Page 188 of Lethal Obsession

“I don’t.” He meets my glare with one of his own. “But in this case, I happen to agree with him. And if Alexei were here, I’m pretty sure he’d agree, too.”

Jack and Benny are still waiting, and I’m about to argue, when a soft voice interrupts.

“Go with him, Ofelia.”

I turn to find a very tearstained Lourdes in the doorway. She isn’t looking at me, but rather at Benny, whose head comes up at the sound of her voice. As soon as she sees his face, her own crumples, and she rushes forward, wrapping her arms around him.

“Oh.” He collapses against her. “Oh, thank God. Lourdes—you should have seen him—”

“I know,” she stutters. “I heard—oh, Benny, I’m so sorry—”

Then they are sobbing in each other’s arms in a mass of incoherent phrases.

It takes me a few moments to realize that their best comfort is each other—and that the best thing I can do is leave.

This isn’t their world. The thought is oddly lonely. They are victims of it, while I—I belong in it.

I’m no stranger to the violence, or the grief it brings. I wish I was.

But this is my life.

It always has been, just as it has been Alexei’s.

I wish with all my heart that the darkness of our world had never touched the lives of our friends.

And I wish that Alexei was here to face the darkness with me.

But he isn’t. And without him, even standing so close to my two closest friends, the loneliness is like lead inside me.

Turning, I quietly follow Dimitry out, leaving Lourdes and Benny alone with a grief that I feel I have no right to share.

In some weird parody of our childhood, Mickey and I find ourselves sitting in the backseat of the sedan, while Dimitry and Papa sit in the front, Dimitry driving while Papa has a short, terse conversation with someone on the phone.

I glance over to find Mickey looking at me with a wry expression. He holds up his phone so I can see the screen, the same way we used to communicate as kids.

I miss the button, he’s written.

Despite the gravity of our situation, and my recent tears, I bite my lip to stop an involuntary giggle.

The button is what we used to raise the glass screen between us and the front seat, a pointed but passive childhood act of defiance against the adults who so frequently ignored us or simply ordered us around.

I meet his eyes, see the dark pain in his, and our smiles both fade.

I’m sorry, he mouths.

I shake my head. It’s okay.

I touch the fingertips poking out of his sling and briefly intertwine my own with his. The corner of his mouth tugs upward, but the pain in his eyes doesn’t lessen at all. Whatever residual anger I might feel slips away, neutralized by my brother’s very obvious crippling regret.

To cheer him up, I tilt my head slightly toward the front seat and roll my eyes. It’s Mickey’s turn to bite his lip. He turns away abruptly, looking out the window at the night sky, but his fingers tighten on mine, and I take an odd comfort in the contact.

Despite the almost comical farce of sitting behind Roman and Dimitry as if we were both kids again, there’s a certain reassuring familiarity in being with Mickey right now. He and I have faced the darkness together many times, been each other’s silent comfort when nobody else was there. Whatever distance might have fallen between us in recent months, that, at least, hasn’t changed.

The villa is blazing with lights as we pull up, despite the late hour.

Nobody is sleeping tonight, I think as we step out and follow Luca inside. I take the bag Roman hands me, which, he tells me, was packed by Darya, with customary thoughtfulness. After a shower and change of clothes I’m shown to a large stone-and-wood salon, which has clearly been set aside for our use. Inside, Roman, Dimitry, and Mickey are all seated at a big wooden table—along with Mak.

“Ofelia.” Mak stands, greeting me with his customary exceptional manners. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him wearing anything other than a suit. Clad in a loose linen shirt over beige combat pants, he looks somehow leaner and more dangerous than I’m accustomed to.