Page 5 of Lethal Obsession

“Maybe you should start with the basics.” I’m astonished that I can speak at all. “Criminal, for example. Or pakhan.”

His lip curls in rare humor. Goaded by some inner demon, I whisper, “Torturer.”

His hand clenches on the arbor, hard enough to make the wood creak, and his knuckles turn white, his eye boring into mine.

“Torturer.” He rasps the word like it’s being torn from him. “That’s the only word that really matters, Ofelia, isn’t it?”

We’re closer than we’ve been in all the years since I left the Orlovs’ cell. Suddenly I’m back on that concrete floor, Alexei looming over me, his blade searing my flesh, his whispered warning hot in my ear: “Trust me . . .”

“Lex.” A broad Australian accent interrupts us, sweeping the tension away like an ocean wave, and just like that, the moment is gone. “Good to see you, brother.” It’s the calm tone of Luke Macarthur, one of my father’s best friends.

Alexei turns away, bestowing a rare smile on Luke’s bearlike form.

I sag against the arbor, heart thudding like a racehorse, barely able to catch my breath.

“How do you not have a glass in your hand?” Zinaida Melikov, Luke’s immaculately dressed wife, turns me deftly away from the crowd. “Breathe.” She steers me toward a quiet corner. “Nobody is watching. Here.” She pours a shot from an open vodka bottle, then pushes it into my hand. “Drink.”

I wince as the liquor burns my throat.

“Good.” She refills the shot glass. “Now have another.”

I toss it back. “Aren’t you supposed to be one of the responsible adults in the room?”

Zin arches a perfect eyebrow. “I doubt anyone would ever accuse me of being responsible. But I am definitely adults-only, which means I know when a girl is in need of a drink.”

I laugh then, which helps still my racing heart.

Zinaida runs the Quartier, London’s most exclusive burlesque club. It’s as famous for its orgies as its clandestine guest list.

The Quartier was also the scene of my last disastrous meeting with Alexei a year ago, after my first solo piano recital.

Tonight is the first time we’ve met since.

It was Zinaida who held my hand that night, when I cried my eyes out.

Zin is also an utterly terrifying criminal mastermind, one even my father wouldn’t dare cross. She’s also one of the only women he calls friend.

Killer. Friend.

In my world, those are the kinds of juxtapositions you live with.

“Your face is still perfect.” She eyes me critically. “Take a deep breath, this glass of Krug, and put on that stunning smile of yours.” She hands me a flute. “Then get out there and make every bastard in this room, Alexei Petrovsky included, believe that you’re having the most fabulous night of your life.

“As for you,” she says, turning a glacial stare to Benny, “stop with the theatrics and play something happy, for Chrissakes.”

Benny, chastened, shifts smoothly into a sweet rendition of an old Fleetwood Mac song that instantly makes the night feel nostalgic.

I touch Zinaida’s hand. “Thank you.”

She nods briskly. “Now, unless you fancy your birthday turning into a bloodbath, do us both a favor and stay the fuck away from Petrovsky for the rest of the night.”

That’s what I like about Zinaida. She doesn’t try to sugarcoat our world—or pretend that any of the players in it are innocent.

Taking a decent slug of Krug, I step out into the crowd.

Several hours later, I’ve drunk just enough to make the night magical, but not quite enough to make me unsteady in my stilettoes.

Benny’s quartet has shifted into a very upbeat rendition of a Bruno Mars song, and people are beginning to dance beneath the fairy lights on the terrace. In the far corner, Mickey and Lars are laughing uproariously, surrounded by a group of equally raucous friends. My parents are sitting on low lounges in the corner. Their group includes Darya’s best friend, Abby, who is married to Papa’s closest friend, Dimitry; Zin and Luke; and my grandparents, Sergei and Rosa, who watch on benevolently as the others drink and laugh.