The Professional (16 page)

F
 ifteen minutes later, Paxán and I were sitting in the pavilion at a table topped with tea, delicacies, and our chessboard. A fire in the pavilion hearth crackled, warming us. As usual, Sevastyan worked some distance away, fielding phone calls, his watchful eyes scanning for a threat.

The two of us sipped and snacked, wading deeper into our game. “Do you know who is a master player?” Paxán eyed our pieces. “Aleksandr.”

“Is he?” I made my tone as uninterested as possible, even as my gaze flicked over to Sevastyan.

He was embroiled in a heated conversation, had begun striding outside into the drizzle. He made his way down to the nearby boathouse—which really should be called a “yacht house” considering the sixty-foot beauty housed inside.

I knew sub-nothing about boats, but I was pretty sure this one had been the villain’s yacht in
Casino Royale
. Paxán had promised to take me out once the weather—and danger—broke, said we could motor all the way to the Gulf of Finland.

“You should play Aleksandr sometime.”

I gave a shrug. Pass. I was trying to get over my fascination with him, not fuel it.

Yet when Sevastyan’s words floated up, dimly echoing from the boathouse, I frowned. “Is he speaking . . . Italian?”

“Ah, yes,” Paxán said proudly. “He speaks four languages fluently. He’s a—what do you call it?—a self-learner?”

I nodded. The bruiser boxer, the feared enforcer, the professional hit man, was an autodidact. Fascination fueled once more. Damn it.

“If only I could interest him in the workings of clocks.” Paxán had begun teaching me, and I’d geeked out, finding it addictive. “So have you given some thought to making this your full-time home?” He’d yet to exert any pressure on me, although I could tell how much he longed for me to stay.

In a dry tone, I said, “Gee. Maybe if you’d give me some gifts, you know, spoil me a little.” I’d received countless pieces of priceless jewelry, another closetful of clothes, a red Aston Martin Vanquish that Filip had salivated over, and even my own thoroughbred, an exquisite dapple-gray mare named Alizay. I only awaited a sunny day to take her out.

In a matching tone, he said, “Next you’ll be saying the Fabergé egg was too much.”

With a laugh, I held up my thumb against my forefinger. “Just a touch.”

He chuckled with me. “I can’t help it. I have all this money and years to make up for. The birthday presents alone . . .” He tilted his head. “Sometimes I wish you were more interested in being rich.”

The present that I’d adored above all the rest had been the least expensive: a framed portrait of my mother, Elena. How I wished I’d been able to know her!

She’d had strawberry blond hair, sparkling green eyes, and a coy smile. I might resemble my grandmother, but I saw similarities to Elena as well.

When I’d gushed over the thoughtfulness of the gift, Paxán had informed me that the idea had been Sevastyan’s, which had surprised me.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate everything, but at heart, I’m a farm girl. I like the simple life. Besides, you are the draw here—not the gifts.” I hadn’t gotten around to telling him that I wanted him to change his will back. The topic was morbid, and I got the sense that it would crush his feelings.

“But Berezka is pleasant, no?”

I gazed out over the surreal landscape. A green lawn sprawled to the edge of the river. Light drops of rain splashed the surface with notes like music. Otters frolicked in the current. Each day, Paxán would point out local species of animals. “Look! It’s a stoat,” he’d say. Or a shrew, or a raccoon dog, or a great crested grebe.

I admitted, “It’s magical here.”

“What can I do to convince you to stay?”

As little as I saw Mom, I could visit her twice a year at her new place. She was currently on a cruise around the world that she’d “won.” Just a precaution, courtesy of the Kovaleva syndicate.

When I’d called to check in, I hadn’t told her anything, figuring a reveal this major should be done in person.

Eventually Mom would be fine wherever I lived, but how could I leave Jess . . . and school? “Living here would be challenging, with school and all.” I could let my master’s stand as my ending degree; I didn’t have to pursue the PhD. Yet somehow that felt like quitting.

“We are within driving distance of several renowned universities.”

God, the hopefulness in his voice was killing me. I knew he was accustomed to having his way, just as Sevastyan clearly was, but Paxán was making the effort to coax me to remain—which made me respect him all the more.

“Starting at a new university is something to investigate, at least,” I said, committing to nothing.

I was beginning to suspect that I was a commitment-phobe. Though I’d always considered myself decisive, I could see now that my decision trees were usually limbless.

If one completed a master’s degree and didn’t want to make a decision about one’s future . . . well, get a PhD! Stay in the same chute. Start classes a week after the last ones ended.

Maybe that was why the money bothered me so much; in a way, it represented infinite choices.

Hell, I hadn’t even
chosen
to come to Russia.

“It’s your move,
dorogaya moya
.” My dear.

I made a halfhearted play. “What about the danger, Paxán? What’s happening with that other organization?”

“These are difficult times we live in. There used to be, well, honor among thieves. Now the areas I control are getting flooded with an element that frightens my people.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’ll give you a mild example. My rival, Ivan Travkin, set up a parking lot in the middle of my territory. No one used it—there was no need to—so Travkin’s men began smashing the windshields of any cars outside the lot, forcing people to pay for parking every day. They came to me to get this stopped, so I sent Sevastyan, who shut that operation down. Forcefully.”

I could only imagine what the legendary Siberian had done.

“For years, Travkin has searched for small inroads like this, planning the death of my syndicate by a thousand cuts. But when he learned of your existence and sent two of his deadliest enforcers to America”—my twinkling-eyed Santa of a father grew steely-eyed and cold—“it was a declaration of war.”

War. Was it any wonder that I worried about Paxán constantly? And about Sevastyan, his frontline general?

“Once we prevail, things will be different for you. We can
move freely.” Paxán’s expression softened again. “I will show you the country of your birth, your mother’s hometown. We can find any cousins of yours!”

“I would love that. Other than this trip, I’ve never traveled.”

He gave me an odd look, a
guilty
one, as if that was a failing on his part. “A fact that must be remedied as soon as possible. But in the meantime, it’s not so bad at Berezka?”

As if magnetized, my gaze sought out Sevastyan. Though no longer on the phone, he remained on the dock, scanning the perimeter. I lifted my teacup for a sip, and a moment to gather my thoughts.

“So the interest runs both ways?” Paxán said slyly.

I nearly choked on tea.

“Aleksandr told me about the two of you.”

I set down my cup, because it shook. “What did he say?”

“After you two arrived, he came to me, confessing that things with you had passed beyond what was . . . expected.”

Had I gotten Sevastyan in trouble? “This is all my fault,” I quickly said. “Before I knew who he was, I tried to pick him up in a bar—something I had never done before. And then later, I pushed him. He said no, that I was your daughter, but I pushed.”

“I’m not angry, dear! I love Aleksandr as my son and want only what’s best for him. He’s thirty-one, and I’d despaired of him ever settling down. He’s never even dated the same woman twice.”

“S-settling down? Um, why are you speaking about that?” Had Sevastyan mentioned wanting to? With me? I couldn’t tell if I was perversely thrilled—or about to bolt from the pavilion. “What did he say?”

Kovalev steepled his fingers. “When we first began to suspect
that you might truly be my daughter, he grew excited at the prospect of having a sister. But then . . .” He trailed off with a perplexed expression.

“But then?”

“He saw you in person. He hadn’t been in America for more than a week when I received a call from him. In his reserved way, he asked me to send a replacement, because his notice of you wasn’t what it should be.”

“What does that mean?” I asked as calmly as possible—even as my heart tripped over a beat. Along with my surprise at this development, a weird sense of power surged inside me. Sevastyan could barely control himself with me! He’d wanted to relinquish his job, knowing he’d disappoint the man he obviously idolized.

“Aleksandr confessed his interest in you was . . . dark.”

Sevastyan had watched me and wanted me—
darkly
?

Paxán frowned. “And, well, deep.”

That one was even more surprising.

Dark and deep sounded . . . stalker-y. Probably because Sevastyan had been stalking me at the time (though he’d been ordered to). Still, it gave me pause. “So he’s not in trouble?”

“Honestly, this situation isn’t ideal. If you two walked hand in hand into my office, wanting to get married, I’d throw you a wedding like Russia has never seen. But if it was known that my most trusted enforcer had—what’s the word?—
trifled
with you, that would not be good.”

I swallowed nervously, having no doubt he’d consider what Sevastyan and I had done trifling. “You’d be angry?”

“Only that you would be put at risk. If this continued, others would find out. I would lose respect for not keeping my men in order, and Aleksandr would lose respect for disloyalty to me. Unfortunately,
our business—and our safety—depends on respect. With Travkin aggressing, we are already vulnerable. He would use this to undermine my authority with this organization.”

“I don’t think Sevastyan and I are in danger of any more, um, trifling.” Though I might feel some inexplicable connection to him, whatever interest he’d felt for me had faded. Didn’t know why. The only thing that had changed was that he’d gotten to know me better, so
ouch
.

“I would not even have approached you with this if I hadn’t seen your own interest in him.” Paxán looked troubled as he said, “Still, just as I want what’s best for him, I must secure that for you as well. And I’m not convinced he is what you need.”

“Why not?”

“Aleksandr lives a life of extremes.” He exhaled wearily, gazing at Sevastyan with a look at once proud and a little mystified. “Extreme loyalty, violence, vigilance. I’ve known him for nearly twenty years and have seen him with scores of beautiful women”—
jealousy rearing its ugly head!
—“but I have never seen him respond to anyone the way he does to you. His interest
is
dark, and that’s not necessarily a good thing.”

Paxán hadn’t exactly answered the question. “Are you warning me away from him?”

“I’m in an uncomfortable position. Do I hinder his happiness to secure yours? Or do I dare hope the two of you could make each other happy? Matches like this weren’t uncommon in my day. It would make sense, no? A trusted right-hand man and a treasured daughter?”

Matches? Securing happiness? This all sounded so ominous—and permanent. My commitment-phobe self was on full alert. “This is really heavy. I hardly know him.”

“Did Aleksandr tell you how we met?”

“He said I should ask you.”

Paxán raised his brows. “That’s surprising. He’s a very private man.”

“He did say you took him in as a boy. Will you tell me how you found him?”

Paxán nodded. “I was driving the slums in St. Petersburg, looking for a foothold in the city. And I saw this man in a back alley beating a boy of no more than thirteen, beating him bloody. This wasn’t something unique. It was after the fall of communism. There were thousands of street children, and many were harshly abused.”

Sevastyan had been abused? The idea left a hollow ache in my chest. I gazed at him, now a grown man, so tall and stalwart.

“But this boy,” Paxán continued, “he kept struggling to his feet, facing the man with his shoulders squared. Why didn’t the boy stay in the gutter? Why keep rising? I’d never seen anyone take so many hits. Eventually, the man wore himself out! When the boy landed his sole blow, the big man went down, and then the boy disappeared. I had to know why he’d kept rising. So I followed his trail of blood to ask. Do you know what Aleksandr’s answer was?”

Spellbound, I shook my head.

“In a deadened tone, he told me,
‘Pozor bolnee udarov.’
 Shame is more painful than blows.”

I swallowed. He’d been like that—at thirteen?

“Extreme, no? It’s expected for each
vor
to mentor a protégé, to bring someone who shows promise into the fold. I’d never been interested in doing so until I met him.”

“Where had he come from? Was he an orphan?” As I’d briefly been.

Paxán parted his lips, then seemed to think better of what he was about to tell me. “Perhaps he would confide in you if you two spent time together and got to know each other better.”