Page 46 of Lethal Legacy

Oh, yes, we do. Much more than we should.

I shiver slightly as the businesslike assistant maneuvers me into a series of increasingly risqué scraps of silk and lace, all of which reveal far more than they cover. All of the pieces are tasteful and of exceptional quality—but all of them scream to be torn off or peeled away, inch by silken inch.

I’ve never owned anything like the bewildering array of lingerie piling up in boxes on the counter. Never had anyone to buy things like thisfor.

I was too highly protected before I left my family’s compound, and in the years following, whatever encounters I’ve had with men have been largely unplanned and, by necessity, fleeting. Up until a couple of recent purchases, both of which Roman hasn’t even seen, I’ve never bought lingerie explicitly intended to be taken off my body. There’s a deeply erotic thrill in choosing pieces while also imagining, in disturbing detail, exactly how Roman might remove them.

Will he fuck me while I’m still wearing this?I think, staring at a balcony bra that pushes my breasts up so high half my nipples are visible. Then, picking up a thong with a strategic part missing,Will he want me to wear these while we’re out somewhere, so he can touch me?The thought of him slipping a finger onto my clit under a restaurant table has me wet and quivering.

There are corsets and suspenders, lacy stockings and camisoles that can be easily slipped off. Bras that have my nipples obscenely exposed and corsets that take a full five minutes to lace up. The thought of Roman slowly unwrapping me almost brings me to orgasm in the dressing room.

By the time we’re done, I’m in a heady state of arousal, my head spinning with a thousand dark fantasies. Every piece of lingerie sets another scenario racing through my mind, especially those chosen specifically by Roman himself.

Then a terrible thought occurs to me. “Mr. Stevanovsky,” I say to Nina. “Does he—do this often?” She looks confused. “I mean,” I say, stammering slightly and turning fire red for the fiftieth time today, “does he send many women to you for fittings?”

“Oh!” Her face clears, and she gives me an understanding smile. “Non,ma petite,this you do not worry for. It was Mr. Stevanovsky’s brother, Mikhail, who was our biggest customer.” She leans in and winks. “And he was aprolificcustomer, if you take my meaning. Mr. Stevanovsky used to bring his brother’s mistresses here to shop, back when we were just a small boutique. But Mr. Roman, he knows the good business, yes? So a few years ago now, he give me some funding to expand,et voila!”She gestures around her. “Now, we are not so small, I think!”

I’m desperately curious. “Mikhail’s mistresses,” I repeat. “What about his wife? Inger, I think her name is?”

Nina’s face screws up with distaste. “This one! Pah!” she says scathingly. “This one I do not allow in my store. It is no wonder Mr. Mikhail, he had the mistresses. Inger, all she want is money.” She leans in close. “I am not sorry when the divorce is happening. But those poor children!” She shakes her head sorrowfully. “I remember little Ofelia when she was just a baby. So beautiful. But her mother... no taste. And the way she dressed that child! Making her look like a movie star, when she was just a baby.”

Shetsksdisapprovingly. Then, catching my eye in the mirror, immediately returns to professionalism. “Of course this is none of my business,” she says hastily. “But no, to answer your question, Mr. Roman does not bring anyone to visit me before now.” She assesses me critically in the mirror. “But I think I see why,non?”

Embarrassed by that, I hurry out soon after, even more embarrassed at the mountain of boxes the boutique staff load into Dimitry’s car. He makes no comment other than when we arrive at the apartment building and he murmurs instructions to the doorman to have the obscenely large amount of purchases taken upstairs and unpacked.

“There’s a maid who will take care of it,” he says before I can argue. He gets into the elevator with me, explaining the security codes as we rise to the floor I will share with the children.

“This is your apartment.” He punches in a code to open the door. “I’ll show you how to reset the door code, so only you will have access. The children have their own security, obviously, so the entire floor will be attended at all times.”

Obviously.

He holds the door open for me and then turns to leave.

“Wait.”

Dimitry turns back, eyebrows lifted in polite inquiry.

“I wondered—that is,” I say, rather nervously, “do you know the children very well?”

His hard face softens. “I’ve known them all from the day they were born.”

“Can you—is there anything I should know, before I meet them tomorrow?” Seeing his rather reluctant expression, I hurry on. “I don’t mean to put you in a difficult position. I just wondered if you might have any advice. I’d like to do the best job I can.”

“Well.” Dimitry gives me a rather hard look. “What I can say is that you won’t have an easy time of it. Those kids have had more disruption in their lives than most people ever face. They don’t like outsiders, and they don’t trust anyone, with good reason. They need stability, Miss Lopez, and they need a lot of care. My advice?” He fixes me with a distinctly grim eye. “If you plan on leaving, then go sooner rather than later. Those kids deserve better than to get attached to someone else who doesn’t plan on sticking around.”

He nods curtly, leaving me feel uncomfortably like I’ve just been given a warning rather than advice.

Ispend the remaining part of the afternoon meeting the staff and getting settled into my new home.

My apartment is spacious without being overwhelming, two bedrooms and an enormous bathroom with a deep tub I can’t wait to sink into. There’s a small but functional kitchen. The maid tells me most of the children’s meals are prepared in the separate chef’s kitchen on the floor below and that I will usually eat with them. There’s a central salon with a deep, plump sofa and a bigger flat screen than I know what to do with. Wooden doors with glass insets open onto a large balcony terrace. The salon alone is bigger than the old apartment Papa and I shared.

The maid, a sweet-faced woman called Maria who, to my surprise, seems to absolutely worship Roman, shows me into the children’s quarters. These cover the rest of the floor and are almost as lavish as Roman’s penthouse. Each bedroom has its own en suite. There are a number of smaller rooms, one with sophisticated-looking computer equipment I imagine belongs to Mickey and another containing numerous musical instruments, including a huge grand piano. Despite the luxury and amount of money that’s clearly been spent, I can’t help but notice the sterility of the environment. It looks more like a hotel suite than somebody’s home. The toys in Masha’s room are all neatly put away, the clothes on hangers neatly dry-cleaned, the bedspreads neutral colors and tucked in with hard hospital corners. The only photographs are formal portraits from the children’s earlier years, in which their father beams and their mother poses with ice-cold elegance. I walk through the empty rooms feeling a strange sense of loneliness. It’s like a museum, in which the central display is yet to arrive.

I try to reassure myself that the building is only newly finished, that the children have had little time to make it their home. But somehow, I suspect that the soulless feel has little to do with time and everything to do with the absence of any real affection. When I look in the pantry, there are no indications that children even live here, no cookie jar or stash of lollipops. Going by the menu on the fridge and the gleaming, immaculate dining table, meal times are as rigid and formal as a hotel as well.

I remember back to my own childhood, before everything went wrong. I think of my mother dancing in the kitchen as she cooked up a wild storm of sweet South American treats, my father shaking his head and laughing at the chaos of flour and butter in which my brother and I inevitably wound up covered during these explosions. I think of corn kernels popping on the stove and eating around the kitchen counter or snuggled up on the sofa watching a movie. Sure, we had formal dinners. But those were for show or special occasions. Most days we just ate around the long wooden kitchen table, often joined by many of Papa’s men, who were as much family to us as our own.

And none of whom are alive now,I think with a sudden pang of sadness. Papa’svormeant almost as much to me as my own blood. Knowing they all lost their lives trying to save ours still breaks my heart. They had families, too. Children who are orphans now, all thanks to the Orlovs’ savagery.

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