Page 36 of Lethal Obsession

“I can imagine.” I nod politely at Abby, who does the same in my general direction. Like most of Roman and Darya’s friends, she’s long given up trying to make anything but the most superficial effort when it comes to me. For once, maybe because Ofelia’s performance is still thrilling every nerve in my body, my characteristic aloofness feels discordant. I open my mouth to ask Abby how she’s doing, but she’s already turned away.

“I thought Luke and Zinaida would be here,” I say, looking around. Despite Zinaida’s fearsome reputation, and the fact that she has been watching me with just a little too much perception ever since the night I burst into her London nightclub and nearly carried Ofelia forcibly out of there, I rather like her. And her husband, Luke Macarthur, is absolutely impossible not to like. I won’t ever forget that he put his body between Ofelia and a hail of bullets in the Orlov basement. He’s never directly asked me what went down while I was her captor.

I’m not too sure what I’d tell him if he did. Luke is a hard man to lie to.

Dimitry’s smile widens. “You didn’t hear? Zin and Luke had a baby girl, Mila, two weeks ago.”

“Zinaida Melikov—a mother?” I stare at him in amazement.

“No shit.” Dimitry chuckles. “Good luck to Mila when she gets older, trying to pull anything over on those parents. Luke has already warned me and Roman that our sons aren’t allowed anywhere near his daughter for the next two decades at least.”

I can’t help but laugh at that. “I was hoping he’d be here, actually. Last time we caught up he was in Miami, setting up a branch of that new business he’s running.”

“Red 24.” He nods. “High-risk rescue is a good addition to his security firm. And let’s face it”—he gives me the ghost of a wink—“between all of us, we’re likely to keep him busy.”

No shit.

“He gave me a card for the Miami branch,” I say, keeping my tone casual. “Is the number the same here in Europe?”

“No.” Dimitry fishes around in his jacket pocket and comes out with a silver card holder. “Here.” He pulls out a cream card. “This will get you through to a European switchboard, and they’ll take it from there.” He lowers his voice. “Have you got a code?”

I nod.

“Good. Same code works everywhere, but I’m guessing Luke explained that already.” He slips me the card. “You expecting to give Red 24 a trial run sometime soon, Lex?” His tone is humorous enough, but I don’t miss the edge of concern.

“Always expect the unexpected, Dimitry.” I smile easily. “That way the fuckers never catch you off guard.”

“Ha!” He gives a delighted boom of laughter. “I like that. Now.” He looks at his glass. “Drink.”

My father appears in front of me as Dimitry moves away. Gripping my shoulder with one large hand, he leans in close. “Vse khorosho?” he asks in a low voice. All is well?

“Da.” I nod briefly.

He stands back. “I am glad you are here,” he says simply. An elegantly dressed dark-haired woman appears behind him, and the lines on his hard face soften as he draws his wife forward.

“Alexei,” Rosa says, smiling gently. “I am so glad to see you.”

I kiss her cheeks from a safe distance. “And I you.” That, at least, is not a lie. Rosa is Roman’s mother—yet another tie binding our extremely fucked-up family tree. Although my father has never said it in so many words, I’m fairly sure he was in love with her long before she ever met Aleksander, Roman’s father. I’m glad they’ve found one another again.

“Alexei.” Papa puts his head close to mine, and Rosa moves diplomatically away. I like that about her, the way she seems to understand what my father needs without words. “Can you spare some time tomorrow? I have somewhere I would like to take you.”

I begin to automatically decline his invitation. Then I remember, with an odd jolt, that I literally have nowhere else to be. “Yes,” I find myself saying. “Yes, Papa. I can.”

I don’t miss the flare of surprise in his eyes. But he doesn’t say anything, just squeezes my shoulder again, then shifts his eyes to Masha, his face softening even further. “Now, myshka,” he says, slipping her hand into his big one, “tell me the name of the piece by Mr. Beethoven that your sister played tonight and what you liked about it.”

My heart twists oddly as I watch him lean in attentively to listen to Masha’s answer, gently correcting her when she makes an error.

I remember when he used to do that with us.

Back when our mother, Maria, was still alive. When we would all sit in the kitchen of the Miami compound while she cooked, before the Orlovs came and turned my mother’s kitchen into a soulless place of stainless steel occupied by a paid chef.

“It’s strange, sometimes, isn’t it? Watching them together?” Jolted, I realize Darya is standing in front of me, her eyes on my face uncomfortably perceptive. “I remember when he would do that with us,” she goes on quietly. “Play classical music while Mama cooked, then ask us to name the piece and tell him how it made us feel.”

Her recollection so precisely matches my own that for an extremely awkward moment, I find it difficult to speak.

Thankfully, Darya saves me from answering by pressing my hand. “It’s good to see you, little brother,” she says quietly. She doesn’t attempt to embrace me, for which I’m grateful.

“And you.” I hear the rough note in my voice, even if my sister is diplomatic enough to ignore it.