The Professional (12 page)

“Sevastyan kept me safe,” I assured Kovalev. “And the flight was pleasantly uneventful.”
Burn, Siberian.

“Good, good. Are you hungry? Shall we have tea?”

“Tea sounds great.”

“I’ll leave you two,” Sevastyan said, all stiff and formal. “We need to speak afterward, Paxán.”

Kovalev’s gray brows drew together and a look passed between them. But I couldn’t read it.

“Of course, Son.”

Sevastyan turned and strode back the way we had come.

“He thinks the world of you,” I told Kovalev. “He said he’s been with you since he was young.”

“Yes, I found him when he was just thirteen.”

“Found?” How had Sevastyan been
lost
?

Kovalev made a sound of assent, but didn’t elaborate. “Such a bright boy, and loyal above all things.”

“What’d he call you as he left?”

“Paxán? It’s his slang sobriquet for me, part
Godfather
, part
old man
. Believe it or not, it’s meant warmly. Perhaps you could call me that as well, until we get to know one another. Just for now?”

Until I called him
Bátja
? Dad? The hopefulness in his tone tugged at my heart. I smiled. “Okay, Paxán, just for now.”

He motioned me toward a pair of elegant settees, taking the one across from me. On cue, more uniformed servants delivered a tea service and a multitiered silver platter. Salmon and cucumber tea sandwiches were arrayed on the top level. Caviar and blini filled the second; cheese, pears, and grapes the third. Scones and pastries were artfully arranged on the bottom level.

As he poured, I filled my plate. The tea was a smoky, potent blend. Instead of sugar, he sweetened his cup with orange jam, so I followed suit. The combination was delectable.

We chatted about the weather in Nebraska and in Russia, and his past visits to the States (work trips to destinations like Brighton Beach and Las Vegas). He was surprisingly easy to talk to.

Then the conversation turned serious. “You must be wondering about your mother.”

I nodded. “Sevastyan didn’t say much, preferring for you to tell me.”

“Her name was Elena Petrovna Andropova.” Kovalev’s demeanor changed. He looked years older, as if weighed down with regret. “From what I’ve been able to learn, she died shortly after you were born.”

“Complications from the birth?” She’d died because of me?

Kovalev quickly said, “You cannot blame yourself. Health care wasn’t what it should have been. The entire country was in turmoil in those years.”

Had she ever even gotten to hold me? “I always thought she’d given me up.”

“Never. Nor would I have. I knew nothing of this. We’d been . . . separated.”

“Because of the Bratva code?” I asked.

“
Da
. I had no idea. I would have defied the code, searching heaven and earth for such a daughter as you!”

Though I thought I was pretty damned nifty, how could he feel so strongly? Just because I was his biologically? Or because of field reports from his enforcer? “You say that with such . . . surety. I know blood ties can be important to some people, but you can understand why I think other connections are important too.”

“Of course! Yet I feel as if I already know you since Aleksandr has spoken so highly of you. It’s very rare for him to give his approval, and never so wholeheartedly.”

Highly? And wholeheartedly? “What has Sevastyan told you?” Would I live up to the hype?

“He told me that you’re an honor student, with numerous
academic awards and scholarships. He sent me copies of papers you’ve written for journals; we’ve read them all.”

I suddenly wished I’d put a little more effort into them. And I couldn’t help but wonder what two gangsters would think about my subjects of discussion: depictions of women, gender, and homosexuality throughout history. Time enough to ask them, I supposed.

“I also got to see pictures of you at county fairs when young and more recent videos of you singing karaoke with friends.”

I’d forgotten Jess had uploaded that video, from back in my enthusiasm-trumps-lack-of-talent era.
You told yourself that just last night, hussy
. My cheeks heated, and I sipped tea to cover my consternation.

In a wry tone, Kovalev said, “You come by your singing ability naturally.”

The quip made me laugh into my cup. I was learning that he had the mischievous sense of humor that I enjoyed.

“Sevastyan told me how you’ve gone to school full-time while holding down three jobs.” Expression gone grave, Kovalev said, “I know that you would often work so hard, you would stumble home in exhaustion.”

I flushed uncomfortably. He made me sound like some Pollyanna Two-shoes. I’d had a goal, therefore I’d busted my ass to reach it. Simple. “To be fair, I
might’ve
just been drunk. ’Cause that’s entirely possible.”

Kovalev went quiet. All I heard was the tick-tock of a thousand clocks. Then he threw back his head and laughed.

He had a great laugh, giving himself over to it. I found myself joining in.

Once we’d quieted down, he wiped his eyes, saying, “What a treasure you are, Natalie.”

As I grinned in reply, I told him, “About the jobs, Paxán, I don’t want you to think my parents didn’t provide for me. They always have, but I didn’t want my mom to know about this.”

“So to spare your adoptive parent pain, and to bring me great joy, you worked to the point of exhaustion. And you taught me an important lesson.”

I raised my brows.

“Power comes in different forms, no? A syndicate like mine has power. But so does a twenty-four-year-old with fire in her belly and steel in her backbone.
You
found
me
,” he added, repeating what Sevastyan had said last night.

I guessed my efforts could be considered a big deal, but I just looked at the last six years as . . . life. “Speaking of your syndicate”—I took a deep breath—“how did you get, um, started?” We might as well get this out of the way.

“Not by choice, that’s for certain! I wanted to be a master clockmaker.” He waved to indicate his collection. “Like my father before me, and his father before him.”

I came from a line of clockmakers? Cool!

“When I was young, my family had a shop in Moscow, one of the many black market shops in the underground economy. It afforded us a comfortable living. Yet then these brigadiers—a
vor
’s henchmen—descended upon us, demanding money for protection from the gangs that ran rampant. The price to us was exorbitant. When we had no choice but to refuse, they made us pay in other ways.”

“What happened?”

His eyes went distant. “My father died that night. My mother survived for a few years before eventually succumbing to . . . damage done to her.”

My stomach churned, and I almost retched up tea. Then
an unfamiliar feeling came over me, a protectiveness for these people—and a quiet rage over what had been done to them. I knew the end of Kovalev’s story—he’d obviously vanquished that
vor
and succeeded—but I wanted to hear
how
he’d done it. Sparing no details.

I wanted to relive his retribution. A startling idea. Maybe I was precisely where I belonged—in the middle of a turf war. “What did you do?”

“I was only a teenager when they struck,” Kovalev said. “But guided by my mother, a fierce and proud woman, we avenged my father and outwitted that gang to stamp them out.”

Yes, but . . . “How?”

He exhaled, giving me a sad smile. “Let’s not speak of unpleasant things. Just know that we won the day. Yet not long after, a new gang arrived to demand money from us and all our neighbors and friends. My path became clear. I could allow a stream of jackals to prey upon us, or I could hire my own brigadiers to protect myself and our friends. Nearby businesses paid me what they could, and I expanded over and again.”

In as even a tone as I could manage, I said, “I’m glad you defeated them, Paxán. I’m glad you avenged your parents.”

Seeming to wake up, he said, “I have been worried that you wouldn’t be able to accept what I am.”

“Do you want to know something weird? I’m more upset that I don’t get to hear how you defeated them than I am about what you do for a living.”

He eyed me, saying in a softer tone, “What a treasure. . . .” Then he straightened, making his manner upbeat. “Let us talk of less troubling things, of the future. Tonight I’ve planned a banquet in your honor. You’ll meet everyone in our organization, all our brigadiers. And your cousin Filip as well.”

“I ran into him on the way in.”

Kovalev looked surprised. “Most young ladies find themselves more starstruck after first meeting him.”

Maybe if I hadn’t already had eyes for Sevastyan.

“Filip’s the son of my distant cousin and best friend, who died recently. The poor boy took it hard. Your being here is just what the lad needs. . . .”

After that, the afternoon passed companionably. Kovalev and I came up with things we had in common: dislike of slapstick comedy, love of animals and heist movies. “They’re usually not accurate, though,” he commented, reminding me that I was talking to a crime boss.

He told me stories about my mother—she’d loved to garden, loved plants; she would’ve been pleased to know I’d grown up on a farm. He challenged me to a game of chess in the morning and promised to teach me about clocks.

When they all struck five, Kovalev said, “As much as I’m enjoying this, I should let you go, so you can have time to get settled in before the banquet.”

“Oh.” Banquet, schmanquet, I was greedy for more time with my father.

In a confiding tone, he said, “I regret scheduling it, wish we could have a quieter dinner and carry on this conversation.” He was as reluctant for me to leave as I was. “Aleksandr could join us.”

A knock sounded. Speak of the devil.

“P
erfect timing, Son,” Kovalev told him. “Will you see Natalie to her rooms?”

“I thought you would want to.”

“No, no, you two go on. I’ll see you tonight, dear.” He pressed a kiss to the top of my head, and it felt natural.

As Sevastyan and I left the study, I couldn’t stop smiling. The Siberian had been right—I hadn’t known what I was talking about; Kovalev was wonderful.

On our way up the grand staircase, Sevastyan said, “You enjoyed yourself.”

“Just like you said, Paxán is great.” My prejudging of Kovalev had been off the mark to a laughable degree, and I’d been totally wrong about Sevastyan. Maybe it was time to take a hiatus from my manalyzing—which
must
be geographically limited.

Sevastyan raised his brows. “You call Kovalev a term of affection?”

“He asked me to,” I said defensively.

“And you do, despite his occupation?” he said in a curt tone.

Though I’d expected a stereotypical
mafiya
kingpin, I felt like
I’d lucked upon this reluctant don, one who’d rather tinker with clocks.

I could overlook a lot.

“You were right, Sevastyan; I understand things better now.” I held his gaze. “And I am so glad you forced me on that plane.”
For more than one reason . . . 

I thought I saw his eyes growing heated, but he looked away, steering me along an art-lined hall. We must be heading down the other wing.

When we stopped in front of a set of white double doors, he said, “This is your suite.” He opened them to reveal a huge sitting room, just as lavish as Paxán’s office, but more feminine.

The décor was definitely intended for a chick. A really rich Russian chick. “It’s so lovely. But, um, where do I sleep?”

With an exhalation, he started across the spacious area, leaving me to follow. We passed an adjoining study with a snazzy new Mac, then a media room with a wall-stretcher TV, before we reached the bedroom.

Stepping inside, I muttered, “This—is—the—tits.”

“Pardon?”

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” I twirled in place, taking in the massive four-poster bed, the hand-painted armoire as big as an elevator, the draperies with silk tassels the size of my forearm. Underfoot, oriental rugs warmed more shining marble. Above, intricate carved molding was gilded with gold. Jade green—my favorite—was the accent color.

“Paxán didn’t decorate this for me, did he?”

“Of course. You’re his daughter. He took great pleasure trying to imagine what you would like.”

“And you knew green is my favorite color.”

He inclined his head.

This reminder of his prying into my life didn’t grate as much as it had before. “At least some good came from your spying, huh?”

Ignoring that, he said, “There are garments for you in the closets.”

“Plural closets?”

“Naturally.”

“Oh. Who picked out the clothes?”

“A stylist. She is on call for you, should you need anything else.”

Near an extravagant display of welcome flowers, I saw a leather folio and several gift boxes. Inside the folio was a selection of credit cards and a list of phone numbers for Kovalev, the estate manager, the stables, my stylist, housekeeping, the kitchen. “Should I wait to open these presents with Paxán?”