Page 178 of Lethal Torture
Her imitation of Anatoly’s gruff accent makes me smile.
“Luke.” Roman appears in front of us as Charlie and Paddy move away. “Good job, brother,” he says, embracing Luke briefly.
“Thanks for all your help.” Luke returns his embrace. “Roman helped make sure the renovations all went smoothly,” he says, turning to me.
“Thank you.” I smile at Roman.
“Pleasure.” He brushes off my thanks with customary brevity. “Can I steal your bride for a moment?” he asks Luke.
“Since I’m stealing the groom,” says Dimitry, clapping Luke on the shoulder, “you may as well. Congratulations,Auntie Zin,” he says, winking at me. “So,” I hear him say as he leads Luke away, “I hear you’re called McTasty these days?”
Roman, watching them go, chuckles. “He’s never going to hear the end of that one,” he says, topping up my glass. Walking me over to the low stone balustrade, he stares down at the beach below. “Nice spot, huh?”
“It’s amazing.” I look around, hardly able to believe it’s ours. “I still don’t know where we actually are, though,” I admit.
He laughs. “The locals call it Lugar Secreto.”
“The Secret Place?” I look around at the deserted cliffs and isolated beach. “That makes sense.”
“It’s about twenty minutes from Tarifa,” Roman explains, “on the southern coast of Spain. Unfortunately, at least as far as Darya is concerned, it’s also two hours from us. She was very upset that Luke didn’t choose something closer. But the man does love his surf,” he says, grinning, “and besides, I think he wanted you to have your own space. There’s a chopper pad, so you can always come up for lunch if you want. More importantly, Darya can come toyoufor lunch, which, given the chaos in our household, is probably more to the point.” He tilts his head westward. “And Mak has a place ten minutes away. I think he’s happy Luke will finally remove his Jeep and surfboards from his polished concrete garage.”
I laugh at that.
“I was glad to hear about the Madrid club,” he says, glancing at me. “It’s a good time for you to shift gears. Get out of the burlesque game, focus on the political and business one. And the EU is where it’s at now, especially after Brexit. Sergei is trying to persuade Alexei to leave the US and move out here, set up business somewhere on this side of the pond. Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem to want to play the game.”
I don’t miss his rather grim expression when he mentions Alexei’s name.
“How’s Ofelia doing?” I ask, watching him surreptitiously.
“Honestly?” Roman grimaces. “I really don’t know. She’s been accepted at the Conservatoire in Paris for next year, and she’s being extremely stubborn about security and her living arrangements. For all she tells me about her life, we may as well be strangers. Children are great,” he says, shooting me a wry look. “Adult children, on the other hand? Fucking nightmare.”
I breathe a mental sigh of relief. Whatever Roman’s reservations about Alexei, they’re clearly unrelated to Ofelia, which is a good thing for all concerned. And knowing what I doabout her life, I think privately that the less Roman knows about it, the better.
“Actually,” he says, lowering his voice, “it’s Ofelia I wanted to talk to you about.”
My momentary relief slips away.
“She’s increasingly secretive. She’s not talking to Darya anymore, or not about anything important. Or to Abby. She certainly doesn’t talk to me, and if she’s speaking to Mickey, he’s staying shtum.” He gives me a slightly embarrassed look. “She let slip that she has stayed at your apartment in London a couple of times.”
I pull on my best poker face. “A time or two, yes. Ofelia knows she’s always welcome.”
In fact, Ofelia has the code to my apartment, the only person apart from Luke who does. And she’s spent more than the odd night on my couch, staring at the wall, lost in heartbreak she clearly doesn’t want to talk about.
“I wondered.” Roman looks uncharacteristically unsure of himself. “Ofelia’s twenty-first birthday is coming up. She won’t even discuss a party, but Darya and I want to do something for her. Is there any chance you could—well—” Looking desperately uncomfortable, he cuts short.
I suppress a smile. “I’ll talk to her,” I say quietly. “Find out what she wants and see what I can do. Would you like me to help her organize it, if she’s willing?”
“Christ, yes.” Roman looks passionately relieved. “Anything, so long as it makes her happy and stops Darya worrying.”
“Of course.”
He refills my glass, gulps an enormous mouthful of whiskey, and we both stand there in companionable silence for a time, watching the waves break below.
“Who could ever have imagined us standing here, having this conversation,” Roman says eventually, “that night we met backin London all those years ago?” He turns his glass slowly in his hand, his eyes distant. “Never in a lifetime could I have imagined coming to you for advice on how to manage my daughter.”
I give a silent huff of laughter. “How about both of us being married? To seriously good people? Not to mention having normal people problems, like difficult children.”
Roman shakes his head. “We were so fucked-up,” he says quietly, “you and me.”
