Page 4 of Lethal Legacy

Now the Orlov clan live in my family compound. My brother Alexei is their hostage. The Orlovs killed my mother, and they’d dearly love to kill my father. Not to mention me.

They just have to find us first.

I take a quick break and look at my phone. It has four missed calls, all from Papa’s carer. The familiar dread steals through my heart.

It’s been eight years since my father’s first stroke, and six since I ran from Miami in the middle of the night with nothing more than a lone bag and an old man in a wheelchair. Part of me never thought either of us would live this long. But expecting death doesn’t lessen my fear of it.

Particularly his.

Sergei Petrovsky was once a giant of a man. To me, he still is.

I stop Abby as she passes. “Can you cover for me until seven?”

“Is it Juan?” She shoots me a sympathetic look.

I nod. I don’t tell anyone Papa’s real name, or even that he is my father. Here, he’s simply Juan Ortega, a fellow illegal immigrant whom I befriended on my way to Spain.

“He’s so lucky to have you.” Abby squeezes my hand. “Of course I can cover for you. Revolting Pete won’t be in until nine. So long as you’re back by then, it should be fine.” She gets a rather fierce look on her face. “And I’m going to tackle him about thesefuckinguniforms again. If I get slapped on the ass one more time by a drunk tourist, I won’t be held accountable for what I might do.”

“Good luck with that.” I roll my eyes. “Pete tried to tell me last week that these uniforms are the reason we make so many tips. I pointed out that if he paid us properly, we wouldn’t need them.”

“Let me guess. He told you that you’re an illegal immigrant, so if you don’t like his rate of pay, you can take your chances lining up for the fruit-picking trucks every morning?”

“Spot on.”

Abby sighs. “He’ssucha douche.” She turns me around so we both face the mirror lining the back of the bar, resting her chin on my shoulder. Her blonde hair clings to my black plait, her round blue eyes a direct contrast to my sloping almond ones. Abby is an Australian who bought a ticket to England five years ago and hasn’t stopped traveling since. We bonded over fifteen-hour days and sore feet. Now I can’t imagine my life without her.

Among the many things we share is a history of associating with bad boys.

But those I grew up with were mainly good men, who did bad things when necessary.

Abby’s men tend to do unnecessarily bad things to her.

She came to Spain on the promise of a social media influencer who swore he’d marry her so she could have a visa. He didn’t deliver, and now Abs has been here illegally for over a year. Lately she’s been dating an equally sleazy footballer who, in my opinion at least, cares far more about his own paparazzi shots than he does about Abby.

“It’s a good thing we’re such hotties.” She kisses my cheek. “Imagine the terrible jobs we’d have to do if we weren’t.” We laugh at that, which is all you can do, really, when a slimeball like Revolting Pete holds your fate in his hands. Despite Pete’s chronic neglect, or maybe because of it, the café does make seriously good tips. Especially since Hale moved in over the street, despite my ongoing war with its incredibly arrogant CEO. Hale turns over so many billions every year that I’m surprised CEO Man doesn’t take his coffee gold-plated.

Since Pete has a terrible reputation for mistreating his staff, Abby and I have as many shifts as we can take. And we take every single one.

Abby is living high while saving for her next adventure. I’m paying for Papa’s care while saving for new fake passports.

Soul sisterswith different histories.

“Luce!” One of the chefs sticks his head through the window, loading a pile of food-delivery cartons on the ledge. “Can you take this order to the Stevanovsky place when you go? It’s on your way.”

I inwardly groan, but I can hardly say no when Abby is covering for me. I take the address and load myself up with the boxes of food, which tower over my head, blocking my vision.

I swear that evil, sexy bastard did this to me on purpose.

“Just be careful.” Abby frowns out the window. “Some pap photographer who keeps following Miguel and me is standing on the other side of the road. Don’t give him any quotes, okay? That prick has been trying to get my photo all week.”

“No chance.” The boxes hide my face completely anyway. There’s a certain irony in Abby worrying about me providing a quote. I’m literally the last person who will ever cultivate publicity.

Fortunately, I don’t notice anyone when I walk out of the café. I stagger through the streets to the beachfront address, a grand historic building with a soaring dome. It used to be crumbling stone and faded grandeur, a beautiful remnant of Spain’s ancient history lost amid the newer developments. According to a gushing lifestyle article in one of the expat papers, Roman bought the entire thing for an eye-watering price when it was about to be turned into a tourist hotel. He gutted it, then rebuilt it to his specifications, while restoring the original architecture.

I’m not proud of the fact that I read the entire article.

Several times.

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