Page 31 of Lethal Legacy

I purse my lips, but don’t bother trying to argue that he most certainlydoesneed help. More than I have been able to give him. Much more.

My father does not deserve to live this way, and I’m riddled with guilt every time I confront the circumstances to which he has been reduced.

Never once in our chaotic journey has he ever complained, no matter how arduous the conditions. Not during our terrifying midnight escape from the Miami compound, when we raced through the dark waters of Biscayne Bay in a tiny tin fishing boat. Not in the weeks that followed when we lived in squalor, disguising ourselves among the other lost and downtrodden while the Orlovs combed the city for us. Not during the long sea journey that followed, as we reversed the path taken by so many South American migrants, traveling first to Cuba and then across to Cancún. Not for all the months it took us, by boat, bus, truck, and sometimes just on foot, to finally reach Argentina and the contact of my father’s who helped us with passports.

Papa didn’t complain years later, when we made another, far more dangerous crossing by sea from Morocco to Spain, in a hazardous inflated raft that we all believed would sink at any moment.

During all those journeys, Papa had cradled other peoples’ babies when they cried. Before the strokes got worse and claimed his voice, he’d sung songs in Russian. He’d gripped the arms of men who feared death, staring the fear right out of them.

Sergei Petrovsky had seen worse and survived it. And somehow those around him sensed that and took strength from him, even without knowing from where that strength came.

My father was always careful about what he told my brother and me about his past. As an adult, I realized the tales he did tell when we were young, and after he’d drunk a little too much vodka, were carefully crafted to amuse and entertain children rather than to give any real picture of the truth.

All Papa would ever say about the two thousand miles he walked to escape Russia, across frozen tundra and multiple borders, all the way to Switzerland, was that the terrible journey through starvation and below-zero temperatures had been worth it, just so that one day he might give my brother and me life.

All of this I think of as I tidy Papa and help him to bed, ignoring the fierce look in his piercing blue eyes and his insistence that he is entirely capable of looking after himself.

Papa has faced death a thousand times and more.Never once has he lost his will and determination to survive, to transcend his circumstances.

And now, when we are facing possible exposure and the hideous prospect of being recaptured by the Orlovs, Papa is too weak to save himself or anyone else—and I am hesitating to do the one thing that could save us both.

Roman’s contract offers me the means to not only hide from anyone who might be searching for us, but also to set about regaining everything we have lost. I’m being offered a chance to ensure Papa is safe and well cared for until I’ve had time to organize what we both need.

I’m being offered all this not through hardship, but by sleeping with Roman Stevanovsky.

A man who, let’s face it, has literally owned my every sexual fantasy for the past five months. A man whose single glance makes my heart pound and my body liquid with desire.

A man who is undoubtedly a killer.

Which, given the life I lead, isn’t a bad thing.

I am Darya Petrovsky, daughter of bratva legend Sergei Petrovsky. Any man involved with me needs to be a killer. A damn good one.

And something tells me that Roman Stevanovsky is the most ruthless killer I’ve seen in a long time.

Does that mean you plan to be... involved, with Roman Stevanovsky?

I close the door to Papa’s room and glance at my phone.

4:57.

I pull the contract out of my bag. Holding it up against the motel wall, I scrawl my fake signature on it. Then I snap a photo of the signed paper.

4:59.

I take a deep breath and open up my messages.

I send Roman the photograph just as the numbers click over to five p.m.

At one minute past, Roman answers my message with a simple command:My office, 6pm.Dress for dinner.

My heart lurches to a stop, then starts racing like a horse in the Grand National.

It’s the first time I will meet Roman wearing something other than my hated hot pants uniform. I tear the damn thing off without an ounce of regret and leave it lying in a discarded ball on the floor of my motel room.

What the hell does one wear to meet the man who wants me to be both a nanny and his sex slave?

It’s not like the two roles are exactly complementary. And I’ve hardly accumulated a wardrobe full of options, given that I’ve spent most of the past couple of years in a work uniform. Nor am I sure if I’m dressing to get laid out on Roman’s desk or to meet three children.

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