Page 152 of Lethal Alliance

The truth is we got to theGuapa, which was moored at Milos island, then spent most of the next month either in bed, naked in the pool, or naked in the sea.

Naked, basically.

We round the corner of the basement, and suddenly there it is. The vault Roman’s father built with his own hands. The lethal legacy that binds us to our shared history in love, pain, loyalty, and honor.

Roman turns to me. “Are you ready?”

I nod, then look at my brother. “Ready?”

Alexei gives a curt nod of his head. I’m aware of our father standing behind him, tall and proud. He doesn’t try to interfere. This legacy is ours now, the responsibility of a new generation.

My father has carried it for long enough.

Roman presses one of the flowers, and a small panel emerges, lights blinking red as it waits for our fingerprints. He steps up and puts his index finger to the panel. One light goes green. I follow him, and a second one changes color. Finally it’s Alexei’s turn.

When all the lights are green, Alexei holds up his key. Roman presses another flower, and two panels I never knew were there slide aside, revealing two locks on either side of the door.

Roman and Alexei place their keys in the locks and turn them. There’s an audible click. Roman takes hold of the central wheel, and the heavy door swings open.

Lights come on automatically, lighting the dim interior of the vault. It’s an entire room, bigger than most bedrooms, with shelves lining the walls and glass shelving cabinets. On every surface, spaced at neat intervals, are the treasures that were once entrusted to the Naryshkin family.

Fabergé eggs, some I recognize as the lost treasures of the Romanov imperial family. Every manner of elaborate jewelry, in every conceivable stone and metal. Gold, silver, diamond, and pearl; the shelves are a glittering array from a lost world. One where women wore tiaras with jewels the size of golf balls and gave their children rocking horses with sapphires for eyes.

Because it isn’t just jewelry that thedvoryanstvotucked away for safekeeping. They also put aside their most precious possessions.

The rocking horse might have sapphire eyes, but it also has a worn leather saddle and hair that is thin from being pulled out.

A soft toy doll wears a dress threaded in gold and seed pearls, but one of her diamond eyes is missing, and an arm hangs at a crooked angle from being carried around.

One of the first matryoshka doll sets ever made, hand-painted by Malyutin himself more than a century ago, the exquisite paintwork scarred and battered from little hands banging the dolls around.

Leather-bound family bibles locked with gold clasps, containing entire family lineages. Family paintings.

The vault is a treasure trove of family love, the small things, priceless in both monetary and emotional terms, that make a family history.

Every single treasure has a neatly written card propped beneath it, stating the family name, the last known address of any descendant, and any other information that might matter.

We all stand at the entrance, almost too afraid to enter. The vault feels like a still life painting, a snapshot of another world.

It’s Masha who breaks the silence. “Horsie!” she squeals, running through the maze of treasure to the rocking horse with the sapphire eyes. She straddles it without hesitation and begins rocking back and forth, humming a tune of her own making.

Roman and I cross the floor after her, gazing in astonishment at the riches piled around us. He bends down to read the card propped against the horse and gives a disbelieving snort of laughter. “Read it,” he murmurs to me, pointing to the card. This one is not written in the same neat hand as the others in the room, but in a childish scrawl of Russian Cyrillic letters.

This horse is called Golden Wind and he belongs to me, Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna of Russia, youngest daughter of Tsar Nicholas II, sovereign of Imperial Russia. DO NOT TOUCH.

“Oh my goodness,” I breathe.

Roman nudges me. “Have a closer look at the hair Masha is clinging to. It’s made of pure gold thread.” We look at each other, laughing in shaky disbelief.

We spend a long time looking through the vault, being careful not to rearrange the careful order. “My father wrote these cards,” Roman says, peering at one. “It’s his hand.”

“Da.”Papa nods, his eyes far away in the past. “Aleksander was meticulous about keeping records.”

“He loved writing these,” Rosa says quietly, slipping her hand into Papa’s. “His father made him memorize every piece when he was growing up in the gulag, and the story that went with it.”

Papa laughs softly. “Our fathers used to say that it wasn’t the piece itself, but rather the reason it mattered, that was important. Russians value stories, you understand. We learned the story of every piece on winter nights, when the snow fell and there was nothing but stories to keep us warm.”

I smile at him, suddenly so grateful that we got here at last, that we saved this legacy from the hands of uncaring, brutal men.

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