Page 191 of Lethal Legacy

“About who you are.”

My heart temporarily stops, then starts again, with an oddly irregular beat.

“Yeah.” Mickey looks at me narrowly. “That made you stop talking, didn’t it?”

I run through half a dozen scenarios in my mind, but the only one that makes sense is Sergei Petrovsky.

I’ll kill that bastard for talking to the kids.

It’s frightening how much I want to hurt that treacherous old prick. Lucky I saw Sergei before this particular discussion, or he’d be bleeding by now.

“Mickey.” I clench my fists in my effort to keep my voice even. There’s been way too many surprises today. And the side of the road is no place for this conversation. “Whatever you think you know, I doubt it’s the full story. Either way, I’m happy to sit down and answer any questions you have tomorrow. But right now, we’re already running late, and I’ve had a hell of a day. The last thing I want is to have a run-in with your mother—”

“Really.” His eyebrows arch skeptically. “You haven’t minded running into Inger in the past, though, have you? Is that the reason she and Papa split up?”

“What?” Now I’m genuinely confused. “Where the hell is all this coming from?”

He studies me closely for a moment, then his eyes cloud over, and he looks away. “Nothing,” he mutters. “Forget it.”

It clearly isn’t nothing. But again, there’s no goddamn time for this conversation. “Look,” I begin, trying to think how best to head this all off at the pass. “Whatever you think of me right now, Mickey, I would never do anything to hurt Lucia.”

Liar.

There’s a more than even chance I’m about to send her running for her life. But I don’t have time to explain to him why that’s a good thing.

“She’s part of this family,” I say quietly. “And I told you once before: we protect our family.”

Even if they betray us.

“Then you’re not planning to kill her?” Mickey asks the question so directly I’m almost lost for words.

I stare at him in absolute shock. “Of course I’m not going to kill her!”

What the fuck?I really need to start teaching him how we do and don’t operate in this family.

“And you’re not going to use her, in any way, that could hurt her?” He’s watching every minute shift of expression in my face.

“No!” My patience is running out. “Mickey, look. Tonight we have to attend this ridiculous ball as a family, including Lucia—Darya,” I correct myself, when he frowns. “We’re attending because doing so means that you kids won’t have to spend the entire summer being pushed from nanny to grandparent while Inger works. It’s the deal I made with her, a deal that means I can keep you here, safe with me. It’s one night, a few hours. Then it will be over, and you and I can go upstairs to my apartment, sit down, and talk this through properly. Will you at least trust me to do that?”

Not that I know what the fuck I’m going to say. This is a Mickey I don’t know, and given his clearly exceptional investigative skills, one I might need to treat with a little more respect than I have thus far.

“You need to know that right now I don’t actually trust you at all.” There’s nothing remotely childish about his hard return. Fourteen years old or not, the Mickey talking to me now is no boy. And the glare he’s giving me isn’t at all unlike those I delivered at his age. “I’ll give you tonight. But the minute this ball is over, you and I are talking. And if I don’t like the answers I get, Roman, I’m leaving. And I’m taking my sisters with me.”

“Jesus Christ, Mickey.” I shake my head. “Remind me of this conversation the next time we’re training in the ring. It will help me not go soft on you.”

I pull the car back onto the road. We drive the rest of the way back down the mountain in a tense, stiff silence.

Tonight is shaping up to be a real fucking treat.

57

ROMAN

God, she’s beautiful.

Lucia is wearing the mulberry silk slip dress I bought for her yesterday. It clings to every curve, the luscious breasts I’ve loved a thousand times swelling temptingly over the lace neckline, the line of her legs elegant above the strappy stilettos. The lush fall of her hair is swept into a complex chignon behind her head. Her eyes are smoky caverns, lips glistening deep plum. A set of diamond-and-pearl earrings made by my father’s hands drip down her neck. I included them in the bag I left on the counter earlier, before my conversation with Sergei.

She’s never looked so desirable—or so dangerous.

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