33. Ofelia #2
“Go on, then.” I stand up, trying to ignore the slight flutter of nerves in my chest. “Let’s get this over with.”
Mickey’s fists are clenched at his sides. “Does Papa know?”
“Papa?” I raise my eyebrows at him. “Since when have you called Roman Papa?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Ofelia.” He folds his arms, glaring at me.
“Maybe since I happen to think that the man who has raised and protected us all these years is owed some basic level of loyalty and respect—which is clearly more than you and that murderous bastard on the upper deck feel obliged to give him.”
I roll my eyes. “We’ll tell Papa and Darya, Mickey. But they’ve already had one bombshell this week, so—”
“And you thought that maybe—just fucking maybe—they might have some objections to their eldest daughter not only running away with a wanted criminal, but deciding to marry the bastard? After less than—what has it been, Ofelia? A few weeks? Months at the most?”
His words come at me like bullets, and despite the fact that he is Mikhail Stevanovsky’s biological son, Mickey’s death stare bears enough of a similarity to Roman’s that it’s almost intimidating.
Almost.
Unfortunately for him, I remember when Mickey Stevanovsky was just a skinny kid in glasses.
“It’s been seven fucking years, Mickey.” I fold my arms and match his glare with one of my own.
“That’s how long we’ve loved each other—and how long we’ve had to live without each other.
So don’t try telling me I don’t know what I’m doing, because Darya and Papa have already tried that.
It didn’t work for them, and it certainly won’t work for you.
And you’re not going to say a fucking word about this to them,” I say warningly, “or I swear to God I’ll kick you in the balls so hard you won’t be able to screw any of those models you love so much for an entire fucking year. ”
His arctic glare doesn’t soften in the slightest. “Good luck with that, because going by the ass kicking Roman gave me over that secure room I installed for you, I won’t have any balls left at all when he finds out the two of you are engaged—and that I knew about it.”
“So don’t fucking tell him!” Exasperated, I shake my head at my brother. “And have a little bit of faith that Alexei and I will.”
“When?” He throws the word at me.
“When we fucking decide to!” I can feel my frustration rising.
“I’m sorry that we’ve put you in this position, Mickey.
” I take a deep breath, trying to lower the heat and my tone.
“But this really isn’t your business. It’s Alexei’s and mine, and you need to let us manage this our own way, in our own time. ”
“Not my fucking business?” His sudden roar of fury makes me take an involuntary step backward.
“In case you forgot,” he snaps, advancing on me in a distinctly unsettling way, “let me remind you that Alexei Petrovsky is not only a criminal wanted by law enforcement on two continents, but also has a target on his back from at least one crime syndicate, and probably several. Do you even know what they call him in Miami, Ofelia? Behind his back, of course, because nobody would fucking dare say it to his face?”
Mickey doesn’t wait for my response before he continues.
“They call him the Swamp Surgeon,” he says furiously.
“Because apart from being famous for feeding so many corpses to the Everglades alligators that they risk dying of obesity, your sweet peach of a fiancé also enjoys carving the Petrovsky eagle into the skin of his victims with laser fucking precision.”
For a moment I am back on the concrete floor of that cell, Alexei looming over me, the icy fire of his blade at the juncture of my thighs.
The thrill of the memory makes me shiver, even here and now.
“Exactly.” Mickey, watching me, completely misreads my reaction.
“That is the man you’re so determined to tie your entire future to.
” He advances slowly until he stands barely a foot away from me, his eyes boring fiercely into mine.
“What kind of future do you honestly think that is going to be, Ofelia? For you? For your career as a concert pianist? And what about children?”
He shakes his head impatiently. “I don’t care what bullshit you told Papa to make him back down on this.
You’re going to listen to me now. And I’m telling you to wake the fuck up.
Alexei Petrovsky is a sadistic, murderous psychopath who is never going to change.
He could have chosen a different life long ago.
Instead, he chose to keep on killing. Marrying him is signing your own death warrant—and I, for one, will not stand by and just let you fucking do it. ”
The ferocity of his attack renders me momentarily speechless. I stare at my brother, seeing him in some ways for the first time.
The boy who was taken aside by Roman the night our father was killed and emerged from behind the closed door an hour later with a grim, closed expression and a quiet air of gravity that never left him again.
The scrawny teenager who hacked a government system to uncover the truth that Roman is my biological father.
The kid who defied grown men and Roman’s orders to lead an attack on the Orlovs that saved all of our lives—including Alexei’s.
But beyond all of that, I see what I never truly have before: a man shaped by the same tragedy and loss as me, determined to save those he loves from anything that might hurt them.
And just like that, my anger dissolves, leaving behind only an aching sadness for all that he has endured, and still carries, alone.
“Mickey.” I take a step toward him before I realize that mine isn’t the only voice saying his name. I turn around to find Lars standing in the doorway.
For once, he isn’t smiling.
“Mickey,” he says again, coldly. “Stop talking.” Striding past us both, he pulls the sliding glass door closed, hard enough to rattle the entire wall.
I stare at it in horror.
Oh, Christ.
The bar is directly above us.
Alexei must have heard every word.
I run for the door. Lars doesn’t so much as look at me, simply stands aside. His eyes are on Mickey, and the bleak fury in them terrifies me far more than Mickey’s rage ever could.
“Lars.” I falter at the door, looking between him and my brother.
“Go, Ofelia,” he says in that same chilling tone. “And don’t let him push you away, because he’ll try.” His eyes cut briefly to me without softening in the slightest. “You make this right,” he says coldly, “and leave your brother to me.”
I reach the deck at a run, but Alexei is nowhere to be seen.
“Where is he?” I round on Benny and Lourdes, both white-faced with shock by the bar.
Instead of answering, Benny tilts his head to the water below, and I look over the deck railing just in time to see Alexei, his rigid figure unmistakable despite the wig and glasses, standing behind the controls of a high-powered speedboat.
The sound of the engine drowns out my voice when I call his name, and seconds later, I’m leaning over the railing, staring at his back as he races the boat at breakneck speed toward the Sicilian coastline in the distance.
Fuck.
Ignoring Benny and Lourdes, I race downstairs and grab the first crewmember I can find. “I need to go ashore.”
The man shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Borovsky, but Mr. Petrovsky gave very explicit instructions that you were not to follow him.
Please don’t,” he adds, as I turn to the next crewmember.
“Mr. Bellini and Mr. Andersson have also given clear orders that nobody is to leave the yacht without their express permission.”
“What about him?” I yell, pointing to Alexei’s fast-disappearing figure. “I don’t see you stopping him.”
“I have my orders, Miss Borovsky,” the man says stiffly, “not a death wish.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I run along the deck to the sliding door Lars recently closed. It’s tinted, so I can’t see inside, but I couldn’t care less if they’ve pulled guns on each other at this point. I pound on the glass until Lars wrenches it open, his eyes fierce.
“What,” he snarls.
“It’s Alexei.” I’m too worried to care about whatever was going on before the door opened. “He’s taken a boat to shore. I need to find him, Lars. Now.”
“Oh, Christ.” His entire demeanor changes instantly.
Pulling out his phone, he hits a number.
“Jack.” His voice is low and terse, and completely devoid of his trademark humor.
“Yes, it was him. No, he doesn’t have any security—yes, Jack, I fucking know, okay?
For fuck’s sake,” he says impatiently, “just listen for a minute. I know Alexei. There’s no fucking chance he’ll come back with you.
And you’ll likely lose at least one of your men trying, probably more.
Yes, I’m aware the men are all Tier One operators,” he goes on, raising his voice over the litany of objections even I can hear coming down the line.
“It won’t fucking matter, believe me. I’ve seen Alexei like this before.
I’d go ashore myself and get him, but I’ve got things to sort out here. You’re going to take Ofelia.”
Oh, thank God.
Normally I’d take Lars’s hand or step into his arms for one of his enveloping embraces. But just as I met a version of my brother earlier that I hadn’t seen before, now I’m meeting a Lars I never even knew existed.
“Get dressed,” he orders me curtly. “I mean cover up, from head to toe. Keep the wig and glasses on, add a headscarf. Do everything you can to disguise yourself. Jack is going to take you ashore personally. Yes,” he snaps into the phone, “you fucking are, Bellini, or you’ll wish you’d stayed working for your father in New Orleans.
And you,” he says, glaring at me, “will obey Jack’s orders, no matter what they are.
If he tells you to get back in the boat, you get back in the boat. No arguments. Got it?”
I nod impatiently, pushing past him into the cabin, where a white-faced Mickey is standing rock still. “Ofelia—” he says unsteadily.