Page 7 of Lethal Legacy

“Except for your tip.” His insolent smile is back.

I ignore that, too. Or at least my brain does.

My body is ready to lie down on the vast dining table and invite CEO Man to eat whichever part of me he likes.

“Keep it.” I march into the elevator with as much dignity as my arousal, not to mention my grease-stained clothes, will allow.

I wish I could say that I’m done taking either his tips or his shit.

But the truth is, Roman Stevanovsky had me hooked from day one. And whatever I might like to tell myself, five months of enduring his savage asides have only made me more addicted than ever.

2

LUCIA

Ahalf-hour hike up narrow alleyways, followed by three flights of stairs, do little to improve either my mood or my aching feet. The stairs are a bitch, but our Moroccan carer’s family lives in the apartment below us, which is convenient for both her and us. There’s also a small terracotta-tiled terrace outside that catches the sun and offers a glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea. It’s a nice place for Papa to sit, even if it’s a far cry from the fountains and courtyards of my childhood.

To my relief, Mariam is smiling when she opens the door. A smile means that Papa isn’t dead or in the hospital.

She bursts into a torrent of heavily Arabic-accented French, from which I discern that although Papa is sleeping now, he’s been very agitated all afternoon. Mariam can’t make out why.

“It started after our walk,” she explains. “But he speaks in the Russian, and I don’t understand.” Like all our acquaintances, Mariam believes Papa to be my friend rather than my father.

“That’s fine. I’ll find out what it is when he wakes up.” I hug her, and despite my protestations, she insists on feeding me a plate of the heavenly tagine sitting in a conical terracotta pot on the stovetop. One of the best parts of having Mariam care for Papa, other than her truly gorgeous heart, is her utterly amazing cooking.

“You are too thin,” she says, eyeing me critically. “You are working too much. How do you ever sleep?”

With one eye open, most of the time.

“That’s why I’m so lucky to have you.” I smile at her, but instead of returning it, she glances sideways, chewing her lip nervously.

Oh, shit.

“What’s going on, Mariam? Is there something you need to tell me?”

Please don’t say it, please don’t say it...

“My son got an engineering job in Madrid. We will be moving next month.”

Yep. She said it.

I plaster a smile on my face like I mean it. “That’s wonderful news, Mariam. You must be so proud.”

I’m genuinely happy for her. From a selfish perspective, however, it’s a massive crisis.

It took me six months to find this apartment, and Mariam. The thought of trying to manage Papa alone for that long again, plus working fifteen hours minimum a day, seven days a week, is daunting, to say the least.

“You don’t worry,” she says, covering my hand with her own hennaed one. “I will help you find someone.”

But they won’t live downstairs, nor will they be Mariam.

I smile and tell her not to worry at all, but the truth is, I’m exhausted even thinking about returning to the merry-go-round of agencies and temporary staff.

After she leaves I enter the plain, whitewashed bedroom where Papa’s long frame is stretched out under the covers. Despite his age and frailty, there’s still a certain breadth to his shoulders, a nobility in his long nose and deep-set eyes, that is a reminder of the fearedpakhanhe once was. Founder and boss of the mighty Petrovsky clan—until Vilnus Orlov, a man Papa considered an ally,staged a coup while Papa was lying in a hospital bed recovering from his first stroke.

Vilnus would have killed Papa the same day. Along with my brother Alexei, my mother Maria, and me. Except for one problem: he couldn’t access the vault beneath our Miami compound.

The vault is the reason the Orlovs came for our family in the first place. And without its contents, Vilnus will never truly rule my father’s empire, no matter if he now calls the Petrovsky interests his.

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