"Yes, I was educated in England. Got my MBA at Oxford. 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
A ll 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 Aleksandr filled you in on our current circumstances." Directing a proud gaze at Sevastyan, Kovalev added, "He 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, Paxan."
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?"
"Paxan? 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 Batja? Dad? The hopefulness in his tone tugged at my heart. I smiled. "Okay, Paxan, 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.