Chapter 6
6
ROMAN
“ O ur men boarded the Guapa and searched it from bow to stern.” Bryce delivers his report evenly and without losing eye contact.
Which takes no small amount of balls, given my barely restrained fury.
“Ofelia and Masha aren’t aboard,” he goes on. “There’s no evidence they ever were. The Orlovs were smart. They knew we’d focus on the Guapa , and they got it into international waters fast and kept cruising at top speed. Between dodging the Spanish coast guard and flouting a dozen international maritime laws, we’ve wasted over twenty-four hours chasing a false lead.”
I grip the edge of the long oval dinner table, staring blindly out the penthouse window at the distant sea. It was only recently that I had Darya bent over this table, naked and moaning beneath my hands, while the children slept peacefully on the floor below.
Now two of my three children have been taken, and Darya is gone.
It feels like an age has passed between those days and this one.
“Was Alexei Petrovsky aboard?”
Bryce and Dimitry exchange a wary glance. “No,” Dimitry says reluctantly. “The Guapa has a hired crew aboard who are under instructions to get the yacht back to Miami ASAP. They know nothing other than the orders they’ve been given.”
“ Khuy! ” I push off from the table and stalk the length of the room, fists clenched at my sides. I’ve never felt less in control in my life. The thought of Ofelia and Masha in the hands of the Orlovs makes my blood run cold.
That’s not the only thing that terrifies me.
Darya is out there somewhere.
Probably running with her brother.
That thought makes me feel physically sick. I still can’t reconcile the Darya I thought I knew with the ruthless bitch who deliberately endangered my children.
The Darya who allowed my girls to be kidnapped.
By the fucking Orlovs , for Chrissakes.
Pizdozh.
I can’t think about Darya or the Orlovs. Both thoughts make me lose focus altogether, and there’s no time for that. Not while Ofelia and Masha are out there somewhere, in the hands of the men who murdered my father.
“Boss.” Dimitry comes to stand next to me, lowering his voice. The other men move to a discreet distance. “We need to find Lucia. We know that she spoke to her brother at that ball. She must know something.”
“Darya,” I snarl. “Her name is Darya Petrovsky. And she’s a distant fucking last on my list of priorities.”
“She would never hurt those children, Roman. You know it as well as I do.”
“Don’t.” I drop my head, my fingers clenched hard enough on the table edge to turn the knuckles white.
That’s the damned hell of it. I did know that. Or I thought I did. Now?
I shake my head slowly. “You didn’t see her face.”
“Bullshit.”
I swing my head sideways and Dimitry meets my eyes, his own as blood-rimmed and exhausted as mine. “I saw her face as clearly as you did. Yes, Darya knew the Orlovs were planning something. But that doesn’t mean she was complicit in it. You said yourself she was planning to run. What if she was running because she knew the children were in danger? Abby said—”
“I don’t care what Abby said.” Every word is like a sledgehammer on the brick wall around my emotions. A wall I can’t afford to drop now, of all times. I push back off the table with enough force to rock the marble slab. “Let it fucking go,” I snarl. “There’s no time for this.”
“Mickey thinks—”
“I don’t give a fuck what Mickey thinks!”
“Well, you fucking should.” I swing around, frowning, to find a white-faced Mickey standing in the doorway. His face is gaunt, his mouth set in a particularly grim line.
“I told you to stay in your apartment.” I try not to snap, but I’m close to losing my shit. Mickey’s face is a constant reminder of my failure to protect his sisters. I’ve been unable to face him from the moment they disappeared.
“And I don’t give a fuck what you told me to do.” Mickey’s eyes flash with hard anger. “I’ve been trying to talk to you for hours. It’s my sisters the Orlovs have taken. I have as much right to help look for them as you. More. So you can listen to me, or you can watch me walk out the door and go to someone who will.”
I stare at him across the room. He doesn’t move. The months of boxing training, combined with a sudden growth spurt and the shock of his sisters’ disappearance, has stripped the last trace of boyhood from his face. Not that Mickey ever was very boyish. Possessing genius-level intelligence has always lent him a certain gravity. But now, staring me down across the room in front of a dozen of my hardest vor , Mickey looks dangerous enough to match any of them.
I glance at Dimitry. “Give us a moment.”
“Boss.” He nods reluctantly, his eyes still reproachful enough to piss me off.
“And find out how Inger is.” I rub a hand over my face, mentally cursing myself for the fact I haven’t bothered to check in on her. Inger is Mickey’s mother. He has to be worried about her, and I haven’t even managed to make a phone call.
“Yeah. Sure,” Dimitry mutters, casting Mickey a sideways glance as he leaves. He and the other men file into the elevator with their heads down, faces grim. They might not like Inger, but they all love the girls. This is as personal for them as it is for me.
“Dimitry is right.” Mickey doesn’t wait for permission to start speaking. “Darya would never hurt the girls, and you know it.”
His switch from Lucia to Darya isn’t lost on me. Mickey is done with the lies. “I know you want to believe that, Mickey, but—”
“But nothing.” Mickey glares at me. “Darya ran because she found out who you are—and why you wanted her here.”
I’m so taken aback that I’m momentarily silenced.
“And the Orlovs took Ofelia and Masha because they found out who they are.”
“What?” Now I’m genuinely confused. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Mickey puts his laptop on the table and twists the screen toward me in a curt, angry gesture. “I told you I was helping Ofelia with a school project.”
I stare at the tree graphic on the screen, my tired mind trying to make sense of it. I vaguely recall him mentioning something about helping Ofelia. I can’t for the life of me imagine what on earth it has to do with getting his sisters back.
“Mickey—”
“It’s a family tree.” Mickey’s tone is impatient. “Ofelia wanted to get extra points by including a section on DNA, tracing back our ancestry as far as she could. She asked if I could help her, and so I used the upstairs facility at the lab to run our DNA. Ofelia’s, Masha’s, and mine.” He meets my eyes with a rather defiant look. “I took yours as well. And Darya’s.”
Oh, shit.
I’m starting to understand Mickey’s dark looks lately. And DNA testing?
Khuy.
I’m starting to get a very fucking bad feeling about this.
“Mickey. Tell me you hacked the online records anonymously to get the results. Tell me you did it discreetly.”
“Yeah—no.” Mickey folds his arms. “I didn’t realize there would be a reason to do that, you see. Maybe if someone had actually told me why it might be dangerous, I would have handled it differently.”
Fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck.
“But you haven’t asked why it’s important.” Mickey’s eyes gleam with anger. “You’re just worried because now you’re on the radar, aren’t you? Don’t you even want to know why I got curious enough to test your DNA?”
“Why?” My voice is hoarse, the room swirling around me discomfortingly.
“Because when I first ran tests for the three of us, they came back inconsistent. As in, we aren’t full siblings. None of us. We share the same mother—but we all have different fathers.”
The room snaps back into focus. “What the hell, Mickey?”
“Look.” He nods at the screen. I look at the tree again, but I can’t make any sense of what I’m seeing. “Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Mickey points impatiently. “Ofelia’s DNA came back as a perfect match for Inger on the maternal side. I took Inger’s DNA when we were out the other day,” he adds with a sidelong glance. “I didn’t... mention it to her.”
“Seems to be your modus operandi lately.” I don’t attempt to hide my irritation.
“Yeah, well, I learned from the best.” His glare matches my own. “Anyway. I don’t have Papa’s DNA, so I used myself as a comparison. If we have the same father, we should have been a one-hundred-percent match. We weren’t. Not even close.” He glances sideways at me. “So then I took Masha’s. Same thing. She’s Inger’s daughter, but no match to either Ofelia or me on the paternal side. However, when I ran her through the database, a match did come up.” He meets my eyes. “Vilnus Orlov,” he says quietly. “He was required to give DNA for a criminal trial ten years ago. It’s on the public record. Masha is his direct descendant. Here, you can see for yourself.” He points at a string of numbers and graphs on the screen, but they swim in front of my eyes.
“How the fuck,” I say blankly, “can Masha be Orlov’s daughter?”
“Well, that isn’t all.” Mickey is very pale, but his voice is strong enough. “I took Uncle Nicky’s DNA too, after that. It wasn’t hard. I just stopped by Pillars briefly the other day.”
I shake my head, wondering how the fuck I missed all of this. Luis, the kids’ driver, is going to have some damn hard questions to answer.
“I thought maybe I was—that maybe Nikolai was—” Mickey takes a sharp breath. “Anyway. He isn’t my father.” The relief in his voice is palpable. “But he is my uncle. So it’s safe to assume that Papa really was my... papa.”
Despite everything that is happening, all the hell that has been unleashed in our world, I can’t help but realize the gravity of the moment, how much this has mattered to Mickey.
I grip his shoulder. “Of course you’re Mikhail’s son, Mickey.” I meet the deep blue eyes, so like his father’s. “I’d have to be blind not to see him in your face, particularly when you smile. You’re so like him. Not just in the way you look.” I put my hand on his chest. “Here as well. You’ve got your father’s kindness, and his strength. Mikhail would be so proud of you.”
Mickey swallows hard, furiously blinking away the sheen of tears. “Anyway.” His voice is hoarse. “Ofelia wasn’t a match to anyone in the database. Not Vilnus, not Papa, not Nikolai. Not anyone.
“Except one distant hit to a Colombian family name: Cardenas.”
He glances at me. “That was when I tested you. I remember you saying something about your mother being Colombian. And I thought... well.” He shrugged. “When I ran your DNA, it came up as the direct descendant of an unsolved murder case twenty years ago. A man named Aleksander Borovsky.”
Every word cuts through some part of me, crumbling me further.
“I looked him up. Aleksander Borovsky was married to someone called Rosa Cardenas. They had one son: Roman Borovsky.” He meets my eyes, his own shadowed. “And when I tested you against Ofelia, it was a one-hundred-percent match.
“You’re her father, Roman. That’s why the Orlovs took the girls, and not me. Masha is Vilnus Orlov’s daughter. Ofelia is yours.”
Mine.
My daughter.
My child.
Ofelia is mine?
Recollections pass through my mind like a disjointed slideshow.
Mikhail’s resigned laughter when he learned Inger was pregnant: “Must have happened the first damn night we slept together. Condoms should have a bigger warning on the packet...”
Mikhail, the night Ofelia was born: “She’s a little early, but she’s perfect, Roman. Her eyes are the same color as yours.” He’d looked sideways at me, but I’d ignored the unspoken question in his eyes. Said instead, “She looks just like you.”
Had I known even then?
Ofelia, glaring at me with iron-hard cobalt eyes.
Ofelia placing herself between her siblings and every threat that comes for them.
No , I acknowledge to myself, I didn’t know Ofelia was my daughter.
But maybe that was simply because I didn’t allow myself to actually see .
And Masha. Did Nikolai suspect that Masha was Orlov’s daughter? Is that why he was taking photographs of her?
Inger.
My fists clench, my gut lurching with sudden, horrible suspicion. Apart from Nikolai’s phone call to say he was taking Inger to the hospital, I haven’t seen or heard from either of them. For all I know, they could be anywhere.
If she’s involved in this, I will fucking kill her.
I keep my face even with no small effort, dragging my attention back to Mickey, who is still staring at me accusingly, his eyes piercing my own.
“I spent the last few days reading all of Pavel’s research and Lance Ryder’s work,” he says in a low voice. “The Naryshkin treasure isn’t just a myth, is it? It’s very real. And your father built the vault that holds it.” He stares at me, but I don’t respond.
I’m not sure any response I have will help.
“That’s why you changed your name,” he goes on. “Why you’re so secretive about your past. The Orlovs believe that you know how to get into the Petrovsky vault.” He shakes his head. “They didn’t kill Darya or her brother when they had the chance, which means they must need them to open it, too. I imagine the Orlovs thought they hit the jackpot when they realized they had you and Darya in the same place. All the keys to the treasure they’ve been coveting for years, right on their doorstep for the taking. All they had to do was take the one thing they knew you’d trade anything for: your daughter.”
His eyes harden. “That’s what I think Alexei came to warn his sister about. I think he realized who you are—and why you wanted Darya in the first place. And you were waiting for him to come, weren’t you, Roman? You wanted the same thing the Orlovs have all this time. To have control over Darya and her brother, so you could open the vault yourself.”
I stare at him across the table, the air around me swirling and rearranging itself, coming in and out of focus so I feel vaguely nauseous.
“Is that what you think?” I barely manage to rasp the words out. “You think I deliberately hunted Darya down? That all of this has been some kind of elaborate plot to recover whatever damn bullshit is in that vault?”
Mickey’s eyes narrow. “Isn’t it?”
“No! Christ!” I shake my head in frustration. It’s the same accusation Darya hurled at me at the ball. “She knew,” I say, my tired mind trying to sift through the facts. “Darya knew the Orlovs were coming for the children. There’s no excuse for that—”
“And she knew why they were coming for them.” He cuts me off impatiently. “So she did the only thing she thought might keep them safe: she ran.”
For a long moment we stare at each other, Mickey white-faced and breathing hard, me temporarily frozen as the pieces slowly sink into place.
They’re forming a new pattern. One I didn’t consider until now.
One I goddamn missed.
“I want my sisters back more than anything,” Mickey says quietly. “But Darya is our family, too. You told us that yourself. You’ve been looking in the wrong place, Roman. We all have.”
I stare at him, horrified realization dawning.
If he’s right . . .
I’m reaching for my phone when the elevator dings and Dimitry steps out. “Boss. I’m sorry to interrupt, but—” He sees my face and halts. “What’s happened?”
“Inger,” I manage. My voice sounds like it’s coming from someone else.
“That’s what I came to tell you.” His voice is resigned. “She’s gone, Roman. You were right,” he says, nodding at Mickey. “Mickey asked me if anyone knew if Inger had actually gone to an ER. None of us had bothered to check. And he was right. Inger never showed up at a hospital. She’s not answering her phone, and there’s no trace of her anywhere. It looks like it was her who took the girls.”
I grip the table again, a slow, burning fury taking hold of me. “Inger was in the apartment. She had access to their passports.”
“She took them.” Mickey confirms what I already know. “I hacked the security footage from the apartment.”
And I blamed Darya.
I think of my final words to her and wince.
I told her to run for her life. I told her that if my children were harmed, I’d hunt her down myself and kill her.
I rub a hand over my face.
I told her I’d kill her myself.
I think of her expression as she backed away from me toward the exit. It was guilt, and I’d read that as confirmation that she was complicit in her brother’s plans.
The truth is that Darya felt guilty that the Orlovs’ relentless pursuit of her had put the children in danger.
Mickey was right. So was Dimitry.
Darya would never endanger the children.
I know that, just like I know Inger wouldn’t hesitate to do so. Especially if she thought she would gain something from it.
And now Inger has my two daughters. Or rather mine and Vilnus Orlov’s.
Not that I give a fuck what a piece of paper says. Ofelia and Masha are my girls. My babies. Now and always.
Inger, however, must have thought she’d hit the fucking jackpot when she’d found out about their paternity.
Darya.
Oh, God. She’s out there alone. Afraid.
And she thinks I hate her.
Shame and a terrible, gut-wrenching fear twist inside me. The three girls I love most in this world are lost to me—and I’ve wasted twenty-four hours by being an idiot.
The elevator doors ding, and we all turn. Abby steps out, wild-eyed, her face crimson with fury.
“Oh, shit,” Dimitry mutters. “Abby.” He moves toward her. “I told you not to come up here.”
“I don’t give a single fuck what you told me to do.” She twists out of the security guard’s grasp. “And you can get your damned hands off me, Igor, or whatever the hell your name is.” She turns fiercely to me. “What the fuck , Roman? I’ve spoken to Mickey and Dimitry, told them why Luce was planning to run.”
“Darya,” Mickey says quietly. “Her name is Darya, not Lucia.”
Abby throws her hands up in frustration. “Darya. Lucia. Who gives a fuck what her name is. She’s my friend , Roman. And I thought she was a hell of a lot more than that to you. You cannot be so stupid—”
“We have to find her.” I interrupt Abby, barely managing to get the words out. “Darya. We have to find her.”
Mickey raises a sardonic eyebrow that could just about match my own. “Oh, you think?”
Dimitry rolls his eyes. “Well, it’s about fucking time.”