Page 165 of Lethal Obsession

“Come here, girl!” He pulls me into a huge bear hug, kissing me roundly on the cheek. “Epic news.” He squeezes my hand, then gets up and pulls a bottle of Veuve from the fridge in the corner of a bedroom I assume is Lourdes’s, although it looks entirely unused. “Best excuse ever for day drinking,” he says as the cork shoots into the corner. “And as soon as I pour, I want to see the ring.”

I reach for my pendant. Lourdes and Benny look at it in confusion.

“The ring is inside,” I explain. “I didn’t want to wear it when we arrived in case Mickey saw it before we’ve had a chance to explain.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Benny hands us both glasses. “I’d let your pirate do the talking there and keep your fingers crossed that it doesn’t come down to cutlasses in the rigging.”

“Lars said pistols at dawn,” I say wryly, taking the glass he offers.

“I’d put money on both. Congratulations, darling.” He raises his glass. “To you and your pirate.”

“To you and Alexei,” Lourdes says, but despite her best efforts, her smile doesn’t quite mask the worry in her eyes. She’s also definitely caught a lot of sun. Her limbs are bronzed, and her cheeks are flaming.

“You should be careful in the sun,” I say, smiling as I touch her shoulder. “You look like you’ve caught a lot for someone who’s only just arrived.”

Benny almost chokes on his Veuve. “Sorry,” he says, not looking it at all. “Inhaled bubbles. Now show me that ring.”

I release the clasp and slip the ring onto my finger, then hold my hand out for them to see.

“Oh my lord!” Benny’s eyes widen in genuine awe as he grabs my hand and stares at it. “Girl. That ring is fucking divine.” His eyes rise to the pendant and widen even further. “Wait,” he says, his voice almost failing him. “Is that pendant a genuine Fabergé?”

“Yes.” I lean forward to give him a closer look. “It’s a family piece, made for Deda Sergei’s sister Anya, but she never got a chance to wear it.” I tell them the story, which then prompts Benny to ask for details of Alexei’s proposal. Some time later, he’s on his third glass and wiping away tears.

Lourdes, however, is still wearing a rather strained smile and looks oddly distracted.

“Hey.” I take her hand. “Say it, whatever you’re thinking. I know this has all happened quickly. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before—”

But Lourdes is no longer looking at me. Her eyes are fixed over my shoulder at the door, her face such a picture of dismay that I turn around, then immediately understand.

Mickey is standing in the doorway.

Only the man glaring at me now isn’t Mickey the tech geek, nor Mickey my little brother.

It’s not even Mickey Stevanovsky, entrepreneur and occasional party boy.

This is Mikhail Stevanovsky-Borovsky. Son of a murdered bratva soldier, godson of Spain’s most powerful pakhan, and the man who picked up a machine gun when he was only fourteen years old and shot the men chasing Masha and me.

And by the way his eyes are blazing now, there’s a very good chance he might be about to repeat the exercise.

“Get the fuck out,” he snarls. He’s glaring at me, but it’s clear his words are intended for my friends. Benny leaps up with alacrity, staring avidly between us as he heads for the door. I’d put money on it that he’s going to have his ear pressed hard against it the moment he leaves.

Lourdes, somewhat to my surprise, hasn’t moved from the bed. “Mickey,” she says quietly.

“Don’t, Lourdes.” His eyes cut to her. “I mean it,” he says grimly. “Go.”

Surprised and rather touched that she’d come to my defense, I touch her hand. “It’s okay. Just do as he says.”

She gives me a tight smile, but her eyes on Mickey are shadowed with a touch of fear.

“Hey,” I say, smiling reassuringly at her. “It’s fine, Lourdes. Really.”

“Claro.” Still looking far more worried than her usual smiling self, Lourdes walks reluctantly to the door. Mickey’s eyes dart to her as she passes, and I hear her murmur something that sounds like “cuidado.” Why she would be telling my brother to be careful is a mystery, however, so I must have misheard.

“Go on, then.” I stand up, trying to ignore the slight flutter of nerves in my chest. “Let’s get this over with.”

Mickey’s fists are clenched at his sides. “Does Papa know?”

“Papa?” I raise my eyebrows at him. “Since when have you called Roman Papa?”