"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 '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.
My entire life had been laid bare to this man. Between gritted teeth, I said, "Any highlights you discovered that you'd like to share?"
"Don't worry--not every detail will make it back to Kovalev." Smirk. "Such as the arsenal you keep under your mattress."
Arsenal? Dying here.
"Or what I caught you doing to yourself in your bath."
Now that I wasn't in fear for my life, embarrassment scalded me. Sevastyan had caught me diddling the da, spelunking, dialing the pink telephone. "Why did you open the door to my bathroom in the first place?"
"I heard a sound." He raised an eyebrow. "A whimper. I thought the worst."
"You seem to have a talent for keeping me at a disadvantage. Maybe when we get to Moscow, I can investigate your apartment? Look under your bed? How about I watch while you masturbate?"
At that, tension shot through him as if he'd been gut-punched. "Guard your tongue, pet." His fingers were wrapped so tightly around his glass, I thought the crystal would shatter.
"Or you'll do what? Throw me down in a cornfield and feel me up?"
He clenched his jaw, as if battling for control of himself. "That shouldn't have happened."
Stop arguing with him, Nat. Go--to--bed. Was I so intrigued/aroused by this guy that I'd do anything with him, even fight?
"If you hadn't run--"
"Oh, don't you dare put that back on me!"
"A half-naked redhead was spread beneath me, rolling her hips in welcome. I don't have ice in my veins."
I arched a brow. "Don't you?"
"Not in that area of my life," he amended. "Even though you're far from my type, I was affected." He used his right forefinger to twist the thumb ring on that same hand. I'd noticed he'd done that before when he'd seemed uncomfortable. A tell? That could come in handy. "Any man would've
been, so don't read more into it than that."
"Far from your type." How could that comment wound me? "You're not exactly mine either, Siberian." Probably not the best idea to taunt the assassin. I rose. "You seem determined to humiliate me and pick a fight with me. I'm not interested in either." I turned away and marched down the aisle. "Wake me up when we get there."
He called after me, "The only thing I told Kovalev about your personal life is that you have no current lover to leave behind. I won't mention how eager you were to remedy that situation tonight."
I stiffened, turning at the door of one of the suites. "Why were you so angry at the bar?"
He finally drank that vodka down, which gave me chills for some reason. "I didn't like seeing the daughter of a great man throwing herself at me, trolling for trouble."
"Throwing myself? Are you insane? I introduced myself and offered to buy you a drink." My ire kept mounting. "And I really hope you're not going to try to slut-shame me--because I will go off like a bottle rocket!" It was times like this when my virginity embarrassed me.
He stood, then stalked up to me. With his every step closer, my breaths shallowed. What would he do? I had no idea--excitement warred with uneasiness.
He towered over me, toe-to-toe, and I craned my head up to meet his heavy-lidded gaze. Whenever he was angry, his eyes appeared hard and glinting, like cold amber. Otherwise, they were molten gold, like now. . . .
"Of all the men in the bar, you picked me for a reason, little girl." His voice had gotten huskier, his accent rougher; I responded to it as if he'd touched me. "And it wasn't to talk about classes."
Inner shake. "I picked you because you were a mystery. I can read men with ease, but not you. That made me curious."
He rested his hand on the wall above my head, surrounding me with his heat. "When a woman singles me out"--he leaned down to murmur at my ear--"it's because she wants to get fucked. She looks at the scars and tattoos and knows she'll get fucked hard."
I gasped, melting for him.
"Is that what you wanted of me, Natalya?" His warm breaths traced over my ear, hardening my nipples even more. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, squeezing my thighs together.
"Th-that's not why I approached you." That might have been why I'd approached him.
"Little liar. You think I can't tell when a woman wants me buried deep inside her?" He eased back to study my face. "And when you didn't get what you wanted, you settled for a nice . . . hot . . . bath."