Page 80 of Lethal Legacy

I heard what Abby said about his background, the way he and Dimitry met. Somehow it doesn’t surprise me that even back then, Roman would insert himself between someone he considered innocent and any threat to them. It’s what good men do. What honorable men do. And for all that Roman is ruthless, my gut instinct tells me he is honorable.

The Lucia part of me wants to trust him with the truth. If not for myself, at least so he can be prepared for any threat to his family.

But the Petrovsky part of me knows that the secrets I keep are not just mine. My father’s life depends on me. My brother’s, too.

Which means that I need to be careful, and I need to make sure that I have an escape route prepared.

I’ve still got an hour before I need to pick up the children. I change direction and head for Papa’s villa.

When I arrive, Papa is in the middle of physical therapy. I watch as he works with the therapist. It’s only been a few days, but his speech is already easier, his body stronger. It hurts me to even think of taking him away from this, of putting us both back on the road.

It might not even come to that.

But I can’t know that it won’t either, especially after my run-in with that journalist and learning that Roman is from Miami.

I’ll never forgive myself if things go wrong and I haven’t taken precautions to protect my father.

After the therapist leaves, I sit beside him.

“Papa.” I hold his hands. “Our contact in Argentina. Do you know how to get in touch with them?”

Papa tenses, his eyes on me sharp as lasers.

“Da,” he says curtly. He never allowed me to meet his contact when we were in Argentina. Sick and old though he might be, Papa will never stop trying to protect me, in whatever ways he is able.

“I got a burner phone.” I slip the box under the rug covering his knees. “Can you place the call?”

He nods, but his face is creased with worry. “Dangerous.”

“I know.” I squeeze his hand. “But it’s not safe to find someone here. Malaga is crawling with bratva. There’s no chance we can get passports made without someone finding out.”

Especially when I’m living in the home of the biggest pakhan in town.

I don’t mention the journalist, Lance Ryder. I haven’t forgotten that Papa thought he saw a man with a camera outside the motel. It’s a coincidence I don’t like at all, but I don’t want to worry Papa any more than he already is.

“Get the passports sent to this address.” I hand him a piece of paper with Abby’s postal box on it. It’s risky, I know, especially since she’s clearly involved with Dimitry, however adamant she is that it’s over. Either way, it’s unlikely he’s stooped to checking her mailbox.

“Leave—soon?” Papa is watching me closely.

“I don’t know.” There’s no point in lying. “But I have the money to pay for passports now. I might not, in the future. I think this is best.”

“Takes—time.” I hate how worried he looks.

“There’s no rush, Papa.”

I mentally cross my fingers.

Ihopethere’s no rush. If I’m wrong, and all of this has been some complex ploy by Roman to trade me to the Orlovs, then it’s likely too late anyway. Either way, I can do this. Get new identities for us both. New names, new backgrounds. I’ve withdrawn enough cash from the account to run if we have no choice. Abby can always send the passports on to us.

I don’t like thinking about any of this. But I’ve lived too long in the shadows to avoid harsh realities, no matter how improbable they might seem.

Papa and I have run too long, and risked too much, to get lazy now.

The children are yet to return when I get home. I’m still wondering if I can keep my secrets just a little longer, until I know we have passports and are safe. Then I think of Masha’s little face and know that I can’t justify secrecy one more moment.

I take the cover off my phone and take out the folded picture of Alexei I have tucked inside it. I cut it from a lurid tabloid piece about Russian bratva I found in a doctor’s office. It’s the lone picture I have of my brother. The photo was taken at some society event in Miami, barely a year ago.

I touch Alexei’s face. He has an eye patch now, which tells me everything I need to know about the ongoing torture he has endured. But he still looks so much like Papa it makes my heart hurt. He has the same hard body, grim expression, and fierce killer eyes. The face of a man who has seen too much death. More than anyone should have seen at only twenty-two years of age.

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