Page 62 of Lethal Obsession

I shiver.

“Oh, wow,” Benny says, giving me a knowing look. “I’d say being carried is the least of her Pirate Boy fantasies. Well, darling, it’s about damn time, as the song says.” He kisses my cheek, then grimaces and pulls back as a sharp voice comes through the closed door. “That sounds a lot like your DILF, princess.”

I pull a face. “Could you please not refer to my father as a dad you’d like to fuck? It’s truly disturbing.”

“I mean.” He lifts an unapologetic shoulder. “If the Italian leather shoe fits . . .”

Shaking my head, I go to the door, opening it to find Papa deep in conversation with Bryce and Luis, flanked by Mickey, Lars, and several more of his men, all of whom are grim faced and clearly armed up, going by the bulges under their suit jackets.

Great, I think resignedly. Whatever is going on is hardly designed to make my father any more kindly disposed toward Alexei.

Papa looks up as I enter the room, his frown turning swiftly to a smile that does little to hide the strain beneath it. He crosses the salon and pulls me close.

What the fuck? I mouth at Mickey over Papa’s shoulder, casting my eyes toward Benny and Lourdes. He lifts his shoulders slightly in a what could I do gesture. I give him my best older sister death glare, then quickly adjust my expression as Papa steps back and puts his hands on my shoulders.

“You said your classes in Paris are finished now?”

As greetings go, it’s not exactly subtle.

“More or less.” I fold my arms and give him a wary look. “Why?”

“I want you back in Spain,” he says without preamble. “You can come with us when we leave.” Behind him, Mickey’s resigned expression tells me there’s no point trying to argue.

“Spain,” I repeat flatly. No matter how much I love Spain and my family, all I hear when he says the word are walls closing in. “Paris and London have better opportunities for me to play—”

“I spoke to Klaus Dittorio last night.” Papa cuts me off. He tilts his head at one of his men, then turns back to me. “In fact, I brought him here to talk to you.”

Of course you did.

I stare at my father, utterly aghast. The legendary conductor of the French national orchestra, summoned to a hotel suite by a pianist’s father, like some kind of servant?

I could die of embarrassment.

I love my father. I fucking hate the way he runs my life.

The elevator doors slide open and Dittorio steps into the room, apparently entirely undaunted by the collection of brawny men, most with ink visible beneath their shirts and weapons tucked beneath their immaculately cut suits.

Then again, knowing the conductor as I do, he’s probably more focused on the piano standing in the corner.

“Klaus!” My father strides forward, and I almost roll my eyes when the two greet each other like old friends.

It’s game recognizing game, I guess. Two Machiavellian control freaks who’ve found their equal.

“Tell my daughter what you told me last night, about how she should take some time off,” Papa says.

Seriously?

Given Dittorio’s relentless drive for perfection, I think, not without some satisfaction, this should be good.

“Fräulein Borovsky.” Dittorio’s customary curt tone is almost a relief. At least he isn’t as cowed by the great Roman Borovsky as most people. “You play not so bad last night, yes, but also not so good.”

I tense, unsure where this is going.

“Some pianists, they are clumsy with their fingers, their timing, yes? They must practice, practice, all the time, make the fingers find the keys. But you, this is not the problem. The problem is here.” He taps his temple. “And here.” He thumps his heart. “All the music, she is inside you. But you do not let her out. You try alvays to control her, to make her do your vork. So long as you hold her so tight, she vill never become all she can be. Last night, your father, he tells me you grew up in Spain. I almost do not believe it.” He throws his hands in the air, rolling his eyes. “Spain? I say. The country vhere music flows from every corner? How can this be? A Russian who lives in Spain—but who plays the piano like it is a machine? Paris is not for her, I tell your father. Find your Russian passion. Your Spanish soul. Go somewhere you are feeling the music instead of practicing it. And vhen you haf done this, you come back, and ve play again.”

Clearly disinterested in any answer I might have to his pronouncement, he turns back to my father. “I vill send you the cognac ve spoke of,” he says, gripping Papa’s hand. “And please tell Sergei I shall look forward to our next battle on the chessboard.” To my astonishment, he actually smiles. “It has been a long time since I haf enjoyed a game so much.”

Nodding briskly, he leaves the room without any further words. I stare at the closed elevator doors, my head spinning.