“Into your situation.”
Andrei scowled. “Why? I didn’t tell you to involve you. Just to explain.”
“Since when does that matter? If I’m interested, I’m interested. I have the time on my hands, and the connections to find out information you can’t discover any other way but via broken fingers.”
Andrei sighed, and lifting a hand, pinched the bridge of his nose. “That wasn’t necessary.”
Vasily cackled. “You never did like spilling blood. But in this instance, you’ll be glad I did. I have a name for you.”
“A name?”
“Yes. Elizabeth Jacobie.”
“Edward Jacobie’s mother?” he demanded, sitting up in surprise. “What’s she got to do with anything?”
“I had a few people speak to the man behind bars. She’s who hired him.”
As he processed that, he let out a hiss. “Don’t suppose you found out why.”
Vasily snorted. “I can’t do all the work for you, boy. Although, I’d like to be kept in the loop.”
“Why?” he asked warily.
“Because I’ve seen your Sascha. She does look like Ava Gardner and Rita Hayworth. I’d like to meet her.”
“Dirty old bastard,” he groused. “She’s mine.”
Another cackle. “A man can live vicariously, can’t he?”
He snorted. “If you expect me to believe Anja is just your nurse, then you really do think I’m a fool.”
“A man’s bed is his private affair.”
“So, what are you doing looking into the woman who occupies my bed then, huh?”
“I was interested. How could I not be? Safe for years in the UK until she goes to your house? Not only that, I was concerned my business enterprises had somehow crossed into your world.”
“And they haven’t?” He wasn’t surprised at his grandfather’s concern. Vasily had more fingers in pies than a man with four hands could count. At least two pies per finger.
Minimum.
“No. You weren’t the target of that bomb. Nasty business that. Poorly executed.”
“Thanks. That poor execution is why I’m still alive.”
Vasily just grunted. “You know what I mean. If you’re going to do a job, better do it damn well.”
“That’s back to front logic considering the bomb would have exploded when I was making my speech.”
“But it didn’t, and you’re safe. So, I can afford to be generous.” Vasily mumbled something, and Andrei assumed it was to someone in his quarters.
He could easily imagine the huge library where Vasily would be sitting. He’d spent countless hours there as a child.
The place was fit for a Tsar. Which, in his world, Vasily was the equivalent of.
With bookshelves that lined the high walls, making his six-foot length appear miniscule by comparison, his grandfather was surrounded by books. Leather-backed ones, first editions, then gritty paperbacks of the thrillers he loved. High-backed armchairs and sofas sat in clumps around small tables, inviting conversation and the opportunity to read while whoever sat there sipped at bitter coffee or drank shots of vodka. Both of which were, he remembered in amusement, practically on tap.
A coffee, a book, and a game of chess on his antique pedestal board with the marble pieces he’d had smuggled out of China were always on offer in his grandfather’s office.
It wasn’t just the ‘play’ side of the library that was beautiful. Vasily’s desk had once belonged to a Romanov. The ornate gilt was out of touch and not to Andrei’s taste, but it suited Vasily, who was a king to the men under him.
Well, King incumbent.
Andrei didn’t even want to know who was reigning in his grandfather’s stead. Didn’t even want to know if his grandfather’s retirement was ‘mock.’
“The bomb was organized by this foolish group I’ve been reading about,” Vasily told him conversationally, like he hadn’t just managed to crack two cases that international policing bodies were stumped over.
But then, Vasily had spies everywhere. Information leaked to him through sources that no ordinary policeman would be comfortable using.
Not without fearing a prison sentence himself, anyway.
“Are you going to tell Sean?”
Sean was the only one of his friends his grandfather referred to by name. Mostly out of respect. Sean had helped unravel a criminal organization that had been operating out of Manchester with ties to Chechnya. Vasily had also been grateful.
That organization had been his competition.
“May I?” he asked, tone wary. He rarely imparted the information he received from Vasily. Though Sean would appreciate it, Andrei had to be careful.
Using the information came at a cost, and it was too high if it brought shit to their door. He’d moved from Russia to England to get away from that bullshit. He didn’t want to bring it here too.
“Yes. It doesn’t clash with any of my concerns.”
Yet more proof his grandfather wasn’t as retired as he liked to make out.
“So, who is it?”
“They’re anti-capitalist idiots, raging against the 1%. And the 1% appertains to ninety-percent of the guests at that event. Yourself included.”
Relief flushed through him. “So, Sascha wasn’t targeted?”
“No. But she’s still in danger. I was teasing earlier, but the man hired to hurt her didn’t know why she was being targeted. That attempt failed. If another attempt is being planned or is underway, you need to protect your woman.”
His woman. Andrei liked the sound of that.
“When this is over, and I know she’s safe, I’ll bring her to visit you.”
Silence pounded down the line, and when Vasily spoke next, his voice had Andrei swallowing with emotion—tears clogged his grandfather’s throat. “You will come to Moscow?”
Andrei gnawed at his lip, then studied Sascha whose focus had returned to whatever it was she was doing on her computer.
“Yes.”
“It has been a long time, child.”
Fifteen years. He’d only returned twice. Once, in his first year of Oxford. After which, he’d decided he could never return unless it was urgent.
The second time had been his grandmother’s funeral. That was the kind of urgency he was talking about.
Truth was, Russia was no longer home. He was a proud Russian, but he didn’t want to live there. His grandfather’s world wasn’t one he wanted to inhabit. There was danger there, unnecessary risk. Andrei’s gifts didn’t lend themselves to that kind of work. He preferred to play with figures, ride the stock market and make it his bitch.
Violence wasn’t his way.
Plus, being in Moscow meant being in the same city as his bastard father.
Andrei could just handle sharing a continent. A city was too close and being in the same country was enough to have him still on edge.
“She will be safe over there, yes?”
“Of course. Hurry up and resolve this situation. I wish to see you.”
Andrei smiled, then groaned when Vasily tacked on, “It’s a dying man’s wish.”
The melodramatic tone told him everything. “Only the good die young.”
Vasily snorted. “Ungrateful wretch.”
“I love you too,” Andrei teased.
His grandfather scoffed at that, but in English, a language no one in his house would understand, he murmured, “I love you, child.” And with that, he cut the call.
Moved, because his grandfather never ceased to stop amazing him, he placed his cell on the desk.
“I spontaneously orgasmed three times,” Sascha said blankly, her focus still on the screen.
“Then I appreciate your quiet. My grandfather would have asked what I was doing if he’d thought he heard someone having sex in the background.”
Her nose wrinkled as she looked up at him. “Your grandfather? And hey, you talk about sex with him?”
“I talk about everything with him,” he replied eas
ily, rocking back in his chair to study her more intently.
This new habit of hers pleased him. Greatly. Not only did she sit in Sean’s room, but seemingly at random, she would come and work in one of their offices.
Though she had her own study and room, she preferred to invade theirs. Or, as was the case at the moment, have them invade hers. With her father around for the next ten days, Sean was sleeping in the attic with her.
After he’d gone to kiss her in the kitchen, they’d deemed it wise to play it safe. Sawyer was in Sean’s room, and Devon, much to his disgust, had to stay in his own bedroom.
“Everything?” she asked.
“Everything,” he confirmed. “He’s the one who taught me what sex is.” He pulled a face at that conversation. “You don’t even want to know how he explained the birds and the bees.” Just the memory had him rubbing his temples.
“Now I need to know,” she retorted. “If it makes you pull a face like that.”
He sighed. “You won’t like it, but he meant well.”
She frowned. “What did he do?”
“Is your father in the house?”
“No. Why?”
“Where did he go?”
“He wanted to drag me to Buckingham Palace, but I told him I had work to do—not a total lie, thank God.”
His lips twitched. “Not a fan of the monarchy?”
“I’m American. I love royalty. It’s in my freakin’ veins. I’m just not desperate to be caught in the tourist trap, that’s all. So, go on. Spill.”
“My grandfather is old school. In more ways than you can imagine. He’s Bratva. High-ranking, one of the highest in his region. Because of that,” he continued, ascertaining that from her lack of surprise, one of the others had shared his family history with her, “He thinks differently than most. Anyway, he had a hooker slip into my room one night. It was a very informative lesson.”
“How old were you?”
He grimaced, aware of what her reaction would be. “Thirteen.”
“Thirteen?” she shrieked. “You were just a baby!”
He grunted. “Hardly. Plus, I was very happy at the time, I assure you.”
“Oh my God, that’s all kinds of wrong. A hooker? Jesus, she could have had an STD or anything!”
“I doubt it,” he replied wryly. “Vasily’s intention was for me to no longer be a virgin. Not to have my cock fall off.”
She blinked. “You’re totally okay with this, aren’t you?”
He knew she wasn’t and was sorry for it. Letting out a sigh, he murmured, “Who told you about my past?”
“Kurt.”
“Did he explain about my mother?”
“He said…”
When she broke off, hurt in her eyes—hurt for him—he inserted on her behalf, “…that my father killed my mother.”
“And that you watched him do it.”
He nodded, the pain of those memories alternated between having the power to crush him and to numb him to the extent where he felt nothing for days.
He should really see a shrink. But, the truth was, there was no escaping those images. No amount of talking about it with a trained professional would scrub his mind clean. Sean tried. Frequently. And that was the only kind of help he’d accept. But then, Sean was different. He was his brother and sharing those memories with him was more of a purge than a therapy session.
“We don’t have to talk about this,” she whispered, and he jerked in surprise as he saw she’d moved toward him. Her laptop was on the floor, resting somewhat askew where she’d dumped it moments before.
When she leaned against his desk, he patted his lap, and she immediately rested against him, snuggling into him in a way he’d never imagined wanting.
The other women they’d shared hadn’t been like Sascha. Maybe that was why they hadn’t worked. They’d been focused on the sex. The thrill. The naughtiness of sleeping with five guys at the same time.
Sascha’s interactions with them were… polar. She treated them like individuals. There was a group connection, and a personal one. It made him believe in soul mates. For the first time in his forty-three years, the concept wasn’t ridiculous to him.
She fit into their world with the ease of fitting a plug into a socket. Made for them. And damn was it electric.
For the first time, he wanted to believe everything would work out. Rather than dissociate himself from the relationship, aware that hurt would come down the road, he embraced it.
Had decided to do that when Sean had called him, frantic, with news of her accident. For a moment, he’d believed her dead, and the relief that had cascaded through him when he’d learned she was alive, was more than he could describe.
She leaned up to stroke his cheek. “Hey, where’d you go?”
He blinked. “Sorry. I was thinking.”
She rubbed her temple against his shoulder. “I meant it. We don’t have to talk about this.”
“I know you did, but, we have to. You have to know all of me, Sascha. The good, the bad, and the ugly.”
She sighed. “It won’t change anything. You’re more than your past.”
Her words were bizarrely freeing. “You truly believe that?”
“The past makes us what we are, sure. We wouldn’t be standing here today otherwise, would we? But I think that if we condemn people for the mistakes they’ve made, don’t allow ourselves to believe that they’re capable of good in the future… Well, it’s a pretty hopeless point-of-fucking-view.”
“What about murderers and rapists?”
“Some crimes should never be forgiven. But that doesn’t mean to say that same person can’t do good and can’t learn from his past to rectify his future.”
“You’re an idealist,” he said softly, both amused and touched at the realization.
She grimaced. “This isn’t about me.”
That’s where she was wrong. It was all about her.
He cleared his throat. “My mother was my father’s mistress. I don’t know if it’s much better there now, but when I was a child, women aspired to nothing more than that. Being a prostitute was considered a great career opportunity.”
She winced. “Every feminist bone in my body just cringed at that.”
He chuckled, but there was little amusement to it. “I know. It’s not a popular way of thinking, but you have to understand the poverty over there. The extreme divide between the wealthy and the poor.” He shrugged. “It is what it is. Mother was happy to be my father’s devushka. I wasn’t ashamed either. I was…” He thought back to those days. “Happy.”
They’d had money. Food on the table. A warm house. He’d had toys, unlike many children at school. His clothing had been good quality. They’d known who he was, of course. Or, to be precise, who his grandfather was.
“Father came home one day drunk,” he said in a bland tone, one wiped of expression. He could count on one hand how many times he’d told this story. It was one that would never grow easier with the retelling.
“He was angry. Enraged, I suppose. He accused her of cheating on him. Said that she’d been seeing someone else.”
“Had she?”
He tensed. “I don’t think so. She loved him. I never saw anyone around to indicate she was cheating on the bastard. At any rate, he didn’t believe her when she denied it. If anything, her denials seemed to anger him all the more.
“Where we lived, there was only one bedroom. She’d partitioned off a small part of the living room for me to sleep in. It was only the size of a bed, and she’d used blankets, so I could hear everything.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Of course, he was moving around like a furious bull. The blankets parted as he moved around.”
“You looked?”
“I didn’t mean to. I was huddled under my blankets, terrified. I didn’t like my father. He wasn’t interested in me. Didn’t seem particularly interested in my mother either, but he visited often so that obviously wasn’t true. Whenever he came, I used to go to my room,
and I hated the noises that came out of their room…” He swallowed, bile thickening his throat. “Out of nowhere, a knife appeared in his fist. Like that, she was gone. One minute I saw the glint of metal, the next, there was blood everywhere.”
“What did he do? Did he come for you?” she asked quietly, her head tucked underneath his chin.
“No. I doubt he even realized I was there.” His laughter was harsh at the very notion. “Mother gave me grandfather’s number years before. I don’t know whether she realized something might happen to her. Maybe she knew how volatile he was, I don’t know. But I found the number in the cake tin where she kept it and called him.”
“What did he do?”
“He didn’t know about me,” he said, laughing a little easier now at the memory. “But I told him his bastard son had gutted my mother, and that I was his blood, and that he needed to come and make her better.”
“You knew those words back then?”
He shrugged. “Different world, Sascha.”
She gulped. “I guess.”
“Anyway, a car came thirty minutes later. I only learned a few years after that it was as fast as he could get there. But I raged at him because she was dead.” He raised a hand to cover his mouth as he stared blindly ahead.
Not daring to close his eyes for fear of seeing her as she’d been that day.
“She was so beautiful,” he whispered instead. “So delicate and pretty. So smart too. She could have been so much more than his slut.”
Sascha reached for his hand. “I’m sorry.”
He ignored her. Not out of cruelty but because he wasn’t particularly listening. “Vasily came and I kicked him. I punched him. Raged at him like his son had raged at my mama.” He huffed out a laugh. “Anyone else would have been struck dead for that. But he just took a look around, made some orders to the men who’d come with him, and gathered me up. Before I knew what was happening, my cheek was stinging because he’d slapped me out of my hysteria, and I was being driven in one of the biggest, fanciest cars I’d ever seen.”
She seemed to absorb all that, then asked softly, “You love him, don’t you? I heard it on the phone.”
He blinked, shaken from the spell of the past. “Yes. Of course. He saved me. And he never forgave my father. Vasily couldn’t throw him in jail, but he made sure Ivan never rose through the ranks. Ivan didn’t have my grandfather’s smarts, but heritage alone should have seen him soar to the top. That never happened because of that day.”
Protected by Them: A Reverse Harem Romance (Quintessence Book 4) Page 6
