Page 7 of Lethal Obsession

We walk to the microphone, the string quartet dying down as we approach. The chatter fades, the crowd turning expectantly toward us, and Roman lifts the microphone, placing me just off to the side.

“Good evening,” he begins. “And thank you all for joining us in celebrating my eldest daughter’s twenty-first birthday.”

As the crowd gives a ripple of applause, I scan the watching faces. It takes me several passes of the crowd to find the one I’m looking for.

Alexei is standing at the very rear of the terrace, his silhouette backlit by the distant Alhambra. He’s alone, almost hidden in the shadows, his expression unreadable from here.

“I remember the day Ofelia was born,” Papa is saying. “Mikhail insisted I hold her. I’d never held a baby before, so I was terrified of dropping her. Then I looked down, and all I could think was that I’d never seen anything so utterly perfect in my life.”

I look at him in surprise. Papa is not given to emotional expression of any kind, and definitely not in public, which is probably why you could hear a pin drop in the audience.

“Of course”—he gives me a small smile—“I could never have imagined, back then, the perfect young woman standing before us tonight. Nor could I have known,” he says more dryly, turning back to the crowd, “that the terror I felt that day would only get worse as the years go by.”

There’s a soft ripple of laughter from the crowd.

“Fortunately for me,” he goes on, “Ofelia has made it easy for a very bad father to look like a half-decent one. She’s not only a wonderful daughter, but an incredible sister, loyal friend, and one of the bravest people I have the privilege to know. And now, as she moves into the next stage of her life, Darya and I have no doubt whatsoever that she will light up stages around the world with her extraordinary talent. Ofelia, my beautiful girl.”

He turns to me, the uncharacteristically open emotion in his eyes bringing tears to my own.

“Becoming your father has been my greatest honor. Thank you for allowing me to love and protect you—something I promise to do for the rest of my life.” He pulls me close to his side.

“I love you, Papa,” I whisper, unable to stop the tears spilling down my cheeks, then redden as I realize the microphone transmitted my words to the entire audience, who give a collective sigh.

Papa gestures for Darya to join us on stage. “Please,” he says as he hugs her close, his voice not quite steady, “join Darya and me as we raise our glasses to our beautiful daughter, Ofelia.”

“To Ofelia!” the crowd repeats.

“I love you so much, darling,” Darya whispers as she hugs me, her voice catching. I clutch her hard, unable to find the words to answer.

As everyone drinks, my brother Mickey and his friends catcall from the back, making the crowd laugh.

“That,” says Papa dryly as the laughter fades, “is my godson, who had better lay off the Scotch if he’s hoping to get a party like this himself one day.” But the open affection in his voice belies his words, and Mickey calls back something that makes him grin in response.

“Now,” Papa goes on, “while we’re on the topic of lively offspring, Ofelia’s sister Masha has a performance she has been rehearsing for months. Myshka”—he gestures to the wooden stage that has been erected on the edge of the terrace—“the stage is yours, darling.”

The lights dim. As the low guitar starts, I turn toward Papa and Darya. “Thank you both so much.” I kiss them in turn. “Tonight is perfect, truly.”

“I’m glad.” Darya hugs me close again. “We’re so proud of you, sweetheart.”

Papa winks at me. “Just don’t try to ditch your security detail at the after-party.”

“As if.” I roll my eyes as I move away to stand nearer the wooden dance floor, my eyes automatically returning to where I last saw Alexei.

But he’s no longer there. In fact, I can’t see him anywhere.

A leaden feeling sinks inside me.

Has he left already?

Was it Papa’s speech, all that talk about loving and protecting me, that made him go?

Forcing a public smile, I try to ignore my gnawing tension as the musicians begin to play.

But if anything, the deep, intense strumming of flamenco only adds fuel to the fire.

After years in Spain, and long hours watching Masha practice, I’m familiar with the art form. Juan, Lourdes’s father, is a master of the art. His playing is rich and intricate, stirring something deep inside that makes me unable to do anything but feel the notes. The audience falls completely silent as the guitar wends through the crowd, casting its magic over us all.

Mickey comes to stand beside me as one of the waitresses begins to sing cante jondo, deep song, the emotionally intense sound for which southern Spain is famous. She sings of love and loss, every word sinking into my soul as if she’s singing my own story.