Page 132 of Lethal Obsession

Russians are almost more superstitious than Spaniards, fearing and revering the occult with equal measure.

I put a reassuring hand on his arm. “Seline is just a friend, Deda.”

“Be careful what you tell outsiders.” His eyes, when he turns to me, are as sharp as a man half his age. “Remember,” he says quietly in Russian. “Doveryai, no proveryai.” Trust, but verify.

A slight chill runs down my spine.

I’ve heard those words many times in my life. It is a saying used by bratva soldiers and bosses alike, a dictum by which the men in my world all live by.

But not even Papa has ever said those words directly to me.

“You know what our world is,” he says quietly. “What can happen when we trust the wrong people.”

For a terrible moment I remember lying beneath rubble, amid the smoke and confusion that followed the Orlovs’ bomb, Masha crying at my side.

I shiver.

“Yes, Deda,” I whisper in Russian. “I know what can happen when we trust those we should not.”

He nods curtly. “Do not trust a Duval Gypsy, umnyashka. They collect secrets like some men do jewels.”

I frown. “Lourdes’s family are also gypsies, Deda.” I’ve never known my grandfather to discriminate on the basis of race before. “You’ve never been worried about them, and Lourdes has an aunt who also reads fortunes.”

Sergei lifts a shoulder. “Romany are like Russians,” he says quietly. “Or anyone else. There are those who can be trusted and those who never can be.” He looks directly at me. “We have met Lourdes’s family. Eaten in their home, drunk their wine. Her family, her parents and grandparents, are good people.” His eyes darken with something I can’t quite read. “Believe me when I say that your friend Seline cannot make the same claim.”

I stare at him. “Why are you so certain Seline is from the same family of Duvals that you knew?”

“At my age I no longer wait to know a thing before giving the warning.” His eyes pierce my own. “It would be . . . unwise to speak my son’s name to that woman. Yasno?”

Are we clear?

I swallow, my throat suddenly very dry. “Yes, Deda.”

It’s a bit late for that particular warning. Seline knows more about Alexei than any other person in my life.

“Good.” He smiles to take some of the sting from his tone. “Choose your friends wisely, umnyashka.” Sergei nods approvingly at Lourdes as she approaches with Mickey. “Skazhi mne kto tvoy drug, ee ya skazhu tebye kto ty.”

Tell me who your friend is, and I will tell you who you are.

But even as I smile at Lourdes and her hand slips into mine, Seline’s warning about betrayal rings in my mind beside Sergei’s: “It is a woman. . .a woman that you thought you could trust. . .”

Why would she give me a warning like that if she herself was the person not to be trusted?

I close my eyes, old fears churning corrosively inside me.

I see my mother, Inger, who had her own daughters kidnapped. My uncle Nikolai, who helped her.

Both people I trusted. Both prepared to see their own blood suffer for no other reason than a good payday.

Both dead now.

The simple fact is that in my world nobody can ever really be trusted.

Not friends.

Sometimes not even family.

Deda Sergei might be right about Seline.