9. Ofelia #3
They both snort. “Good luck with that,” Bryce says, giving Luis a knowing look. “Lex and Lars aren’t exactly renowned for celibacy, and Mickey’s no better.” Seeing my face, he reddens. “No offense,” he mutters.
Oh, like it’s Mickey’s sex life that’s upsetting me.
And even if I did care who Mickey is sleeping with, I’d still be far more disturbed by the fact that he casually drugged my two closest friends to keep them quiet while there was a shoot-out going on in the street.
I fold my arms and glare at them both until they get the hint and take their lies to another part of the salon.
But I can’t pretend their comments don’t upset me. Almost as much as the fact that Alexei is somewhere out on the streets alone, presumably being chased by people who want him dead.
The thing is, I’ve seen enough of Alexei under pressure to know that he’s a very hard man to kill.
Unfortunately, I also know he’s a very hard man to resist.
My father’s men joke about Alexei’s and Lars’s escapades when they think I’m not listening. I’m well aware that among Mickey’s crew the term trip to Miami has become a euphemism for anything fucking goes.
I know Mickey has been leaning heavily into his ho phase, as Lars likes to call it. I don’t particularly care, so long as he keeps his hands off my friends.
Alexei, however, is another matter altogether.
Because after last night, the mere thought of him putting hands on another woman, of his lone eye looking at them with the same blazing hunger he did me, makes me want to pull out one of my father’s guns and blow up everything in sight.
The savagery of my reaction to the thought actually takes me by surprise.
It’s not like I don’t know Alexei’s reputation. And if I didn’t hear enough of it in whispers, the paparazzi cover what the rumors leave out.
I’ve hated paparazzi since childhood, not least because Inger, my narcissistic mother, coveted the flash of a camera bulb far more than she ever did the love of her children.
I stopped looking at online gossip sites as a child, when I saw a photograph of her wrapped in an intimate embrace with a man who was definitely neither Roman, my biological father, or Mikhail, Mickey’s father, who raised us as children and to whom Inger was actually married at the time.
But in the years since I was kidnapped, I’ve developed a very unhealthy relationship with certain paparazzi pages.
Particularly the Darkside, an online site dedicated to so-called underworld figures, run by a guy called Lance Ryder.
He has a particular obsession with Russian bratva families and a scarily encyclopedic knowledge of their histories.
Darya told me once that our family, including Alexei, keeps Lance on side by feeding him just enough photo ops and juicy tidbits to make his site go consistently viral—and stop him from writing anything that might actually damage business.
Alexei is one of his favorite targets. I heard Papa say once that the Darkside’s coverage has done more to create Alexei’s legend than any actual business deal, no matter how profitable.
For years, I’ve pored over the pictures of Alexei on that site like an addict hungry for the smallest hit I can get, no matter how masochistic the habit.
Barely a week goes by without some photo of Alexei taken on a yacht or in some seedy nightclub, balancing a model on his knee with one hand and holding a glass of vodka in the other.
Is that what he will run back to now? I tremble with something between rage and longing. Some model who knows exactly what to do in bed, instead of a virgin he isn’t supposed to touch?
Because now that I’ve had a proper taste of my favorite addiction in the flesh, the prospect of being deprived of more is terrifying.
And why are you worrying about that at all, when Alexei is currently somewhere out in the cold, running for his life?
But I can’t think about that. If imagining him with another woman sends me into a cold, savage fury, even contemplating him dead is enough to send me spiraling into utter madness.
“Hey.” Benny’s well-aimed cushion bounces off my head, jolting me out of that dark train of thought. “Why so serious? You’re the only one of us who actually got a good night’s sleep.” Then, watching me, his eyes narrow. “Or did you?”
He and Lourdes turn to me with widening eyes. I give a slight shake of my head, flicking my eyes warningly toward Bryce and Luis, who are, thankfully, distracted by exchanging stories of Miami debauchery.
Benny stands up. “Come, ladies,” he says imperiously, extending his hands to us. “I need to dish the dirt. No offense,” he says, giving the security guys a coy look. “I just don’t think you’re ready for the level of gay detail I’m about to unleash.”
Bryce and Luis, however, going by their relieved expressions, are just happy I’m not going to throw them both under the bus.
As they fucking should be.
The moment the door to Lourdes’s room closes behind us, Benny pulls me onto the bed, his eyes shining. “Oh my God. Spill, bitch. Did something happen between you and Pirate Boy?”
When I don’t immediately answer, Lourdes and he exchange a wide-eyed stare.
“Lo sabía,” breathes Lourdes. “I knew it, in the limo on the way to 404. I knew he was into you.”
“Wait.” Benny’s eyes pin me with the precision of a detective. “What happened, exactly? We need details. When. Where. How.”
Not a hope in hell.
“Before you came home.” I quickly compose a version of the truth in my head. “I fell asleep on the sofa. Alexei carried me to bed. When I woke up, he was still there. Things . . . happened.”
“Things?” Benny rolls his eyes skyward.
“He carried you to bed?” Lourdes sighs. “?Qué fantástico!”
“I was asleep at the time,” I point out.
“Still.” She has a dreamy look on her face. “To be picked up and carried to bed. It is a fantasy, no?”
Oh, you have no idea.
A fantasy is waking to Alexei’s body beneath mine, his hand gripping my bare leg possessively.
I shiver.
“Oh, wow,” Benny says, giving me a knowing look.
“I’d say being carried is the least of her Pirate Boy fantasies.
Well, darling, it’s about damn time, as the song says.
” He kisses my cheek, then grimaces and pulls back as a sharp voice comes through the closed door.
“That sounds a lot like your DILF, princess.”
I pull a face. “Could you please not refer to my father as a dad you’d like to fuck? It’s truly disturbing.”
“I mean.” He lifts an unapologetic shoulder. “If the Italian leather shoe fits . . .”
Shaking my head, I go to the door, opening it to find Papa deep in conversation with Bryce and Luis, flanked by Mickey, Lars, and several more of his men, all of whom are grim faced and clearly armed up, going by the bulges under their suit jackets.
Great, I think resignedly. Whatever is going on is hardly designed to make my father any more kindly disposed toward Alexei.
Papa looks up as I enter the room, his frown turning swiftly to a smile that does little to hide the strain beneath it. He crosses the salon and pulls me close.
What the fuck? I mouth at Mickey over Papa’s shoulder, casting my eyes toward Benny and Lourdes. He lifts his shoulders slightly in a what could I do gesture. I give him my best older sister death glare, then quickly adjust my expression as Papa steps back and puts his hands on my shoulders.
“You said your classes in Paris are finished now?”
As greetings go, it’s not exactly subtle.
“More or less.” I fold my arms and give him a wary look. “Why?”
“I want you back in Spain,” he says without preamble. “You can come with us when we leave.” Behind him, Mickey’s resigned expression tells me there’s no point trying to argue.
“Spain,” I repeat flatly. No matter how much I love Spain and my family, all I hear when he says the word are walls closing in. “Paris and London have better opportunities for me to play—”
“I spoke to Klaus Dittorio last night.” Papa cuts me off. He tilts his head at one of his men, then turns back to me. “In fact, I brought him here to talk to you.”
Of course you did.
I stare at my father, utterly aghast. The legendary conductor of the French national orchestra, summoned to a hotel suite by a pianist’s father, like some kind of servant?
I could die of embarrassment.
I love my father. I fucking hate the way he runs my life.
The elevator doors slide open and Dittorio steps into the room, apparently entirely undaunted by the collection of brawny men, most with ink visible beneath their shirts and weapons tucked beneath their immaculately cut suits.
Then again, knowing the conductor as I do, he’s probably more focused on the piano standing in the corner.
“Klaus!” My father strides forward, and I almost roll my eyes when the two greet each other like old friends.
It’s game recognizing game, I guess. Two Machiavellian control freaks who’ve found their equal.
“Tell my daughter what you told me last night, about how she should take some time off,” Papa says.
Seriously?
Given Dittorio’s relentless drive for perfection, I think, not without some satisfaction, this should be good.
“Fr?ulein Borovsky.” Dittorio’s customary curt tone is almost a relief. At least he isn’t as cowed by the great Roman Borovsky as most people. “You play not so bad last night, yes, but also not so good.”
I tense, unsure where this is going.