The Professional (6 page)

Sevastyan didn’t answer, so . . .
ding, ding, ding.
A turf war. And I was on my way there.

He finally said, “Are you done?”

“Tell—me.”

“Your father is part of the Bratva, the brotherhood. It’s like a
criminal aristocracy. He’s
vor v zakone
, the head of our organization, answering to no one.”

The blatant pride in Sevastyan’s tone made my queasiness increase. “So I’m a freaking
mafiya
princess, then? That’s the real reason I’m in danger, isn’t it?”

“Your father is embattled. Adversaries would love to see him fall. And there is another
vor
who might hurt you in order to hurt Kovalev. Or use you to coerce him.”

“Again, that sounds like a
chronic
problem.”

Sevastyan studied my face, as if debating how much to tell me. “After I left the bar, I found out that two very dangerous men flew from Moscow hours ago, heading to America—sent by Kovalev’s bitterest enemy. There’s a good chance they were coming here.”

Fuck. This little
mafiya
princess was in trouble. “You’re taking me straight to the source of the conflict! Turn this jet around, and let me disappear! I could go out west, get lost.”

He glanced over at me, must’ve sensed I was about to freak. “I was sent here to keep you safe. If you do as I say, then you’ll have nothing to fear. And there was another reason we felt it imperative that you leave tonight. When you return to Russia, those men will follow you—instead of questioning your loved ones.”

“They would hurt Mom? Jess?” Alarm for them razored through me.

“Without hesitation. Unless we signal that you’ve left Lincoln—which we will do in Moscow.”

“I have to warn them! Just in case.” Would Sevastyan let me call?

“There’s a phone in the cabinet beside you.”

“How much can I tell them?”

“That depends on how much you trust them not to tell others. You have five minutes.”

Remembering the last time he’d said that, I didn’t waste time arguing. With the headset clutched in my damp palm, I rang my mom. What could I tell her? Things were already tense between us.

Those last few years with Dad’s illness had been tough on her, on us both, and after his death, we’d drifted apart. Then, this past summer, she’d remarried, moving upstate with her new guy. But I was happy for her. She and her hubby had an RV. Apparently, RVing was a lifestyle choice. They went to “roundups” with other RVers.

I got her answering machine. Luckily, she was on the road for a week. I left a message, trying to sound casual. “Hi, Mom, just calling to check in. Have fun at the . . . roundup,” I said, feeling like a rube in front of Sevastyan. “Love you.”

Jess answered on the fourth ring, snapping with impatience: “Having my box eaten right now; this better be good—”

“Jess! I’ve only got a couple of minutes to talk.”

“Nat, is that you?”

“Yeah, and I need you to listen to me. You can’t go home tonight.”

“Why can’t I go back to the Bunghole . . .” Jess trailed off, then gasped. “Oh, my God! Did you hook up with that DUDE FROM THE BAR? The unicorn!”

Sevastyan quirked a brow. Of course he’d heard.

“In a manner of speaking.” Yes, I was presently wearing nothing but his shirt—with my body still thrumming from his touch—but not by choice!

Making her voice syrupy, Jess crooned, “Awww, our little Nat’s gonna lose her skin tag tonight.”

My eyes went wide, darting to Sevastyan. “Shut it, Jess! Look, here’s the deal—that guy was sent here to take me to Russia because my biological father is some kind of
mafiya
criminal-lord type.”

“Huh.” Completely unfazed, she said, “Actually, that explains a lot about you.” Then, to her boy toy, she said, “I don’t remember telling you to stop.”

“Will you pay attention? I’m on a jet heading to Moscow—”

“Get the fuck out!”

“—and some rival goons might go by the house. Can you stay away until after your trip?”

“You mean I’ll be forced to buy all new clothes and luggage for Greece? My parents will believe this excuse as much as all my others.” Growing serious, she said, “Are you safe?”

I gazed at Sevastyan’s face, searching. “If I don’t call you in a week . . .” I trailed off. Then what? Notify the embassy? What hope would they have against the Red Mafiya? “I
will
call you in a week.”

“Just be careful, babe,” Jess said. “Oh, and tell the unicorn that if anything happens to you, I will skull-fuck him, ’kay? How do you say ‘desecrate his motherfucking corpse’ in Russki?”

Sevastyan tapped his watch.

“Gotta go, message received—and stay safe yourself.” Hanging up, I turned to him. “It’s morning in Russia. Why don’t you give me your boss’s number, so I can explain some things to him?”
Customer service in your organization requires a complete overhaul.
“Share some of my thoughts.”

“Kovalev’s in a congress.” At my nonplussed look, Sevastyan explained, “It’s like a summit meeting for
vory
.”

“Don’t you think my going to Russia will just magnify this problem?”

“We have men there, safeguards in place. Your father’s compound is a fortress.”

A
mafiya
compound? I could just see it: some gray and dingy Soviet-era monolith. Inside, the décor would be a riot of gaudy knickknacks, selected on the basis not of taste, but of price. And Kovalev . . . I pictured a hulking brute in a tracksuit, wearing so many thick gold chains that his neck looked like a ring toss. He probably kept white tigers and had a diamond-encrusted toilet.

Ugh
. I frowned at Sevastyan. “Forcing me back there wasn’t always the plan?”

He shook his head.

“So if those bad guys hadn’t headed to the States, would you have kept spying on me from afar?”

“I would have remained in place—
protecting
you—until your father could travel here to meet you.”

“If you were my sole bodyguard, when did you sleep?”

“While you were in class or at work. When I knew you’d be around others for a while.” That meant he’d gotten even fewer hours than I had. He cocked his head. “I can sleep when I’m dead, no?”

Exactly what I’d thought. “This is a lot for Kovalev to put on your shoulders.” I couldn’t imagine a task like that—having another person’s life in my hands.

“I would do anything he asked me.”

“Is devotion like that common in your . . . organization?”

“He’s been a father to me since I was young. I owe him my life,” Sevastyan said in a tone that told me he would
not
be unpacking that comment.

“Then in a way, you’re like my much, much older brother.”

Another scowl from the Russian. He didn’t like that remark
at all
. “I’m only seven or so years older than you are.”

I waved that information away. “And my mother . . . ?”

“I must let Kovalev explain that. It’s not my story to tell.”

“At least tell me if she’s alive.”

I might’ve seen a flicker of pity in Sevastyan’s eyes. I assumed the worst, grief hitting me like a swift stab to my heart. All these years of wondering . . . Now it seemed that I’d never meet her, never speak to her.

Stemming tears, I asked, “Do I have any siblings?”

“None.”

“Grandparents?” Mom and Dad had been older when they’d adopted me, and my grandparents had passed away over my childhood.

He shook his head. “Only your father and a distant cousin you’ll meet.” He rose, then crossed to a marble counter in the middle of the sitting area. With the push of a button, a panel retracted to reveal a stocked wet bar with a full range of bar and stemware. He poured two drinks into cut-crystal glasses. A vodka rocks for himself—and a chilled Sprite for me?

“No warm milk?” I accepted the glass and drank, surly because it tasted so good.

Returning to his seat, he ran a finger around the edge of his glass, but he hadn’t taken a sip. Just as his drink at the bar had been untouched. “I don’t have your preferred tequila.”

“Preferred? I drink whatever folks buy me. I’ve been on a budget.”

Had my comment amused him? “The last
budget
you’ll ever have, I assure you.”

Because he expected me to spend the family blood money. Reminded of my situation, I said, “I’m having a hard time believing two strange men would really hurt me.”

“They target relatives. When Kovalev started out in the Bratva,
their code prohibited members from having a family, from having anything they cared about other than the brotherhood—because family is a weakness that enemies can use against you.”

As I tried to imagine such a brutal world, Sevastyan continued, “That’s why Kovalev sent your mother away. He didn’t know she was pregnant. Not until you started this search.”

“You said my DNA matched his. But why would his have been available?”

“There were others before you, claiming to be fathered by him. Initially, I came to Nebraska to discover if this was some type of scam.” Gazing into his glass, Sevastyan said, “Kovalev never wanted it to be true before you.”

“Why not?”

Sevastyan faced me again. “The others were deceitful gold diggers, cold-blooded and seemingly committed to unemployment. You held down three jobs, all while finishing your master’s degree with honors. You even learned to speak Russian. You
wanted
to find him, but you didn’t
need
to. At least, not financially.” Had Sevastyan sounded . . . admiring?

The thought warmed me. Until I remembered that my DNA tied me to a mobster. “There could have been a mistake in the match. A clerical error or something.”

Sevastyan raised his glass to his lips, only to lower it without taking a drink. “Your resemblance to his mother is uncanny.”

I looked like my grandmother. I found myself softening, but not enough to soothe my misgivings. “So what does my father do? In a criminal sense. Run girls? Guns and drugs?”

Sevastyan gave me a look as if my question was the height of ridiculousness. “The bulk of his business is related to real estate and construction. But he also mediates disputes between gangs, and he sells protection to business owners. He does a brisk trade blackmailing
politicians. No girls, no guns, no drugs. That’s part of why we’re having this conflict—because he doesn’t want that in his territory.”

“Because it would bring down his real estate values?”

Sevastyan looked like he was grappling for patience with me. “Because it would bring down the quality of life for the people he protects.”

That was surprising. “Okay, so maybe he’s not a diabolical, moustache-twirling villain. But I still don’t want to get mixed up in this. I just want to finish my doctorate, to have a career.”

With my history degree. Though I didn’t necessarily want to be a professor or writer. Had I continued with my PhD because it’d been the path of least resistance?

“Do you think your father wanted to uproot you from your life? Blame Zironoff for this. If not for him, you’d be asleep in your bed right now.”

“My investigator? What did he do?”

Again Sevastyan’s drink almost made it to his mouth, but he set it down. “The greedy little prick demanded money from Kovalev to keep secret his discovery. But we found out he’d already told our enemies about your existence, offering your whereabouts for a price. He willfully put you at risk.”

I swallowed. “Did you hurt Zironoff?”

Eyes gone cold, Sevastyan said, “He took your trust—and your hard-earned money—then used your blood to blackmail a
vor
. He jeopardized the life that I’ve sworn to protect. Tell me, Natalie, should he not have been punished for the damage he’d done—and prevented from doing more?”

I could read the writing on the wall. Sevastyan had ganked Zironoff. A true mob enforcer. A professional killer.

Leveling his gaze at me, he said, “Understand me, girl, I will eliminate any threat to you, pitilessly.”

I wondered how many other men Sevastyan had killed. I wondered why I still couldn’t manage to be afraid of this man. Instead, I found myself feeling . . . protected.

“Zironoff set you up to be murdered, but still you won’t understand.” He exhaled a weary breath. “I can’t wait to hear your moral American outrage.”

I tried to drum some up. But Zironoff had gone to a group of lethal thugs, planning to profit off my dream of finding my relatives. He’d leaked the confidential information I’d entrusted to him, knowing I might be killed.

So I shrugged. “
Do svidaniya
, Zironoff.” So long and good-bye.

Sevastyan’s gaze flickered over my face. Observant, watchful. Then one corner of his sexy lips curled.

My heart thudded at his half smile. If he ever truly smiled, I’d probably have a coronary. Quelling the urge to fan myself, I asked, “So, do you have a mob name? Like Alex the Butcher or Al the Shark or something?”

“I’m from Siberia; they call me the Siberian. End of story.”

“Simple yet elegant, goes with everything. Were you born into ‘the life’ or did you steer your major?”

Flinty gaze.

“Okay, so what’s Kovalev’s mob name?”

“Older
vor
call him the Clockmaker.”

“Because he cleans clocks? With his fists?”

“Your father has a wry sense of humor as well. You have much in common with him.”

“Really?” I tilted my head. “You’ve learned a lot about me, huh?”

“I know everything about you, academically, financially, socially. I know that you had stability growing up and a caring
couple to raise you, which relieved Kovalev’s mind greatly. I know that you’re driven and clever. Probably too much for your own good.”

I recalled that feeling I’d had of being watched earlier tonight. “You followed me home from the bar.” Mere hours ago.

“I did.”

“Have you been in my house before tonight?” Had he found the collection of vibrators under my bed, or noted that half of my Internet bookmarks were for porn?

“Of course. I was thorough.” His demeanor was so matter-of-fact, even as he sat here admitting that he’d violated my privacy on the regular.