Page 237 of Lethal Obsession

“Ah.” I look around at the sterile reception area, the sick people and the worried faces of those here to visit them. “No offense, Benny, but you look like shit,” I say flatly. “Is there a bar somewhere around here we can go for a drink?”

He eyes me suspiciously. “I thought you’d want to see Ofelia.”

“Oh, you have no idea how much.” I give him a wry smile. “Which is exactly why we’re going for this drink now. After I see her, you’ve got no chance, friend.”

He gives a snort of surprised laughter. “I do know a place close by.” He shoots a worried look toward the elevator.

“You can’t see him for several hours,” I say gently. “And I’m guessing they’ve got your number.”

His mouth twists. “Yeah,” he says heavily. “They do.”

I gesture to the door. “Then show me the way.”

He walks with me, but his wary expression makes me horribly aware of how I’ve failed him until now.

I’m sorry, Lars. I’ll do better, I swear it.

In the dim coolness of a small side street bar, we take stools on either side of an oak barrel and order drinks and a pizza. Benny stares at them dumbly.

“When was the last time you ate?” I push the plate toward him.

“I can’t,” he says slowly. “I just—I’m not hungry.” His eyes touch mine and drop again.

“You’re clearly not getting any sleep.”

He gives a rough laugh. “I get plenty of time to sleep at the hospital.”

“Plastic chairs aren’t a bed, Benny. And vending machine coffee is a crime. Particularly in Sicily.”

“You don’t have to do this,” he says flatly. “I’m not your responsibility.” His bloodshot, haunted eyes lock onto mine. “And I definitely don’t need your fucking pity.”

I nod slowly.

Reaching into my leather travel bag, I bring out my father’s hip flask and pour a measure into the bottom of two empty water glasses. “This is a vodka called Graf,” I say, pushing the glass toward him. “It’s a Russian brand. My father started importing it decades ago. He used the crates of it to smuggle pre-revolutionary treasures out of Russia. The pieces were known as the Naryshkin treasures, named for my grandfather, a Count Naryshkin, if you can believe it.”

I clink my glass against Benny’s. “In Russian, we say za zdorov’ye. To health.” I raise my glass. “Za zdorov’ye, Benny.” I nod at his untouched glass and wait until he tentatively raises it. “Drink.”

He swallows the vodka, watching me.

I refill the glasses.

“The Naryshkin treasures have cost a lot of lives over the years. They were the reason for a coup that cost my mother her life, my sister her youth, and me an eye. The Orlov coup sent Darya and my invalid father on the run for six years, right up until she ran into Roman. Then the same people kidnapped Ofelia and Masha to force Darya, Roman, and me to open the vault for them.” I raise my glass again. “Drink.”

We do, and I pour a third shot.

“I was fifteen when the Orlovs came for my family and twenty-two when I finally defeated them. I survived those years not because I was tough, or out of loyalty to my family, but because of Lars.

“Despite being just a kid himself, and despite the fact that the Orlovs cut me off from all normal means of communication, he found a way to talk to me—and he never gave up.” I raise my glass. “Drink.”

We do.

“Three is traditional.” I screw the cap back on the flask. “Now”—I reach for the terracotta jug—“we drink wine and eat food. Then maybe, if the pain of being alive is so beautiful that we still feel it, we drink some more. Sing an old ballad, maybe shed tears.”

I smile at him. “Lars used to roll his eyes at us. He would say that Swedes get drunk, have an orgy, and laugh, whereas Russians get drunk, kill something, then cry.”

That elicits a reluctant snort of laughter.

“My father gave me this hip flask recently.” I turn the battered metal over in my hands. “He and Roman’s father carried it all the way across the steppe when they escaped Russia. Their friendship was the most important in my father’s life. He told me recently that even now, after all these years, Aleksander’s voice is more real to him than those who still live. He loves Aleksander Borovsky to this day, as much as he ever loved anyone. More, perhaps.” I smile ruefully. “I used to resent it. I even resented Roman, for being the son of the ghost my father loved so much.