Page 67 of Lethal Obsession

It’s better than Paris, I guess, since there’s no chance I can return to France anytime soon. But Spain means family, and family means a hundred sets of eyes and security tighter than the fucking Vatican.

“There was quite the standoff when Roman ordered her to go home,” Lars is saying. “But Ofelia stood her ground. She looks a lot like her father when she argues, have you ever noticed that?”

For a second I remember the blue fire in her eyes when she saw me in that Paris speakeasy, the way they drilled into me when she asked what I would say about her performance. The uncanny similarity between her scrutiny and Roman’s death stare didn’t escape me then, nor on the other rare times I’ve glimpsed the hard, brilliant strength simmering beneath the vivid blue surface.

“Yeah,” I say flatly. “I’ve noticed that.”

“In the end, they compromised. Ofelia’s headed back to Spain, but not to the finca.” He pauses again.

I grit my teeth. Fucker is enjoying this just a little too much.

“She’s moving to Granada,” Lars says.

Granada.

I don’t miss the slight edge underlying his delivery. Lars remembers Granada as well as I do. He knows exactly what happened the night of Ofelia’s twenty-first.

Moonlight and alcohol. Way too much alcohol. Ofelia in a midnight silk dress that I wanted to tear off.

“Oh.” I keep my voice even, but my mind is racing, images speeding through it like a disturbing slideshow.

Ofelia’s legs twined behind me, her dress rucked up to her waist.

Ofelia’s lips yielding beneath mine like my mouth was everything she’d been waiting for.

Granada.

Only eighty kilometers from the coast, and more than a hundred from Ofelia’s family.

“Hey, motherfucker.” Lars snaps his fingers into his end of the line. “Life-and-death stuff happening this end, friend.”

“When will she be there?” I hear the faint rasp in my voice.

“That’s your question?” He snorts. “Maybe check your tone when you find yourself talking to Mickey. Definitely before you talk to Roman.”

“Lars,” I say warningly.

“Fine.” He sighs ostentatiously. “Roman is on his way to Granada now, setting up a place for her to live. He’s having conniptions, apparently, because she insisted on living in the Albaicín, the old medieval quarter, which is very picturesque but a total fucking nightmare security-wise, to use Roman’s words. She’ll be in by the end of the week. Oh, and if all that wasn’t enough to send Roman over the edge, she’s choosing her own security team, too. Mickey backed her up on that one.”

Good for Mickey, I think, concealing my surprise. Every time I decide I don’t like that prick, he does something that reminds me what a decent fucking human he is.

It would be a lot easier, frankly, if I didn’t like him.

And even easier if I didn’t like his sister.

“Don’t call me again,” Lars says. “I meant it about the sharks circling. Whoever these fuckers are, they’ve got contacts in high places. Paris was crawling with domestic intelligence agents after your little shoot-out in the street. Roman pulled some very expensive strings to make it all disappear. Then he asked a lot of very awkward questions that Mickey and I didn’t have answers for.”

Fuck.

“I don’t want Mickey involved any more than he already is. He shouldn’t have to lie to his father.”

Lars snorts. “Good luck getting that little prick to stand down, after the motherfuckers in the van dodged us. He took that shit personally. And believe me, Mickey pissed is almost as dangerous as you pissed, albeit in a nerdier kind of way. Roman asked him point-blank if he knew anything about your disappearance. Mickey stared him straight in the face and said he had no fucking idea.”

I don’t like Mickey lying to his godfather. I know how close he and Roman are.

And I don’t like Roman cleaning up my mess. I also know that if the situation were reversed, I’d do exactly the same. It’s what family does, particularly families like ours.

I still don’t like it. Any of it.