place you’ll be taking them is to the Malaga boardwalk for ice cream. And even then, my security will be with them.” I lean forward, pinning her with my death stare. “The days of you crashing in and out of their lives, upsetting them as you did today, are fucking done. You want tospend timewith them? Then get on your hands and knees in the garden with Masha. Help Ofelia with her piano practice. Take some interest in the fucking amazing work Mickey is doing.

“And if I ever hear you speak to Lucia again like she’s your goddamn servant”—my face is barely inches from hers—“the only place you’ll ever be seeing the children is at your gravestone, when they show up to put fucking flowers on it. Is that clear enough for you, Inger?”

I realize with an odd detachment that I’m shaking with anger.

This isn’t tearing an employee over a mistake. This is me genuinely losing my temper, something I’ve spent the past couple of decades making damn sure I never do.

It’s oddly liberating.

I’ll hand it to her, though. Inger doesn’t look cowed. She doesn’t even seem surprised.

Instead, she’s got a calculating expression in her eyes that sets my teeth on edge.

“So this is about the nanny, then. I thought so.” She lights a cigarette and blows the smoke directly at me. “Not exactly your normal type, is she? But then again, from what I hear, there’s nothing normal about your little arrangement.”

What the fuck?

I buy myself a minute by snatching the cigarette out of her hand and throwing it out the car window.

What does she know about Lucia?

“What do you think a family court judge would make of my children being left alone at night while their nanny goes upstairs to sleep in her boss’s penthouse? Or being forced to amuse themselves on holiday while Uncle Roman spends siesta time getting his rocks off?”

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