by Kresley Cole
The drive meandered through what looked like a park, with hill after hill of golf course–quality lawn. The sun began to break through lowering clouds.
I wanted to pay attention to everything, to memorize my first experience here, but again I was distracted by Sevastyan.
As we crossed a charming wooden bridge, I noticed he was analyzing me. Determining my reaction to this place?
The trees grew more numerous, dense forests changing colors with the fall. The leaves on the birches and other hardwoods were a riot of burnished orange, russet, and gold—gold like Sevastyan’s eyes.
When we neared a colossal structure beside a lake, I cried, “Is that it?” The walls and columns were ivory, the tiled roof topped with three copper domes, green with patina. “Domes! Oh, it’s gorgeous!” No dingy, Soviet-era monolith here. The lake was so glassy, the building cast a surreal reflection. I was in love, ready to declare myself home—
“That’s the lake folly.” At my raised brows, Sevastyan added, “A quaint place for guests to take tea.”
“Oh.” Onward we drove.
We passed a stable that must have had fifty stalls. “How many horses are there?”
“Dozens. Kovalev loves animals.”
White tigers, anyone? Maybe he’d have caged Russian bears.
As we rounded a curve, a mansion came into view. No, not a mansion—a palace.
Jaw drop.
“That is it,” Sevastyan said.
From a main three-story building, two wings stretched beyond my line of sight. It was the size of a freaking state building, but with so much more charm. I realized that the lakeside folly was a miniature of the mansion. The late afternoon sun gleamed off more copper domes. “I . . . this . . .”
“It’s a former tsar’s residence,” Sevastyan said. “Twenty years ago, it was in bad shape, about to be renovated as a museum and Russian landmark. Kovalev bought it instead and painstakingly restored it.”
“So it’s historical.” My heart was racing. “You didn’t tell me I’d be staying in . . . in history.”
The limo parked in front, near a line of high-end cars of all makes and models. Before the driver could reach my door, I scrambled out, Sevastyan following. I craned my head up. “Spectacular,” I eventually managed.
He gave me a satisfied nod. “Horosho, to.” Good, then. “I’m glad.”
“This must be Natalie Kovaleva!” A young man about my age strolled out of the grand copper doors. When the sun hit his face, my lips parted. He was . . . stunning. His dark blond hair was rakishly cut, his features a study in symmetry. His vivid gray eyes were devilish and alight with intellect.
I’d just recovered speech after the sight of this estate. Now my brain was overloaded again.
“That’s Filip Liukin,” Sevastyan said in a tone rife with disapproval.
If Sevastyan was ruggedly hot and sex on a stick, this Filip was blindingly beautiful. While I was trying to form words, Sevastyan grated, “He’s your cousin.”
Awkward.
Filip was quick to point out: “Distant, far removed, and all that.” His accent sounded British. He flashed me an easy grin, all dimples and flawless teeth.
Filip reached out as if to clap Sevastyan on the shoulder. “Welcome back, bratan!”
The look on Sevastyan’s face deterred Filip from touching him. “Do not ever call me brother.”
Whoa. Sevastyan acted as if Filip had just sliced an exposed nerve.
“You got it,” Filip said easily, unperturbed. “Welcome back, all the same. I know you’re glad to be relieved of this lengthy job.”
Did everyone think I’d been merely work to Sevastyan? An onerous task that took him from home for a month? I hadn’t been, right? Maybe I was misremembering his response to me. As icy as he’d been on and off today, I had to wonder. . . .
Filip opened his arms. “Come, Cuz, give us a hug.”
Still stung to think of myself as a task, I let Filip embrace me. As I drew back, I glanced over at Sevastyan, saw that his jaw was clenched, that muscle ticking. He wasn’t liking this whatsoever, as if he was jealous.
Attention fully on Filip—not a chore—I asked, “Do you live here?”
“I might as well,” he said, adding in a flirtatious tone, “And with you here at Berezka, I plan to stick around. No one told me you were gorgeous.”
My manalyzer sense began tingling, but I couldn’t read it, for good or ill. If I felt a touch of unease, my opinion had probably been tainted by Sevastyan’s reaction to him. I changed the subject. “Your English is so perfect.” Sevastyan’s was flawless as well, but unlike Filip, he’d retained his thick accent. “Did you grow up outside of Russia?”
“I was educated at Oxford, got my MBA there. Now I’ve returned.” In an affectionate tone, he said, “I’m trying to update your old man’s operation, dragging it into this century.” At the front doors, he offered his arm. “Shall we?”
Was I being passed off, just like that? From Sevastyan to Filip? I’d been so excited before. Now I was out of sorts. Still, I eked out a smile. “I suppose so.”
“I’ll take her inside.” Sevastyan’s hand covered my shoulder in a possessive grip, sending pleasure through me. I wanted to sag against him.
Filip’s smile barely faded. “I’ve got this. I’m sure you’re tired from your stakeout.”
Sevastyan didn’t say anything more, didn’t have to. One dark glance and Filip backed down.
“Easy on the trigger, Siberian.” He chuckled good-naturedly. “I have something to take care of anyway. See you tonight, Cuz.” He strode off toward that line of parked cars.
Sevastyan called, “Where’s your own car?”
Without slowing, Filip called back, “In the shop.”
I stared after the guy, because it was difficult to pry my eyes from him. Like watching a retreating comet.
When I turned back, Sevastyan looked like he was grinding his teeth. “Be wary of him. Appearances can be deceiving.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re jealous.”
“That is not at issue,” he said, spinning his thumb ring. “Come.” He waved me across the threshold.
Inside, I gasped at the opulence. A grand staircase curved gracefully up from an immense foyer. Marble gleamed beneath our feet. Alcoves housed delicate statuary, and oil landscapes adorned the walls. Instead of the garish mishmash I’d anticipated, everything was refined and tasteful.
When we shed our coats, handing them to a uniformed servant, I felt like I’d lost a layer of comfort. Past the foyer, Sevastyan steered me into a long gallery. At the end were two solid wood doors. We paused just outside them. “Here’s his office.”
I faced the doors, filled with apprehension. Up until this moment, the idea of meeting my biological parents had been a distant dream, a farfetched hope. I smoothed my hair, then adjusted my sweater.
“Come. You will genuinely like him, Natalie.” Sevastyan’s strength seemed to permeate into me.
In a small voice, I asked, “Will he like me?”
He reached for the doors. Staring straight ahead, he muttered, “On tebya polyubit.”
He will love you.
Chapter 12
All my Godfather-ish expectations of gloomy, dark wood paneling and clouds of cigar smoke vanished; Kovalev’s study was light and airy. Numerous picture windows welcomed the fall sun.
Along most of the walls, a multitude of antique clocks ticked along happily. Others in various stages of repair covered a workbench.
Kovalev was literally a clockmaker? I felt silly for my comments on the plane, hoped Sevastyan wouldn’t recall them.
I gazed to the right, finding the man himself on the phone. Pavel Kovalev was so not what I was expecting. He had black hair with gray at the sides, ruddy cheeks, and a slim build. No tracksuit—he wore a crisp navy sport coat with a blue button-down that highlighted his twinkling eyes. Zero gold chains.
Kovalev, the Russian mafioso, looked less like
a Godfather and more like . . . a thin, dapper Santa Claus. He couldn’t be further from my imaginings.
“Natalie!” He hung up the phone at once. With his blue eyes lighting up, he rose to hurry over to me. He was about five foot eight, maybe sixty years old. His arms were spread wide—like his infectious grin.
But for all that we shared DNA, he was a stranger to me. What should I call him? Mr. Kovalev? Father? Pops? I shuffled uncertainly, darting a glance at Sevastyan, who gave a brisk nod. His way of encouragement? In the end, I just said, “Hi.” Lame.
Kovalev clasped my shoulders, leaning in to press a kiss on each of my cheeks. “You are the spitting image of my mother.” He waved toward a portrait of a smiling woman proudly hung on a paneled wall.
I did look like her. My grandmother.
“How was your trip?”
Bewildering, eye-opening, occasionally wicked. “Unexpected?”
He gave me a sheepish look. “I do apologize, my dear.” His English was as excellent—and accented—as Sevastyan’s. “I assume Aleksei filled you in on our current circumstances.” Directing a proud gaze at Sevastyan, Kovalev added, “Aleksei speaks for me.”
I remembered that phrase. It was a simple way of saying that Kovalev trusted him so much that he knew Sevastyan would say exactly what he would in any situation.
“Does he, then?” Was Sevastyan’s face a touch flushed? Thinking about his “indiscretion”?
“Absolutely. He is a son to me, the only one I would trust to bring me my . . . daughter. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to say that enough.” When his eyes got a little misty, I feared I might be a goner for this mafiya Santa.
“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 slang for us, part Godfather, part old man. Believe it or not, it’s an affectionate term. 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 Andropov.” 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 Aleksei 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 a boy, my family had a shop in Moscow, affording us a comfortable living. Yet then these brigadiers—a vo
r’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.”
