Page 101 of Lethal Alliance

“Come back to me,” she says, her voice a husky comfort and the only motivation I will ever need. “And when you do, I’m going to hold you to that promise.”

I end the call and turn around, every cell in my body more ready for this fight than for any other I’ve faced in my entire life.

“Let’s fucking do this.”

33

DARYA

“Then it’s begun?”

I turn around to face Rosa, my heart still tripping wildly. Contrary to what I told Roman, I’m wearing soft wool trousers and a V-cut knit sweater. Even in summer, London isn’t exactly cami weather, especially close to midnight.

But Roman didn’t call to hear about my wardrobe. He called because he’s going to war, and he needed to know that I am going in with him.

“Yes.” I meet her eyes. “It’s begun.”

She sits down heavily on a chair and runs a shaking hand over her face. “I forgot what this feels like.”

More to distract myself than anything else, I say, “Did Roman’s father go to war like this too, then?” Perhaps because of the delicate beauty of his jewelry, and maybe because of the stories my father used to tell about his friend Ruki, I don’t have an impression of Aleksander Borovsky being warlike.

“Not Aleksander, no.” Rosa’s lips curve in a soft smile of reminiscence. “It was always Sergei who did the fighting. Aleksander was Ruki, the Hands. He told me that even back in the Paris days, Sergei had kept him from the worst of the killing. By the time he met me, Aleksander was no longer involved in Sergei’s business. In fact, since they’d arrived in Miami, they’d gone to great lengths to ensure there was no connection between them at all. We even used hidden tunnels in the compound when we visited one another, so nobody saw us. Sergei and Aleksander were closer than brothers. But they were also pathological about keeping their relationship hidden.”

She gives me a half smile.

“That didn’t stop them from seeing one another, often. And although Sergei would never discuss business, we would always know when things were bad, because he would call Aleksander and me to sit with Maria, so she wouldn’t worry. Roman was just a baby then, yes? He would crawl all over the kitchen floor while Maria and I baked. We used to bake to distract ourselves,” she says wistfully. “Aleksander would sit at the kitchen table, tinkering with jewelry. He would give Roman small locks to play with.” Her eyes are misty with recollection. “It is so strange, these things that I remember. At the time, I hated the waiting. We were all so afraid that Sergei wouldn’t return. No matter what Aleksander said, I knew he was just as afraid as Maria and me. But now, when I am thinking back, those days feel like the happiest time of my life.”

I’m curious despite myself. “How did you and my mother meet?”

“On the way from Colombia to the United States.” Rosa answers immediately, and her face alters, the years momentarily falling away. “We were both nineteen, and neither of us spoke any English. Maria was an orphan from a small village. She had no future that didn’t involve poverty and, eventually, some kind of forced marriage, so she had nothing to lose by leaving. My family had already made a marriage for me.” She tilts her head to one side. “Not a marriage I wanted. I felt that I, too, had nothing to lose.” Her smile fades. “I was wrong about that, as it turned out.”

She glances back at me apologetically. “But you asked how Maria and I met. We were in the back of the same truck, right at the beginning of our journey. The driver took a liking to Maria—rather too much of a liking, if you know what I mean. One day he stopped the truck in a remote place and tried to pull her out of the back. Maria was kicking and fighting him, but he was too strong for her. We all knew what he planned to do. None of the other passengers wanted to intervene, in case they were denied the ride they had paid for. But I had grown up with men like him—and I was running from one who was far worse. So I hit the driver over the head with a rock.”

I give a startled cough of laughter. “What happened after that?”

“We took his gun. It was the only one on board, and we were on a remote back road, as I said.” The look Rosa shoots me is almost mischievous, and despite everything, I find myself liking her. “We gave all the passengers a choice—they could come with us or stay on the ground with the unconscious driver.” She shrugs. “They chose to come with us, of course. Your mother and I drove that truck until it fell apart beyond repair.” Her smile fades. “Then we walked.”

I sit back in my chair, digesting her words. “My mother never talked about that journey,” I say slowly. “She never really talked about you at all.”

“No,” Rosa says quietly. “No, I imagine she wouldn’t have. It was many years before I could say her name without crying. Leaving Aleksander and Roman was the most difficult thing I have ever done, or ever will do. But leaving Maria... it was like leaving part of my own body. We had been together for so long, through so much. I think that was why we were all so drawn to one another, your papa, Aleksander, Maria, and me. We all knew what it was to fight for our survival against impossible odds, to feel utterly alone in the world but for that one friend. We became one another’s family. And for the precious years we were together, that felt like an almost unimaginable blessing. One none of us ever took for granted—and one we were all prepared to lay down our lives to protect.”

The sadness in her voice is so palpable I don’t want to interrupt her. Outside the window a soft rain begins to fall, the yellow garden lights turning the droplets a gleaming gold as they run down the window. The night outside seems almost uncannily quiet for so deep in the city. The five-story mansion is set behind a tall stone wall and surrounded by a thick garden and stone facade that effectively mask it from the street. We could be in the middle of a forest for all it feels like London.

“It was my family who came for us, in the end.” Rosa’s voice is quiet. She’s curled into the large armchair, her face shadowed in the dim light of the lamp on the coffee table. “By then, we’d stopped spending so much time together. The rumors had begun to spread. People were talking about the vault beneath your father’s house, whispering about what it might contain. Aleksander and Sergei didn’t want to draw attention to their relationship.” Her mouth curls sadly. “Alexander and I had to use the tunnels Sergei had built into the compound to visit him. Our visits were rare by then, so perhaps that is why I remember so clearly the way Sergei’s face lit up whenever he saw you and Alexei. I had never seen him so truly joyful as when he was with you both. You must remember,” she says, her eyes cutting to me, “all that Sergei and Aleksander had been through. Neither of them had come to America expecting to have another chance at family life. I sometimes think that Sergei could never quite believe it had happened. I still believe that is why he built that fortress. He was always preparing for the day when he would lose it all again.” She shakes her head. “I have wondered, sometimes, if it was our combined fears, the way we chose to deal with them, that created our own downfall.”

It’s like hearing the story of someone else’s life. I’m both greedy for every detail and dreading the tragedy I know is coming in her tale.

“I know some of this story,” I say quietly. “My father spoke a little of it, but never of his past, before Miami.”

Rosa’s mouth twists. “Aleksander told me once that both he and Sergei learned early on that the only way to deal with death or loss was to cut all memory of it out of their lives. He said that in the gulag where he and Sergei were both born that was the only way a man survived. He learned to leave grief behind, to never speak of it again. To cut the pain out of his heart and mind, or else he went insane.” She meets my eyes. “I know it must seem unfair to you, even cruel. But when life is full of death, we survive as we must. And some wounds are too painful to ever reopen,mija.”

My heart clenches at the old endearment. Nobody has called memy daughterthat way since my mother died. Hearing it now is a bittersweet echo of the past, a reminder of all I’ve lost, and of all I still have to lose.

“I thinkI can understand what you mean,” I say quietly.

“Yes.” Rosa nods slowly, her face sad. “I guess you can.”

“Your family.” I return to the story, unwilling to allow myself to think too long on those things I might still lose if tonight does not go well. “The Cardeñas cartel.”

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