Page 41 of Lethal Obsession

“That man is a fucking god,” Benny says, his eyes glued to Lars’s ass until the bathroom door swings shut.

“There’s a drink on this menu called a passion dévorante.” I shoot him a sly glance. “It means consuming passion, if my French serves. Sounds like it might be right up your alley, if you’ll excuse the pun.”

“Oh, fuck you, Jack Sparrow.” He throws a fluffy pink cushion at me. “And you’re paying,” he says, pointing the menu in my direction. “Since we’re covering for your lies and giving you inside information on musicians.”

I order a Scotch, listening to Benny and Lourdes order drinks with titles that sound like the fantasy section of a bookstore, and try not to think about what happens after tonight.

Then I remember the way Ofelia looked in that black dress and think I’d do better focusing on getting through tonight, rather than about what comes after it.

It’s definitely better for everyone if I fuck off.

I sense the new arrivals coming up the steps long before they enter, probably because waiting for Ofelia has me wired tighter than one of her piano strings. When her profile finally comes into view, I stare at the entrance like a dumbstruck kid, my every sense having flown straight out of my brain.

Ofelia is wearing the same dress she did on stage. It’s cut simply, barely skimming her figure as it falls to the floor, but it’s made of some kind of floaty material that moves around her in a way that gives tantalizing hints of the body beneath. Her hair is swept into an elegant updo that my fingers ache to pull loose, and she’s wearing the necklace my father chose for her from our vault.

I remember how that neck felt cradled in my hand, and for a sudden, savage moment, I remember the taste of her skin so vividly it takes my breath away.

I stand, and her eyes meet mine the moment she enters the bar. I watch her cross the room, oblivious to the blur of faces behind her as she approaches.

“Darling!” Lars reappears, enveloping Ofelia from behind, making her squeal in surprise. He spins her around and deposits her on the other side of him, effectively shielding her from my view. “I can’t believe we missed your grand debut. I hear you were utterly spectacular, of course.”

Ofelia’s head is hidden in his shoulder, so I don’t hear her reply. She turns to greet Mickey, waving off his apologies with easy affection. I hang back as Lourdes and Benny rush over, swamping her in a group hug and a torrent of compliments.

Roman has his head bent toward Mickey, listening to his godson as he shakes Lars’s hand. He nods briefly, clapping Mickey on the shoulder and turning back toward the room with a smile that says he’s swallowed whatever bullshit excuse Mickey has fed him.

Thank fuck for that.

Family or not, I know that Roman would hit the roof if he knew Mickey had spent the last twenty-four hours covering my tracks and creating a new identity to shield me from the FBI. Not because he wouldn’t have done it himself in a heartbeat if I’d asked—but because I didn’t ask in the first place.

Like my father, Roman would be a lot happier if I came into the family fold. Took my business out of the swamp and into the server center, just as he has done with Mercura. I’m aware that he has tacitly encouraged Mickey’s ventures with Lars in the hope that I will eventually leave the swamp behind and join them.

But I don’t like being managed.

And Roman, for all his undeniably good intentions, likes managing everything in his orbit.

He also seems to think that his own feud with the Orlovs, marrying my sister, and the fact that his long-dead father was once best friends with my own mean that he knows my story inside and out.

The truth is that whatever Roman thinks he knows barely touches the surface of the swamp, let alone descends into the still, murky waters beneath.

And I like it that way.

I plan to tell Roman what is happening in Miami. But tonight is neither the time nor place for that conversation. My presence here isn’t putting anyone in any kind of danger, or I never would have come. If there was an official alert out for me, Renata would have let me know. And the Novikovs are a local threat, not an international one. I have a couple of days’ breathing room before I meet Lars’s yacht in Marseilles.

Which at least means I can keep my promise to Masha.

Ofelia breaks away from her friends. Her eyes fall on me once again, the uplights beneath the bar making them gleam like blue fire.

It’s the promises I’ve made myself that are going to be the fucking challenge.

Ofelia waits until Benny and Lourdes are absorbed in conversation with Darya and Roman before extricating herself from the crowd of well-wishers and making her way toward my end of the bar. She stops a full pace away, saving me from having to embrace her.

“Apparently,” I say, trying to keep my tone light, “saying your playing was exquisite marks me out as a clueless boomer, so I won’t say that.”

She doesn’t return my smile. “What are you going to say, then?”

Her low voice cuts through the background music and chatter. Her eyes drill into mine, their unsettling perception stripping away whatever words I’d prepared.

And just like that, I’m back in that fucking cell, with a knife in my hand and her body helpless beneath my own.