Chimera

Chapter 24

The skyline of early-morning Boston was reflected in the rearview mirror along with a pair of seriously bloodshot eyes—my eyes. We’d reached the city at about two a.m. and slept in the car in a parking lot surrounded by a cluster of office buildings. The fifteen dollars we had left to our name wasn’t going to put us up in even the worst fleabag. But the lack of sleep wasn’t caused by the cramped quarters. It was Michael and his questions. They’d lasted most of the previous night and all of the following day. I should’ve actually bought him a book on the subject as I’d threatened, or two or a hundred of them, but I doubted that would’ve saved me. Somehow he had even managed to elicit details about the relationship between Natalie and me, and that was something I had refused to talk about to anyone.

It wasn’t sexual particulars he was after, which was good. I was an open book on all my other exploits, but Natalie had never been that. I’d loved her. At least it was as close to love as I could manage in the midst of my fixation with finding my brother and my obsession for redemption. I couldn’t give her my entire heart, but that wasn’t by choice. I simply didn’t have it to give. I did give her all that I did have. The small slice that was still open for business belonged to her—completely.

I bought her daisies every day. Sometimes it was a bunch tied with a ribbon. Sometimes it was only one. She was a daisy girl. Roses seemed too pretentious for someone as honest and down to earth as she was, and tulips didn’t have her life. They didn’t explode with light and energy. They didn’t throw their arms to the sky and gather in the sun. Nat and daisies were two of a kind in that respect. She was all about color, too, my girl. All our sheets were covered with whimsical patterns—fish, flowers, flying birds, diving dolphins. And every set was so tacky and garish that you were in serious danger of going blind at the sight of them.

I’d never claimed to love Natalie for her subtle taste. I loved her because of her lack of taste and for her freckles that spread like a wildfire in the summer sun. I loved her for her homemade caramel milkshakes, the best in the world, and for her tuna casserole, the absolute worst. And when she dragged that dog from the pound home for my birthday, I groaned and threw up my hands, but that was on the outside. On the inside I kept right on loving her. I’d told her before that I liked Labs, and that’s what she brought home. It had three legs, a tongue too big to fit in its mouth, and produced a gallon of slobber every five minutes. She named it Harry after my long-gone horse and gave it my spot on the couch.

With that, if possible, I loved her then even more. I loved her as much as I was capable. That was the key word, wasn’t it? Capable.

It wasn’t enough. When I finally broke down and told her what I did . . . what I had become since college, it was over. She could’ve handled just that, I think. Make no mistake; she would’ve dragged me by my ear out of that life and across the country if that’s what it took to break away. Innately honest and stubborn as all hell, she would’ve put my career to bed, for good, and before I could have taken another breath.

But it wasn’t just that. Natalie had known all along that she owned only a piece of my soul. Unreservedly, she had given me all of hers and waited patiently for me to come around.

I never had.

I hadn’t put her first. I was good at the daisies, but I’d never put her first. She wouldn’t have minded that. She would’ve understood. But I had never made her equal to my obligations either—never. It hadn’t even been close. It was one strike too many. She could’ve easily reformed me. I hadn’t ever cared about the business other than how the money from it could help me find Lukas. But while getting me on the straight and narrow would’ve been a piece of cake for Crusader Nat, she couldn’t force me to free up the rest of my heart. And she knew it.

I knew it, too. I hadn’t blamed her then, and I still didn’t. She didn’t leave me; I gave her up. I threw her away. I couldn’t make room for her in my life. There was Lukas and only Lukas. All Natalie ever had from me was the leftovers, the table scraps. Lukas came first, last, and always. Finding him was the only thing that had mattered. I’d made that choice before I had ever met Nat. When she was gone, I tried to tell myself that my only mistake had been to lead her on, to give her hope for a relationship I wasn’t equipped for. Yeah, that’s what I told myself.

I was wrong.

Lukas . . . Michael wouldn’t have begrudged me love while I searched. Generous of spirit and with a basic goodness he wasn’t yet aware of, he would’ve been happy for me. The denial wasn’t his; it was mine.

Jericho had stolen more than my brother on that beach. He’d stolen me too. He had hollowed me out, scooped out the important parts, and left a shell of brittle ice masquerading as a human being. When his man had left me for dead on the sand, he hadn’t been far off the mark. Not far at all.

I missed Nat. I missed her every time I saw a scraggly daisy blooming in the weeds, every time I saw a red kite flying high enough to block out the sun. I missed her when I bought boring white sheets and when I bypassed the dog food aisle in the grocery or when I bought thin, overly sweet fast-food milkshakes. I missed her and hoped she was someone else’s daisy girl.

I missed her and knew I’d never see her again.

So when Michael had asked me about love and relationships, things that were much harder than sex to explain, Natalie was the only place I had to go. It was a painful place, but it was a worthwhile one too. She deserved to be talked about, my girl, and Michael deserved to know there was glory in this life if you weren’t too damaged or too afraid to accept it. I talked long enough that my throat was sore. I didn’t want him to make my mistakes. It was a mistake no one should have to live with.

Michael had seemed to sense how painful a topic it was and thanked me before curling up in the backseat to leave me with my memories and my regrets. The sweet and the bittersweet; that was what life was all about. He slept for nearly six hours. I’d slept for maybe three, but for once my dreams were . . . nice—melancholy, but good.

“I thought your uncle Lev would be happy to see you. I thought you said he would welcome you with open arms and a heated house.” Jarring me from thoughts of kites, daisies, and freckles, a disheveled blond head popped up from the backseat and a sleepily disgruntled face peered at me from a cocoon of blankets. “It’s cold, in case you haven’t noticed, and I have to use the bathroom. This isn’t any better than that tree incident. In fact it’s worse.”

To his confusion, I handed him an empty plastic soft drink bottle I grabbed from the floorboards. “No, kiddo, now it’s worse.”

As comprehension flooded his features, I yawned and turned back around to watch the snow slowly pile on the hood of the car. I ducked automatically as the bottle returned, whizzing by my ear. I’d noticed Michael, like me, wasn’t much of a morning person.

“Absolutely not,” he said evenly. “No way.”

I shrugged and yawned again, rubbing at my eyes. “It’s your bladder. Besides, if you save up, I’ll teach you to write your name in the snow.”

With a glare as chilly as the air inside the car, he leaned over the seat and retrieved the bottle. I kept my back to him to give him some privacy. “And, smart-ass, Uncle Lev will be glad to see me. I just didn’t want to show up in the middle of the night. He’ll know something’s up. If he thinks I’m in trouble, he’ll be all over us, asking questions, and trying to get us to stay. We can’t afford that.”

“Why not?”

I hadn’t gotten very specific with Michael on how exactly I’d left my earlier employment. It had been difficult enough to tell him what little I had about my life in the Mafiya. “I told you how I quit the mob to come after you,” I started slowly, jangling the keychain that hung from the ignition.

“I remember.”

Of course he remembered. What had it been? Four, five days ago? “Well, it’s not the type of job where you give two weeks notice and they throw you a going-away party. Konstantin, the man I worked for, wasn’t exactly boss-of-the-year material. He could’ve made things difficult for me if he’d wanted.” From day to day it was hard to guess his mood. From distantly amused to coldly murderous, Konstantin was rarely predictable in the depths of his violence. He wouldn’t have hurt me, not once he heard my reasoning. He still respected Anatoly too much for that, but he could’ve slowed me down while I laid it all out. That I couldn’t afford. “So, I simply took off. Disappeared. I could always explain myself later if I needed his help. I show up with my missing brother, Anatoly’s lost son, and all’s forgiven.” Leaning my head back on the seat, I massaged the back of my neck. “But on the day I left, someone killed Konstantin. Shot him. For his ex-bodyguard, yours truly, that doesn’t look too good.”

“Won’t your uncle Lev believe you’re innocent?”

“Do you?” I asked lightly and far more casually than I felt.

There was a moment of thought, the sounds of shifting blankets, and then, “I do. You don’t seem to like hurting people. You’re good at it, but you don’t like it.” His voice dropped to a barely audible murmur. “Not like Jericho.” A hand came over the seat before I could comment to thrust a capped and newly warm bottle into my hand. “Here. There’s no room back here.”

Right. Sure there wasn’t. But encouraged by his belief in me, I decided I could probably put up with a little urine. Putting it in our trash bag for later disposal, I returned to the conversation. “Uncle Lev will know I didn’t do it, but that doesn’t matter. If we’re there more than a day or two, it’ll get back to Miami via the grape-vine, and Konstantin’s son will send some people after me. They won’t be as scary as Jericho, but that doesn’t mean they can’t do us some damage all the same.” Damage was a nice euphemism for “kill us and dump us in the harbor.”

“All right. That makes sense, I guess,” Michael accepted doubtfully. Cheek to cheek with him, a sleek ferret head poked free of the blanket to fix me with a nearsighted glare. “But it’s still cold. And it’s still your fault.”

“The logic of a true student of the sciences,” I grumbled, but I started the car and set the heater on high. “We’ll find someplace to clean up and head to Lev’s. That reminds me; I have something for you.”

He took the glasses I retrieved for him from the glove compartment. I’d lifted them yesterday at a gas station. With cheap wire rims, the lenses were tinted tawny brown, but not nearly as dark as most sunglasses. Michael would be able to get away with wearing them inside without raising any eyebrows.

Releasing his death grip on the blanket, Michael turned the glasses over in his hands. “What are these for?”

“Your eyes,” I said matter-of-factly. “You can deny you’re my brother until the end of time, Misha, but if Uncle Lev sees your eyes along with the blond hair, he’ll have something to say. And we don’t have time to get into that with him.” Nearly twenty years older than Anatoly, Lev was basically retired. He had a few of his old crew who still hung around, but they were like him, in their early seventies and not as quick with the brass knuckles as they used to be. They might put a crimp in Jericho’s style, but they wouldn’t be able to hold him back for long.

I could see that Michael wanted to say something. Eyes distant under the fringe of unruly hair, he chewed at his lower lip before opening his mouth, only to shut it again. “Something wrong?”

He shook his head slowly at the question. “No . . . no. I’ll wear them.” Slipping them on, he raised both eyebrows. “How do they look?”

“You’re practically a movie star there—Brad Pitt all the way.” The glasses did work well enough at obscuring the differing color of his eyes, making them both appear an indistinct color, maybe brown, maybe hazel, maybe gray. “Just keep them on. Hey, we could always dye your hair again. There’s a whole rainbow of colors out there we haven’t touched on.”

He promptly retreated back into the blankets. “And let’s keep it that way.”

“No guts, no glory, kid.” The car had warmed up and I plowed it through the drifting snow. Not only would Lev be glad to see me, but he would feed us breakfast as well. It had been just over a week since I’d tasted home-cooked food, but it felt like years. I was looking forward to eating off china instead of from a paper bag.

By the time we swept through the wrought-iron gates that guarded Uncle Lev’s house, we were fairly presentable courtesy of the now-familiar gas-station-bathroom sponge bath. Michael was in jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt, the dressiest thing we’d managed to pick up for him along the way. I’d put on a black shirt and a pair of gray slacks that were miraculously unwrinkled from a week in a duffel bag. We weren’t exactly suave by any means, but neither did we look like we were living out of our car with nothing but a ferret and a half-empty jar of peanut butter.

I didn’t recognize the guy at the guard shack, and he fixed me with a suspicious glower until he received the all clear from the house. I was unimpressed. From the size of his gun, he had something to prove; at least Michael would have said so.

Parking the car on the rosy brick drive that circled before the front of the house, I climbed out into the lazy drizzle of snow. I shoved my chilled hands into my jacket pockets and started around the car. Michael joined me and stood looking up at the house with a slightly awed expression. It was something to see; there was no doubt about that. Three stories high with a multitude of leaded glass windows and masses of winter-brown ivy, it could’ve been shipped stone by stone from jolly old England. There were even miniature gargoyles on the roof that spouted water nonstop during the rainy season. It was a testament to the overblown, and Uncle Lev through and through.

As we stood at the door, I gave Michael a last once-over. “You ready? Comfortable with the story?”

He didn’t appear nervous, but considering the past ten years of his life, this was definitely small stuff and not to be sweated. “Nephew of the girlfriend you don’t have. Fairly simple. And if I forget, I’ve written it on my hand.”

I almost looked at the palm he overturned, but caught myself at the last minute. “To think I took a bullet for you,” I snorted as I pressed the doorbell. “And this is the thanks I get. Lip from a snot-nosed kid.”

Looking over at me, he haughtily pushed up the glasses with one meticulous finger. “The privilege is all yours.”

I swallowed the automatic groan that came to my lips as the door was thrown open by Uncle Lev himself. “Stefan, krestnik. My absent godson come home to roost,” he crowed as he pounced on me. Well, pounced can be a relative term when it’s applied to a man just shy of three hundred pounds. Pudgy hands seized me and patted me vigorously on the back before giving my cheeks the same treatment. “You’ve cut your hair. Finally, and after all the times Anatoly nagged at you.” He beamed at me and ran vain hands over his own hair. Slicked back and shockingly black for a man his age, it must have left a nice charcoal imprint every night on his pillowcase.

“Yeah. It just got to be too much trouble.” I reached out to sling an arm around Michael’s shoulders. “Uncle Lev, this is Michael. He’s my girlfriend’s nephew. I’m running him up to see New York for a few days. She insisted. Male bonding and all that.”

Black eyes glittering with good cheer, Lev took Michael’s hand and pumped it. “Nice to meet you, young man. Come in. Come in. You delicate sunbirds can’t handle true weather.”

In the cavernous foyer, I shook the snow out of my hair and took in the vision that was Lev Novikov. It was barely eight o’clock; yet he was already dressed in a snowy expanse of shirt with suspenders of deep blues and purples. His tie matched perfectly and the creases in his pants were knife sharp; at least they were until they reached the swell of his stomach. Both chins were damply clean and gleaming with aftershave. He was a big man, but Lev had made his way through four wives, all of whom had adored the overgrown cherub up to and even after the divorce.

“You’re looking good, Uncle,” I said, grinning. “Working on wife number five yet?”

He returned my grin with a sly one of his own. “I’ve a few damskee ygrodnik in mind, angels all.” Clapping his hands, he went on briskly. “Now, you’re just in time for breakfast, and I’ll hear no arguing on the matter.”

Behind him an unassuming figure stepped forward to take our jackets. Dressed in dark gray, he wasn’t British and his name was Larson, not Jeeves, but he fulfilled Lev’s desire for a butler all the same. He’d worked there nearly twenty years and had seen things that guaranteed him a paycheck miles above that of any other domestic servant.

We walked across marble floors in the traditional checkerboard black and white and found ourselves in a dining room in royal reds and rich gold. The table was already set for three. No time had been wasted once the call had been received from the guardhouse. There were servers massed with eggs, sausage, bacon, and fried potatoes. There were also plushki, a type of cinnamon bun, and bleeny, Russian pancakes with honey and jam. Crystal pitchers of orange, raspberry, and apple juice topped it all off.

“Sit, boys. Sit.” Lev waved an expansive hand. “Stefan, tell me what you’ve been up to. Are you still doing byk duty? Tschh, you could do so much better than . . . ah . . .” He gave Michael a glance and finished circumspectly, “You could do better. I wish you’d let me pull some strings for my favorite godson.”

He had to know Konstantin had been killed. Lev might be retired, but he’d have to be in the ground not to have heard that news. This was his way of hinting around for a bit of private discussion time.

“I think it’s safe to say those days are behind me, Uncle Lev,” I said neutrally as I took a seat and began filling up my plate as my brother did the same beside me. It would be best to keep up the pretense that Michael was in the dark when it came to my career, at least as Lev knew it. Muddying the waters was the last complication I needed at the moment. “We could talk about it after breakfast, if you want.”

“Good.” He poured himself a glass of juice. “It’s always a smart thing to keep your options open, Stefan. Your father would be the first to say.”

“Speaking of which”—I swallowed a bite of bleeny that melted in my mouth like spun sugar—“have you heard from Anatoly? I’ve been trying to contact him.”

“No, no. Haven’t much expected to, what with . . . you know.” He waggled long curly eyebrows that bunched and leaped like black and white striped caterpillars.

The feds. I nodded and stabbed a fork into a piece of sausage. “I know. I was just hoping.”

“I’m more than happy to step in until your father can be here, krestnik. That’s what godfathers are for.” His large head turned to take in the sight of Michael already cleaning his plate and loading up with seconds. “Look at the little ytenok go. You’ve a man-sized appetite in that skinny body, little one.”

“Yes, sir. I’m a growing teenager.” He said it so earnestly that I was forced to smother a grin behind a swallow of coffee. That grin turned into a silent groan as I saw a small furry head peek from Michael’s jacket pocket. I should’ve known he wouldn’t leave his beloved vermin in the car.

The rest of the breakfast passed amiably. Uncle Lev told me his daughter was expecting twins and that his son-in-law still wasn’t half good enough for her. Considering he’d broken the legs of one of her boyfriends while she was in college, it was actually high praise. He also laid out his plans to travel to Europe in the summer on a three-week singles cruise and invited me with arm-waving enthusiasm. I said, politely, that I would think about it. After we had finished plundering and pillaging the table, I sent Michael off to one of the entertainment rooms while I got down to business with Lev.

The minute Michael disappeared out of the dining room, Lev leaned his not inconsiderable weight back in the chair and folded his hands over the girth of his stomach. Lips pursed, he shook his head woefully. “Stefan, Stefan, Konstantin could be a real zasranees ; no one knows this better than I. But tell me you didn’t pop one in the back of his head.”

I pushed my plate away. “Uncle Lev, you know better than that.”

Shrewd eyes measured me and then he sighed. “I do. You’re smarter than that and also a little too soft, I’m thinking.”

Unoffended, I let the corner of my mouth quirk upward. “Is that right?”

“Now, my boy, don’t take it badly. I always thought you too good for this life. You and your brother, God keep him. Same as my Katya. Your father and I have worked hard in this country. If you choose a better life, how could we not want that for you?”

I wasn’t sure Anatoly completely agreed with him, but I nodded nonetheless. “I’ve pretty much decided you’re right. I thought I’d take a little time off. This trip came up with Michael and seemed perfect. I know Konstantin would give me grief about it. He thought I was a little soft too.” I gave a humorless smile. “So, I went without telling him, and then I found out he was killed the day I left. Talk about some shitty luck.” The last portion was the only truth to my tale and more true it could not have been.

As stories went, it was thin, thread-fucking-bare, in fact. And I wasn’t sure if he would buy it or not. I know I wouldn’t have and Uncle Lev was certainly more devious minded than I was. He’d had nearly a half century more practice. Either way, after a hissing exhalation of doubt, he let it go. “So, you want I should straighten this out for you, Stefan? Call Konstantin’s boy to stop being a moodozvon and look elsewhere for the shooter?”

“He wouldn’t listen. Fyodor has even more balls than Konstantin and a whole lot fewer brains. But if you want to try, I’d be grateful. Just wait until I leave, okay? I wouldn’t mind more distance between him and me before you call.”

“Fedya always was stubborn.” He clucked his tongue against large, overly white teeth. “He’ll take some convincing, of that there’s no doubt. But I’ll keep working at him until he comes around. Now, what can I really do for you, Stefan? I know you didn’t stop by just to have me intercede on your behalf. You wouldn’t give Fyodor the satisfaction. You’re a little stubborn in your own right, krestnik.”

“Me, Uncle Lev?” I spun a fork in a lazy circle on the cherry surface of the table. “Say it ain’t so.”

“Ahhh.” He shook his head and flapped a hand. “I may as well be talking to my third wife and she was deaf as a stone.”

“She must’ve been. She was married to you after all.” I grinned at his growl and ducked my head beneath the swat he aimed at it. It had always been harder to reconcile Lev than my father to the world in which they lived. I’d been sixteen when I’d finally caught on to my father’s business. I’d had my suspicions since Lukas’s disappearance; the men who’d shown up in the house during that time had had a rougher edge to them than the usual guards who had patrolled our grounds, and that was saying something. But I hadn’t come out and asked the big question until two years later. My father concluded if I was old enough to ask, then I was old enough to hear the answer.

It hadn’t surprised me—not for a second.

My father had fit into that picture with ease, but I’d had more trouble pushing Uncle Lev into it. He was jolly, cheerful, coddling, more like a Jewish mother than a Russian gangster. It was similar to having schizophrenia, trying to balance the doting adopted uncle and the man who postponed a meal only if he had to personally kill someone. At sixteen I tried not to think about the latter. At twenty-four I still tried, but with much less success.

“Actually, Uncle Lev, I need to borrow some money. Once I drop the kid off in New York with his relatives, I’m going to take a vacation. Wait until things cool down or until you talk some sense into that asshole, Fyodor. I had some with me, but . . .” I tugged a short lock at the nape of my neck and groaned. “I was robbed. By a girl, a pregnant girl, can you believe it?”

Lev laughed, his belly rippling with good cheer and good food. “You’ve always been such a sober young man since . . . since the trouble. It’s nice to see you joke.”

“Yeah, I wish.” Glumly, I dumped the fork onto my cleanly polished plate. “She and Bubba Shitkicker cleaned me out. I’m lucky they left me my nads.”

That was apparently more entertaining than my developing a sense of humor. He chortled until his face turned beet red and I honestly feared a massive coronary wasn’t far behind. “A girly. A pregnant keykla. Ah, Stefan,” he choked out.

“Jesus, it wasn’t as if I could shoot her,” I protested darkly.

The color intensified to liver purple and he had to sip at his half-empty glass of juice to recuperate. He sputtered and wheezed for several moments before wiping his perspiring face with his silk napkin. “No more, Stefan. No more. You’ll be the death of me with this. How much do you need?”

“Forty, fifty. How ever much you have to spare.” I handed him a fresh napkin to replace his soaking one. “Michael and I need to get back on the road within the next hour or so.”

In your ordinary family, asking for so much might be suspect. Uncle Lev didn’t think twice. He could drop three times that on a Friday night in Atlantic City and not blink an eye. “I’ve sixty-five in the safe I think.” He finished mopping at his neck. “It’s yours. But I want you and the boy to stay for lunch at least. Such a skinny pateechka. He needs fattening up and I want to catch up on old times with you, Stefan. It’s been, what, two years now? Shameful behavior, ignoring an old man that way.”

I recognized the unrelenting glint in his eye and gave in as gracefully as I could. Four or five hours wouldn’t hurt, and it would be a chance to unwind in a place of relative safety, even if for just a short time. “Okay, okay. We’ll stick around for lunch. Maybe I’ll kick your wrinkled old butt in a little poker.”

“Ha,” he barked gleefully. “If you remember a tenth of what I’ve taught you, you can keep the sixty-five. No payback. No interest. Consider it a late Christmas present.”

“And if I don’t remember?”

He reached over and patted the back of my hand. “Let’s not dwell on your certain doom. It’ll only ruin the game.”

Uncle Lev always had been one for card sharking. When he said doom, he meant it. He’d taught me a little over the years, but it was only a fraction of what he was capable of. The man could cheat you out of your briefs and you wouldn’t know what hit you until the cool air fanned your ass. It was a lesson I was able to relive several times over the next few hours. The unsympathetic audience at my elbow didn’t make it go down any more easily.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Michael peered over my shoulder at the cards in my hand as I prepared to discard two. “Statistically speaking your chances of making that combination aren’t too high.” He had gone from knowing nothing about the game of poker to knowing more than enough to criticize my playing. And he wasn’t shy with his opinions.

“I’m sure,” I groused, tossing the cards down on the table. Lev and I had joined Michael in the entertainment room to expose him to the finer art of gambling. Surrounded by overstuffed couches, jewel-toned rugs, and more electronics than a NASA mission control room, I was being thoroughly humiliated in front of my brother who seemed to be enjoying every second. He had even torn himself away from the giant flat-screen television to take in the spectacle.

Moments after I was dealt my new cards, plump arms were sweeping away my chips. “You should’ve listened to your friend, Stefan,” he chortled. “He’s a nose for this you’ve never quite had.”

A hand hesitantly laid itself on my shoulder as Michael did an about-face from disparaging to stubbornly supportive. “He’s not that bad. He only needs a little work on the theory.”

“Psh. He’s terrible.” Lev stacked the chips and dealt again, this time dealing Michael in. “But he’s my godson all the same, and I’m happy to see your loyalty to him.” He winked and gave him a generous share of what had once been my chips. “You’re a good friend, little Michael. Probably better than he deserves. Let me tell you what this one got up to when he was your age. It will curl that blond hair of yours.”

“It will?” Michael picked up his cards but kept his eyes riveted on Uncle Lev. “Was he bad?” He spared me a quick, bright glance, tongue firmly in cheek.

“Ah, so bad. So very, very bad.” And he was off. Assuming Michael was as young as he appeared to be, he mostly told of the scrapes I’d gotten into at ages thirteen and fourteen. That was the time period before my brother had disappeared. Following that, I hadn’t gotten into much trouble; the will simply wasn’t there. Before then . . . there were no holds barred. I had detention so often that I had a permanent reservation for the desk by the window. It was all in good fun, I thought, but the custodian who had to chase the five chickens out of the gym hadn’t agreed; neither had the biology and chemistry teachers whose labs had to be decontaminated by biohazard units. Then there had been the hiding in an empty locker while the varsity cheerleaders changed. That had made me and Angelo, my best friend, cocks of the walk for the entire seventh grade. It was all typically harmless kid stuff. Anatoly had laughed it all off the few times a teacher had ever been able to pin him down on the phone. He would’ve done the same if I’d been caught loan sharking during recess.

“Where did you get the chickens?” Michael asked with interest.

“None of your business.” I watched with gloom as the last of my chips disappeared.

“What did the cheerleaders look—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” I warned him. Throwing in the towel, I watched as the two of them battled it out on the gaming field of honor. It wasn’t long before Lev realized Michael could hold his own in fair combat. It was an opportunity for the old man to impishly begin a lesson in cheating. First he showed off his simple overhand shuffle, a finger break, then a false cut. Following that, he used a double undercut to move the ace of spades back to the top of the deck. I’d seen it all before, but it didn’t stop me from whistling in appreciation.

“You haven’t lost your touch, Uncle Lev.”

Michael was watching it all with a quiet and, if I wasn’t mistaken, mildly larcenous fascination. “You could make a lot of money this way, couldn’t you?”

“Sure,” I drawled. “If you didn’t mind being beaten to a pulp when you got caught.”

“If you were clever enough, you wouldn’t get caught.” He held out a hand for the cards. “Sir, could you show me that last one again?”

That’s all I needed, Michael trying to score us pocket change at every gas and lunch stop, all in the spirit of an interesting experiment. Hoping to distract him, I rose, stretched, and checked my watch. Nearly four and a half hours had passed since breakfast. “When’s lunch, Uncle Lev? We really do have to get going soon.”

“Spoilsport,” he grumped. “I’ll go check on the cook. She’s been temperamental lately. I should never have traykhate her. It wasn’t worth a late lunch.”

As he trundled out the door, Michael said curiously, “I don’t recall that word being covered in my language class.”

“And it’s not going to be covered here either, Junior. So don’t hold your breath.”

He ran through the cards in a fairly decent imitation of Lev’s last move. “Why do you do that?” he asked matter-of-factly.

“Do what?”

His eyes narrowed at me from behind smoky glass as he shuffled silently.

“Okay, okay. Maybe I’m a little overprotective,” I admitted grudgingly. “I think I’m entitled.” But much more than that, I was obligated.

He continued to manipulate the cards without speaking, his fingers growing swifter with each pass. Finally, he said, “It wasn’t your fault, Stefan.”

I felt my mouth go dry. “What?” This was not a road I wanted to travel.

“Your brother’s being taken. It wasn’t your fault. From the way you described, it was planned, right? The beach was mostly inaccessible; he had a getaway car available. It was planned,” he repeated. “If it hadn’t been then, it would’ve been some other time. Some other place. You’re trying to make up for something you didn’t do.” To someone who’s not your brother was the unsaid tag on that statement.

“Misha.” I shook my head and tried for a smile, only to fall short. “Now just isn’t the time, but . . . thanks.” I didn’t think it would ever be the time for that discussion if I could avoid it, but I realized what the effort said about Michael. He had been locked away in a place of rigid authority and people who could’ve passed as robots for all the emotion they showed. That he could still reach out to someone was extraordinary, and I wasn’t about to slam a door in his face.

He dipped his head in acknowledgment and began to meander about the room, still putting the cards through their paces. From the bookshelves to the stereo system to the massive collection of DVDs, it all received a thorough examination. “I like this place. Is your house like this?”

I snorted. “You wish, kid.” Actually, I didn’t have a place to live anymore. Going back to the condo at any time in the foreseeable future wasn’t an option. I’d suspected that before I left, even without the added complication of Konstantin’s death. I’d taken everything important to me, which hadn’t been much. The majority of my money was for finding my brother. Material things hadn’t meant much, except as unnecessary expenses. But Michael hadn’t been allowed ownership of anything in the Institute. Of course the bright and shiny things in life were going to fascinate him. “But don’t worry. Whenever we settle in one spot, you can fill up your room with anything your greedy little heart desires.”

“Anything?” He moved to the window that faced the back of the property and looked over his shoulder at me with impudent challenge. “Honestly?”

“Anything that doesn’t come from an adult bookstore,” I amended.

He turned to look out the window, but I heard the indistinct mutter of “Issues, issues.” As he tilted his head, his attention was caught by something other than giving me a hard time. “There are fountains and a maze. It looks . . . nice . . . with all the snow. Peaceful.”

“It’s always prettier when you’re watching it from someplace warm, eh?”

His lips moved in a sheepish curve. “Strange how that happens.” Shifting to get a better look, he said, “There’s your uncle Lev. He’s talking to some people.”

Puzzled, I walked over to join him. It was Lev. I only caught a glimpse of him before he disappeared back into the house. The four people he had been talking with began to walk to their cars. All of them were obviously servants. One was the cook; I recognized her from previous visits. The man was Larson, and I didn’t know the other two—housekeeper and maid probably. But why would they all be leaving so early in the day?

It was a stupid question—colossally, monstrously stupid.

“Hide.”

The air was so clear and sharp, I was vaguely surprised it didn’t cut Michael’s face when he turned to look at me. “What?”

I gave him a hard push toward one of the couches resting against the side wall. “Hide!” Without further question he ran and pushed behind the piece of furniture, slithering out of sight. My gun had found its way into my hand, I couldn’t recall how. It was remarkably similar to a magic trick. Abracadabra. There it was, clenched in a grip carved from bone. My fingers should’ve ached. Maybe they did ache, but I didn’t feel it.

The crystal knob of one of the double doors began to slowly turn, and I stepped smoothly to the wall beside it. Lev had closed the door behind him as he’d left. He could not have possibly carried his weight up the stairs in the seconds that had passed from the sighting of him via the window, but I called his name nonetheless.

“Uncle Lev,” I said with laughter that passed through my throat like chunks of regurgitated ice. “Give me a hand, would you? This kid has me pinned to the floor. Thinks he’s some sort of wrestler.”

Wasn’t that a disarming picture? Michael and I rolling around in horseplay, laughing and joking.

A perfect target.

The door was kicked open in a shower of splinters and a gun fired, chewing up the antique rug in the center of the room. It was Sevastian, my old adversary from back in Miami. The bastard. It didn’t surprise me. Only he would be overconfident enough to fire at what he couldn’t see. As cocky as he may have been, he wasn’t entirely mindless. He saw his mistake instantly and was already turning his weapon toward me when I shot him.

I took the chest shot. It was the easiest. With broad bands of muscle that rippled even through the covering of a thick black sweater, he was built like a bull, and when he fell, he shook the floor as heavily as one. Swiveling, I jammed my shoulder against the door to slam it shut. There was a resounding crash as someone hit the other side face-first. Yanking it back open, I straddled the fallen body and swung my foot into the shaking chin in a hard kick. And that was it for number two. Pavel had always been Sevastian’s shadow. Sevastian went first and Pavel mopped up what was left, which usually wasn’t a whole hell of a lot.

An arm came across my throat like an iron bar and my thoughts of Pavel vanished instantly. The crushing pain managed to cut through the layer of numbness that sheathed me. “I knew you’d fuck up one day, Korsak,” came the gravelly voice in my ear. The accent was still thick after fifteen years out of Moscow and he slipped into the Russian that came more easily to him. “Segodnya etot den. ” Today’s that day.

I could feel his blood, hot and plentiful, soaking the back of my shirt. I should’ve known one bullet wouldn’t take the son of a bitch down. I started to bring my gun up to try for an awkward shot, but his other massive hand fastened around mine. The bones in my wrist creaked to the point of breaking as it was bent backward in an unforgiving grip. Before I could shift weight to try and throw him off, a knee hit the back of my thighbone and buckled my leg instantly. Sevastian had once been in the Russian army, and what he’d learned there trumped anything I’d picked up in my few working years. The fall was over before I knew I was going down. Sandwiched between the floor and a hulking mountain of flesh, my lungs expelled every molecule of air, leaving me wheezing desperately.

Ripping the gun from my hand, he flung it across the room. With his arm still around my neck he tightened the pressure until yellow and black spots washed across my vision. With all that air forced out and now with no way in, if I didn’t do something within the next few seconds, Michael would be on his own. He might be the fastest healer around, but I didn’t think that would save him from a bullet in the heart or brain. He was a boy, not a vampire. He wasn’t going to rise from the dead, and Sevastian wasn’t one to leave witnesses any other way.

Feebly I raised my hand up and behind me to scrape uselessly against his face. He chuffed a laugh stinking with the copper of blood against the back of my neck. The bastard’s lungs were filling up. Without medical help he’d be dead in fifteen minutes. It didn’t matter; I’d be dead in five . . . and that was a blue-sky estimate, a best-case scenario. If he let me asphyxiate, it would be minutes. If he snapped my neck, it would be seconds.

My hand continued its path up his jawline, the motions as fragile as those of a newborn child. “You’re barely struggling,” he said in a clotted whisper, switching back to English for my benefit. He knew my Russian wasn’t as fluent as his, and he wanted me to understand every word. “It’s so much more satisfying when you struggle. I want to feel you flop under me like a fish out of water. I want to feel every twitch as brain cell by brain cell you die, traitor.” A hard prodding at my hip told me what I’d always suspected. Death was the ultimate hard-on for Sevastian. Twisted and sickly perverse as he was, neither women nor men held much attraction for him. Killing was all. He lived it, breathed it, and if he could somehow make death itself tangible, he would probably fuck it.

The choking hold on my neck eased slightly as he cajoled, “Stay awake, Stefan. Stay and try just a little harder. Perhaps then I won’t rip that boy limb from limb when I find him.”

I barely heard the words. The roaring in my head had followed the curtain of spreading black before my eyes. My only concern was my traveling hand. Sevastian ignored its progress even as it touched his ear. He’d always had well-shaped ears, I thought dimly as my capacity for coherence began to unravel. It was peculiar to see: his bullet-shaped head, Neanderthal brows, soulless and cloudy eyes combined with a delicate seashell curve of ear that any woman would’ve been proud of. Whether Sevastian was proud of them, I didn’t know. It was, as they say, moot.

I ripped the left one from his head.

There was a scream that managed to rip through the haze surrounding me and the weight rolled off my back. Weakly pushing up to my knees, I sucked in air that seemed as thick as syrup. It rebelled in my throat, refusing to push past and inflate my lungs. I could feel the sensation of woven wool under my hands, but I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t see anything. With a last-ditch monumental effort I struggled to expand my chest and pull in air. It worked; a teaspoon of oxygen managed to trickle down into my lungs. That short, choppy breath was followed by two more and then by a brutal kick in my ribs. I was thrown what felt like several feet and landed hard on my hip and shoulder. Fragments of light and color were returning to my sight and I spotted the glittering chrome of my gun barely out of reach. Lunging, I snatched it from the floor, rolled to my side, and fired.

And missed.

If this had been the movies, I would’ve hit him right between the eyes, and that would’ve been that. Conquering hero prevails. Popcorn and a cold one for everybody. But this wasn’t a movie. This was crappy real life, and I missed the son of a bitch. He was moving faster than any lung-shot man had a right to move, and I still had the vision of a ninety-year-old glaucoma victim. Ideal circumstances it did not make.

Sevastian had lost his gun as well when I’d shot him in the chest. With one blood-covered hand clamped to the side of his head, he was using the other to reach for his own weapon on the floor when my bullet passed him by a good six inches. I fired again. This time I did hit him . . . in the shoulder, but the wrong shoulder. The blow knocked him nearly sideways, but that only lined his gun up on me all the faster and he was already firing. Right up until the moment he dropped, boneless as a jellyfish, I thought I was dead. I knew I was; I knew it for an irrefutable fact. I could all but feel the bullet in my throat instead of in the floor that had claimed it; yet here I was alive, whole. And I owed none of that to myself.

Michael looked down at Sevastian impassively. “He’s not a particularly nice man either.”

He wasn’t wrong. First a child molester and now a hit man, Michael was being exposed to people who weren’t any better than those who kept him in the Institute. It wasn’t the most smoothly run escape to ever come down the pike. My talents, assuming I had any, apparently lay elsewhere.

Once again pushing up to my knees, I tried from there to get to my feet. Sevastian’s chest was still rising and falling, albeit slowly and unevenly, which meant Michael hadn’t killed him. Relief weakened my legs almost as much as the lack of oxygen. Putting that burden on him even to save my life wasn’t remotely what I wanted. Unfortunately, Michael seemed destined to do for others what he wouldn’t risk doing for himself. “You . . . okay, Misha?” I gasped roughly as I tried for more air.

He blinked and moved to my side to brace me. “I should probably be asking you that. He nearly killed you.”

The bastard had certainly given it his best shot. “Nah.” I rubbed the back of my hand across my eyes, clearing the last of the swirling flecks of light. And breathing, the breathing was slowly coming along. “I had it under . . . control . . . the whole time.”

With an openly skeptical look generated by the croak of my abused throat, Michael nodded and said dryly, “I’m sure.”

His mask of equanimity didn’t fool me. The tawny glasses emphasized the faint pallor of his skin and the fingers of one hand were curled tightly against the palm. It was the hand, I would bet, that he’d used to touch the back of Sevastian’s neck. Michael had left his hiding place behind the couch and used what Jericho had given him—no, what Jericho had forced on him—all to save my miserable ass. Taking him by the shoulder, I urged him toward the door. Sevastian and Pavel usually worked as a pair. There shouldn’t be anyone else lying in wait for us, but I tucked Michael behind me all the same. “What did you do to him?” I murmured, my eyes flickering back and forth for any signs of a nasty surprise that would indicate Sevastian had changed his MO to include a backup team.

He didn’t have a chance to answer as Lev appeared in our sight as we stepped over the unconscious body of Pavel. Waiting in the hall with hands clasped in their familiar position over his belly, he watched us come into sight with only a bare widening of dark eyes. “Stefan.” He gave a small smile laced with a lively curiosity. “It seems you’re not so soft after all.”

“Yeah,” I said remotely. “Seems that way.” The numbness I’d first felt as I’d realized his betrayal had dissipated. What was left in its place wasn’t as desirable—not goddamn nearly. “Five hours.” The time we had spent waiting for the lunch that Lev insisted we stay for. “That was more than enough time to stick Sevastian and his tag-a-long on Konstantin’s plane, wasn’t it?” He must’ve called Fyodor the minute the guard at the gate called to the house to announce us. Before we even made it through the front door, we’d been given up.

“The weather nearly spoiled their trip, but they landed right before the airport shut down.” He looked at Pavel sprawled spread-eagle in the doorway. “But I suppose you’ve ruined their trip just as much, eh, krestnik?”

“Don’t call me that.” The moment the words left my lips I regretted them. They were stupid, and they were pointless. The things I had thought about Lev, the illusions I’d embraced, were knives . . . slicing away pieces of me. I’d known who my uncle was, but I hadn’t ever accepted he was that same person with me. I’d thought I was exempt from his darker side. I’d thought I was family.

I’d thought wrong.

“Stefan, Stefan.” Lev rested his chin on his chest as he contemplated me with a mockery of melancholy affection. “It’s just zapodlo ; you know that.”

Just business, my ass. I didn’t bother to respond to the excuse as I raised my gun to point unwaveringly at his head. “The money. Now.”

He sighed and rippled his massively rounded shoulders in a minute shrug. “Very well.” Walking with surprisingly dainty steps for such a large man, he turned and moved toward the study.

Michael stepped up to my side as we walked the long stretch of hallway. I could see the confusion that furrowed his forehead, but I was still surprised when he asked Lev the quiet question, “How could you do that?”

Lev shook his head as he pushed open the study door. “Child, you’ve no idea what’s even happened here.”

My brother ended that misapprehension instantly. “I am not a child, and Stefan didn’t shoot that man. You know he didn’t. How could you betray him?”

Pausing in the doorway, Lev looked back with an air of patronizing bemusement. “Whether he shot him or not doesn’t matter, little Michael. It doesn’t matter at all.” Then his eyes met mine and he scolded, “Talking out of school, Stefan. You know better.”

The safe was flagrantly visible on one wine-colored wall. There had been no effort to hide it. Who would be suicidal enough to rob from the Russian mob? Plump fingers agilely punched in the combination and Lev went on with his lecture. “Talk, talk, talk, but did you tell your little friend that your father has vanished like a ghost? Did you tell him the rest of us are dependent on the goodwill of those in power?” The bronze metal door was opened to reveal several drawers. “I’m retired, Stefan, and I’m happy to be so. Making waves is no way to ensure I’ll enjoy that retirement. Konstantin was to take your father’s place. Now Fyodor will.” His smile was knowing. “Quite the coincidence, yes? But no matter. I’m loyal to the family. Fyodor is the family now. You, Stefan, are only a tiny piece of it. And, so, I did what I had to do. Loyalty to the family is all.”

He had done what was necessary to maintain loyalty—his loyalty to himself. I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t care in the slightest. And if I repeated that to myself often enough, it would be true. Prodding his back with the gun, I said coldly, “Great. I couldn’t be prouder. Now give me the goddamn money.” Jerking my head at the ornate desk in the center of the room, I told Michael to find some manila envelopes to put the cash in.

At the touch of metal against his spine Lev had given an almost imperceptible twitch as he remembered what he’d said only minutes ago. I wasn’t so soft after all. Now as he pulled stacks of bills from one of the drawers, his air of placid composure began to fade. “I’m still the same man who took you to see Santa, krestnik. I’m still the one who held your hand at your mother’s funeral. That hasn’t changed.” His eyes were wise, wistful, and full of lies. “I did all I could for you; you must know that. But in the end, there is only so much that can be done. Even for an uncle who loves his godson.”

“Yeah, I’m a lucky guy,” I commented with empty detachment. “I’d count my blessings, but then I’d be here all day.” I took the envelopes from Michael with my free hand and shoved them into the soft mound of Lev’s stomach. “Fill them up fast enough and maybe I’ll leave you with some blessings of your own to count.” My lips peeled from my teeth in a parody of a grin as I added flatly, “Maybe.”

He filled the envelopes quickly and silently after that. When he was done, I handed them to Michael before directing him to the door. “Wait in the hall, Misha. I’ll be right out.”

I expected him to hesitate at the tone in my voice. I barely recognized the sound of it myself, abraded hoarseness aside. He didn’t, though. Flashing me a look of confidence, he faced Lev and said with excruciating politeness, “Good-bye, Uncle Lev. I’d say it was nice to meet you, but then I’d be a liar.” He hefted the load in his arms and finished with unusually savage bite, “Just like you.”

Once Michael was out of sight, I stared at the man who had done more to shape my childhood than my own father. He had taken me to see Santa when I was six, as he’d said. And like Saint Nick, Uncle Lev had been nothing but a myth. All this time, he had been just a story I’d been stupid enough to fall for . . . even though I was a man who should’ve known better. “Have a seat, Uncle.”

Obeying at a snail’s pace, he settled himself slowly on a couch of buttery leather and eyed me with false sympathy. There was some genuine concern there as well, but it was reserved for him. “What, Stefan? What do you do now? Shoot me? You know better, and so do I.”

He was a liar, a killer, and maybe as much of a monster as Jericho. He was also a seventy-year-old man who had acted as family toward me my whole life. It hadn’t meant anything to him, but it had to me. As much as I would’ve liked to deny it, it had meant a helluva lot to me. After what he had done, hating him should’ve been child’s play. A nice black hatred sizzling with acid and bile would’ve made things so much easier. And I wanted easy now. I was tired of hard, and I was tired of family that disappeared . . . one way or the other.

“Shoot you?” I walked to the desk, picked up the phone and base, and tossed it into the hall. “Why would I want to shoot a toothless old wolf like you, Uncle?” I asked grimly. “Your day has been over for a while. All you’re good for is carrying tales to men more powerful than you.” It was true. He was a fat spider; poisonous, but if I avoided his web, I’d be safe enough.

Ripping one of the curtains free, I tore it into pieces and tied both of his thick wrists tightly. He hissed disapprovingly as I squatted and used the remaining material to do the same to his ankles. “Those are silk, Stefan. That’s no way to treat a beautiful thing.”

“Criminal of me, I know. How will I ever live with myself?” The house was old, a historical masterpiece, and the doors all had the large keyholes equipped with baroque keys. I would lock Lev in the study and Michael and I would be long gone before he was found. He’d done us the favor of sending his help home; the house was empty except for him and the unconscious and dying hit men.

“I think you’ll do just fine, krestnik.” Resigned to the situation, he leaned back and let his eyes fall to half mast. “You’ve more yaitsa than I gave you credit for. Anatoly will be proud. That is, he will be if he’s alive and you yourself live to see him again.”

“If I do, I’ll be sure to pass on your regards.” I tied the final knot.

Under a naturally ruddy complexion intensified by a high-fat diet and an enlarged heart, he paled slightly. I might have balls of steel, but my father’s were titanium. While I wouldn’t kill an old man, Anatoly would stop and make a point of it.

“Enjoy that wave-free retirement, Lev.” I picked up the Steyr from the floor and tapped the muzzle on his knee. “However long it lasts.”

Rising, I moved toward the door. Behind me the couch creaked alarmingly as Lev shifted. “Stefan,” he called urgently.

I kept going.

“Stefan, my heart medicine.” He was referring to the nitro pills he had been taking for nearly a decade now. Too many bleenies and too much vodka had finally caught up with him over the years. “I might need it. It’s in the master bedroom.”

“Is it?” I paused in the doorway to look back at him. “That’s too bad, Uncle Lev. It really is.” Quietly pulling the door shut, I locked it.

And then I walked away.