6. Alexei #4
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.
It’s always like this when I see her.
Ofelia is both the darkest part of my swamp and the only light gleaming in its depths. Difficult to navigate—and even harder to hide the truth from.
“Remember that field in Spain,” I say slowly, “where Darya and Roman got married?”
She gives the barest nod, her eyes not leaving mine.
“That’s what I thought of when you were playing. Everyone dancing and laughing in the afternoon sun.”
What the fuck?
I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. I don’t even know where the hell they came from. I cast around for some kind of lighthearted joke, but I know it’s too late. That bullshit is out there now, and there’s no taking it back.
Ofelia’s eyes flare with arctic fire, so swift and fierce it’s like a gut punch. “That’s how it feels when I play it.” Her eyes soften, their color deepening. “Like I’m dancing through a field, bathed in sunlight.”
Something extremely dangerous inside me begins to unravel and come to life.
“You’re wearing the necklace my father gave you.”
“He told you?” She touches the webbed silver, her lips parting in surprise. My entire body aches to kiss them.
“I was with him when he chose it.” My hand moves toward the necklace like it belongs to someone else. I trace the thin chains, acutely aware of the warm skin beneath the metal, her sharp intake of breath. “Did he tell you who it once belonged to?”
“Yes.” The one word is barely a breath, her eyes locked on mine.
“It suits you.” My hand still rests on the necklace, just above the soft swell of her breasts. Her skin is like silk, her scent is all around me, and just like that, I’m a second away from taking her mouth until neither of us can fucking breathe, and to hell with anyone who is watching us.
Her eyes widen, her body poised like a hummingbird suspended mid-flight.
What the fuck am I doing?
I drop my hand like I’ve been burned, the square box in my pocket a searing reminder of the depths of my self-delusion.
Whatever you’re thinking, stop fucking thinking it, asshole.
“Ofelia.” I step backward, wincing inwardly at the warning note in my voice.
But in place of the hurt I expect to see, a hard, brilliant shutter comes down over Ofelia’s eyes, taking every last hint of both fire and softness with it. It’s almost shocking, like watching a candlesnuffer descend over an open flame, leaving the room in sudden darkness.
“I’m glad you enjoyed the recital.” Her voice is calm and even. “You should enjoy Paris while you’re here.” Her smile is polite but dismissive as she turns back to her friends. “I know Masha is looking forward to spending time with you tomorrow.”
And just like that, she’s absorbed back into a circle of people who love her.
I stand outside that circle watching, every fiber of my being aching with something I can’t begin to fathom, let alone name.