Page 140 of Lethal Alliance

I stifle a smile. “I have no doubt you made her very happy.” I glance at him again, but he stares stubbornly straight ahead, refusing to meet my eyes. “That doesn’t change how you feel about my mother. Did it happen before or after my father died?”

Sergei rounds on me at that, his eyes flashing. “Don’t ever suggest such a thing to me again,” he says, his voice shaking with anger. “Your mother is the most honorable woman I know. She would never have betrayed Aleksander like that. Neither of us would.”

I incline my head in apology and don’t ask anything more. A few moments pass, then Sergei turns to me.

“I met Rosa before your father did.” His voice is hoarse. I’m almost certain he has never spoken of this to anyone. “She worked at a dressmaker’s near Aleksander’s shop. I went in to have a suit mended, and we began talking.” He looks away, clasping his hands in front of him. “We talked all night,” he says slowly. “In the end she locked the shop and made tea, and we talked until the sun came up. And then I left and never went back.”

I turn to him in surprise. His eyes, when they meet mine, are resigned. “The next time I met her was a year later—when your father introduced her to me as the woman he planned to marry.”

I digest this in silence, the tip of my cigar glowing in the dusk. After a while, I say, “It was Paris, wasn’t it? The reason you left and didn’t go back.”

He doesn’t answer, but I know by the hard line of his mouth that I’m right.He couldn’t risk loving deeply again, not after the way it had ended the first time.I understand that. I’m not sure I could either, if I ever lost Darya.

I suppress a shudder.

“And afterward,” I say, “when you met her the second time, it was too late. You wouldn’t do anything to hurt my father.” I look at him curiously. “Did you and my mother ever discuss this again?”

“No,” Sergei says shortly. “It would not have been... right.”

“Well, I think that’s bullshit.” I draw on my cigar, ignoring the sudden, lethal stillness that betrays his tension. “More than twenty years have passed since my father died. It’s been a decade or more since Maria died. Neither you or my mother are getting any younger. And I doubt either of your children wish you anything but happiness.”

Sergei presses his lips together. His fingers are clasped tightly in front of him, and he stares straight ahead, his face still inscrutable.

“I know something about avoiding love.” I smile wryly at him. “Up until pretty recently, I was determined to outrun it. But if the past few months have taught us all anything, Sergei, it’s that love is the only thing that really matters. Even for men like us.” I tilt my head. “And if you ever remind me I said that, I will be forced to shoot you.”

He gives a huff of laughter.

I stand up, crushing my cigar in the ashtray by his chair. “You weren’t to blame for my father’s death, Sergei,” I say quietly. “No more than you, or my mother, were to blame for what happened to me. I’m not a priest, and you never asked for my forgiveness.” I put my hand out. “But for what it’s worth, you have it.”

He puts his hands on the arms of the wicker chair and pushes himself to standing. “I’ve been practicing,” he says wryly, seeing my surprise. “I will not be so feeble that I cannot walk my own daughter down the aisle.” He puts his hand out and grips mine. “I thank you, Roman Alexandervitch,” he says simply. “Your father would be proud of the man you have become, just as I am grateful that my daughter is marrying such a man.”

“It is I who am grateful, Sergei Naryshkin,” I say formally. “I will always protect your daughter. I want you to know that.”

He nods once. “I do.”

I leave him there on the terrace and slip back inside.

Much later, when I am heading upstairs to find Darya, I notice my mother sitting in the chair I recently vacated, watching the night grow with Sergei.

42

DARYA

Iwatch my brother’s car snake up the mountain road toward the finca and try to still my pulse rate.

I know my brother did what he thought was best, just as my father did. I’m glad that Roman has come to peace with them both.

And yet, despite my public stance, privately I’m still not entirely happy with either my father or Alexei.

Roman, knowing how much I’ve been dreading this reunion, has taken Rosa and the children to the penthouse for the day, giving Papa and me time to meet Alexei in private. It’s a break with Russian tradition for him, as head of the house, not to greet Alexei on arrival, but one I’m grateful for. This is a meeting best done without an audience. Alexei has clearly reached the same conclusion, going by the minimal security presence following his car at a discreet distance. Lars will be here in time for the wedding.

Papa stands beside me, leaning heavily on his cane, tense and still as the car draws to a halt. He refused to make this first meeting from the comfort of his chair.

I didn’t argue. On some matters, my father is not to be defied.

Alexei, to my surprise, has driven himself. He steps out, the myriad of old scars on his grim, unsmiling face gleaming smooth in the sunlight. But it isn’t his face that I can’t stop staring at. It’s his hand on the car door.

Or rather, the tattoo on his hand.

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