Page 6 of Lethal Obsession

Most of the other people here are family, whether bratva or blood.

In our world, there isn’t a great deal of difference.

“When am I going to do my dance, Ofelia?” My sister appears in front of me. She’s wearing an ornate flamenco dress she had made especially for the occasion and her steel-capped velvet dancing shoes. Darya has wound her black curls into a tight, sleek dancer’s bun, which makes her eyes stand out.

Masha is only eleven, but dancing has given her an upright posture and confidence that has taken her from the mischievous child she was only a few years ago to the extremely forthright, unafraid girl who stares directly at me now.

“I think Papa wanted to make his speech first,” I say. “Are your musicians ready?”

“Si.” Masha nods imperiously.

As she’s spent most of her life in Spain, and all her spare time studying flamenco, Spanish is definitely Masha’s native tongue, unlike Mickey and me, who default to English or Russian.

“Lourdes’s father is the tocaor,” she says now, using the Spanish word for guitarist in the flamenco tradition. “His son Carlos will play cajón, and Lourdes and the other waitresses will make palmas. The drums and the clapping,” she says impatiently, when I look slightly confused.

“Of course.” I hide my smile. “Well, I’ll tell Papa to hurry up, then, shall I?”

“Si, por favor.” Masha looks around at the crowd, her brow wrinkling. “I will go find Alexei. He said he wanted to see me dance.” She gives me a slightly disapproving look. “You are not very nice to Alexei, Ofelia. You’ve hardly spoken to him all night.”

“I’m sorry, myshka.” I give her what I hope is a convincing smile. “I’ve been busy with my guests.”

“Hmph.” Masha gives me one of her increasingly penetrating frowns. “You should be nicer. Lexi is my friend, and we hardly ever get to see him.” She turns in a disgruntled ruffle of skirts and crosses the terrace toward Alexei, calling his name over the sound of the crowd without any regard at all for decorum.

I watch her go, feeling guilt and affection warring inside me. As far as Masha is concerned, Alexei is a god who hung the moon.

She only remembers Alexei being our protector during the time the Orlovs held us captive. She was young enough to believe us when we told her that it was just a game, when Alexei held me down and took a knife to my flesh, an act we put on for the Orlovs.

She never felt the red-hot sting of the blade on her skin, the sudden rush of blood and pain.

She never knew how deadly the game really was.

Pushing the memories away, I catch my father’s eye and tilt my head toward the small stage. He barks an order, and the entire group surrounding him rises as one—attentive, as ever, to Roman Borovsky’s slightest instruction.

My father is a pakhan to the core. It’s what he has always been. What he always will be, no matter how clean his business appears these days.

The bratva is what I was born into. I don’t resent it, nor question it. I’ve seen enough to know that our world is not one that can ever be outrun, nor hidden from.

No matter how many piano solos I play, nor the international concert halls I might play them in, my family name and reputation will never be more than a simple Google search away. It’s the reason I have few friends, and a security detail no matter where I go.

It’s the reason that my sister and I were kidnapped five years ago.

And it’s the reason that contemplating any kind of future with Alexei Petrovsky is a special kind of insanity.

“So,” Papa says, coming to my side, “does this mean it’s speech time?”

“Relax, Papa.” I tweak his perfectly straight bow tie, making it crooked, but getting the satisfaction of seeing his expression soften. “It’s just a speech. And you don’t need to say much. Just thank everyone, congratulate me, and move on.”

“Ha.” He gives me a wry look. “Says the girl who spends half her life on a stage.”

“Oh, please.” I give him a sideways look. “Like you don’t spend half of yours giving speeches.”

“Ah, but my men are paid to listen to mine. And to pretend they like them.”

That makes me laugh. Papa puts his arm around me, pulling me close. “I wish Mikhail was here,” he murmurs and kisses the top of my head. “He’d be so proud of you, sweetheart.”

Emotion hits me out of the blue, a bittersweet mixture of longing and love. Mikhail Stevanovksy, the man I grew up thinking was my father, died when I was twelve. Roman, our godfather and his closest friend, has raised us ever since. By the time we discovered that Roman is in fact my real father, I already thought of him that way. Although I still miss Mikhail, I was never close to him in the same way I am to Roman, just as I’m closer to Darya than I ever was to Inger, my birth mother.

“Right.” Smiling at me, Papa smooths a stray hair back from my face. “Ready to face the enemy?”