Page 207 of Lethal Obsession

“I apologized for what I said on the yacht because I thought I was wrong,” Mickey says. “And I came here to help secure the future I jeopardized. But if all you plan to do is blow it sky-high and run away, Alexei, then it was all for nothing. I can’t force you to make that future a reality,” he says bitterly. “But I can refuse to help you destroy it. Let me know when you’ve made a decision.”

Wrenching the door open, he stalks away without waiting for an answer.

I’m left standing in the middle of the room, my head spinning.

I’m torn between reluctant admiration and righteous anger.

The same instincts that have kept me alive for so many years tell me the anger is misplaced—and unfair.

It also tells me that maybe it’s time to think about the reasons behind the admiration—and to pay attention to the sudden, electric tingling of an idea.

An idea which just might be a way out of this.

“So in a couple of days I’ll be dressed in a monkey suit, pressing the flesh of Miami’s finest.” Roman gives me a wry smile as we walk down to the compound’s rear dock. He and Dimitry have been moving between their penthouse suite and the compound by boat to avoid watching eyes. “And several hours after that, you’ll be done in Miami—for a long time, if not for good.” He glances sideways at me. “Are you sure about this, Lex? Law enforcement might temporarily turn their heads to get the job done, but we both know there are too many bodies in that swamp to keep them turned after their own interests have been served. Miami is likely finished for you.”

“Miami was finished for me either way.”

Unless I involve your son, that is.

Unfortunately, I have a pretty good idea of exactly how Roman is likely to react to my idea.

I’ve already taken his daughter. If I know Roman, he’ll see my proposal as a way of taking his son, too.

“Do you remember,” he says slowly, as we approach the dock, “the last time we were here together?”

Ofelia, her dress torn and leg broken, holding Masha close as Roman pushes them into the inflatable, covering them with his own body as the Orlovs close in . . .

Roman pointing his gun at me, death in his eyes . . .

Ofelia screaming, “No!” while I order my men to get them out of there . . .

“Yes.” My voice is slightly unsteady. “I remember.”

“I saw you coming at us,” Roman says, “and I thought we were done for. I had my gun on you. My finger was on the trigger. Then I heard the girls yelling at me to leave you alone, that you were their friend. And suddenly Mickey was in my face, with a fucking rifle in his hand, no less, yelling don’t do it.” His mouth stretches in a reluctant smile. “I was so shocked that I actually listened.”

A decision I bet you’ve regretted more than once lately.

And one he’ll likely regret a whole lot more if I tell him what’s on my mind.

“That day was the first time Mickey actually killed a man.”

He smiles grimly at my surprise. “You probably don’t remember it, because you were so focused on getting the girls to safety. But there were Orlov men coming hard behind you. Mickey leaned out of that chopper and took two of them down without hesitation.” He stares at the dock, his eyes distant. “Sometimes,” he says slowly, “I think that was the day everything changed. I just didn’t know it then.”

Say it, motherfucker. I hear Lars’s voice in my head. Do it—or there might never be another chance.

“I have an idea that might change everything again.” I face Roman squarely and brace for impact. “An idea that also involves Mickey.”

His mouth curls. “Let me guess—your idea relates to the server center you’ve built underneath us? Even if Mak hadn’t let the cat out of the bag, I spent a decade building Mercura. I know the scale of what I’m looking at.”

“That’s part of it, yes,” I answer evenly. “But we both know it takes more than just keyboard skills to build what you did. Mickey might not be your blood, but he is your son, Roman. He’s part of our world. And we both know that means sooner or later he’s going to get his hands dirty.”

His mouth hardens. “Mickey can handle himself. His men know he can handle himself. That’s enough. And it’s all I want for him of our fucking world.”

But I can hear the edge beneath his voice. The roughness that betrays his own fears, the ones men keep to themself in the dead of night.

The things we know to be true, whether we say them or not.

“I know you’ve let Mickey pull the trigger before,” I say, “just so his men know he can. But Mickey knows that isn’t enough—and so do the men around him. It’s why he’s been up before dawn, training in jujitsu, since he was a teenager. Why he’s pushed himself to be more than just a keyboard warrior. It’s why even his partying was done with Lars Andersson, while they thought up new projects, rather than just messing around in bars with his crew.”