"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, Paxan, 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 young, my family had a shop in Moscow, one of the many black market shops in the underground economy. It afforded us a comfortable living. Yet then these brigadiers--a vor'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, Paxan. 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."
"I ran into him on the way in."
Kovalev looked surprised. "Most young ladies find themselves more starstruck after first meeting him."
Maybe if I hadn't already had eyes for Sevastyan.
"Filip's the son of my distant cousin and best friend, who died recently. The poor boy took it hard. Your being here is just what the lad needs. . . ."
After that, the afternoon passed companionably. Kovalev and I came up with things we had in common: dislike of slapstick comedy, love of animals and heist movies. "They're usually not accurate, though," he commented, reminding me that I was talking to a crime boss.
He told me stories about my mother--she'd loved to garden, loved plants; she would've been pleased to know I'd grown up on a farm. He challenged me to a game of chess in the morning and promised to teach me about clocks.
When they all struck five, Kovalev said, "As much as I'm enjoying this, I should let you go, so you can have time to get settled in before the banquet."
"Oh." Banquet, schmanquet, I was greedy for more time with my father.
In a confiding tone, he said, "I regret scheduling it, wish we could have a quieter dinner and carry on this conversation." He was as reluctant for me to leave as I was. "Aleksandr could join us."
A knock sounded. Speak of the devil.
CHAPTER 13
"Perfect timing, Son," Kovalev told him. "Will you see Natalie to her rooms?"
"I thought you would want to."
"No, no, you two go on. I'll see you tonight, dear." He pressed a kiss to the top of my head, and it felt natural.
As Sevastyan and I left the study, I couldn't stop smiling. The Siberian had been right--I hadn't known what I was talking about; Kovalev was wonderful.
"A stylist. She is on call for you, should you need anything else."
Near an extravagant display of welcome flowers, I saw a leather folio and several gift boxes. Inside the folio was a selection of credit cards and a list of phone numbers for Kovalev, the estate manager, the stables, my stylist, housekeeping, the kitchen. "Should I wait to open these presents with Paxan?"
With a raised brow, Sevastyan said, "Something tells me there will be more to follow."
Inside the first box was a smartphone that looked like it'd been transported back from the future. I'd be able to call Jess with my proof of life a week early--and eventually my mom as well. Though what I would tell her about all this, I didn't yet know.
The other boxes--from stores like Cartier, Harry Winston, Mikimoto, and Buccellati--were all filled with dazzling jewelry: a triple-strand pearl choker, sapphire earrings, an emerald drop fringe necklace with a matching bracelet. That bracelet was so heavy and substantial, I could deflect bullets with it, a la Wonder Woman.