“And don’t even get me started on his bizarre relationship with alcohol.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, though I’d already seen evidence of this. Last night, Sevastyan had consumed a drink, but only after abstaining from it again and again.

“Just watch him tonight. You’ll see. But enough about him. Look, if you need anything, you come to me.” Filip patted my hand on his arm. “You’re Kovalev’s daughter, and I owe that man my life.”

“You do?”

He nodded. “I was in a bad place six months ago when my dad died suddenly. Uncle Kov gave me a lifeline.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, and I really appreciate your offer.”

I heard laughter and voices drifting from the room at the end of the foyer. I was eager to join the others, but just outside the doors, Filip stopped me.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Natalie. It’s nice to have someone else around who’s Westernized. And who doesn’t hold it against me that I’ve never been to prison!” He laid his hands on my shoulders and smiled down at me, a move that would make most women proffer their panties. “Kovalev has to go into the city tomorrow afternoon. Let me show you around the place—”

Before I could pull away, the doors opened, revealing the Siberian on the other side. My heart leapt—had he been coming for me?

He stopped in his tracks, expression growing lethal. What’d I do now? Then I realized it looked like Filip and I had been about to . . . kiss. I swung my head around to take in the immense dining room and the other guests already inside. About thirty brigadiers.

And all their eyes were on Filip and me, every conversation stalled.

I guessed it was pretty bad when dozens of Russian gangsters got scandalized by one’s behavior. But I hadn’t done anything.

At least, not with Filip.

When Sevastyan’s fists balled, I marched away from both men. Squaring my shoulders, chin lifted, I made my way to Kovalev, my heels sounding abnormally loud in the silent hall.

He was standing at the head of a lengthy table that was covered with dazzling candles, china, and silver. He glanced uncertainly from me to Filip, so I gave him a ready smile. “This is incredible, Paxán. Thank you.” My guiltless demeanor seemed to defuse the situation; conversations resumed.

When Kovalev pulled out the chair to his right for me, he said under his breath, “Anything amiss?”

I murmured back, “Not at all.”

Filip followed, taking a seat beside me. With a laugh, he muttered, “That was awkward, huh?”

When Sevastyan returned to the table and took the seat opposite me, his face was his usual unreadable mask, but that muscle in his jaw was twitching.

Kovalev introduced me to the rest of our dinner companions, more than two dozen men in their twenties and thirties—Yuri, Boris, Kirill, Gleb, then I started losing track. They were a rough-looking lot, but they all appeared to hero-worship Kovalev. Only two other women were seated, Olga and Inya, long-term girlfriends of a couple of the brigadiers.

After introductions, what seemed like an army of servers began conveying platters, while others poured vodka into glittering crystal glasses. Though I wasn’t used to being on this end of service, I forced myself to relax.

“A toast,” Kovalev called, drink in hand. “To my lovely daughter. Who found me against all odds, who toiled and fought to get what she wanted.”

Filip called, “The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”

When the dinner guests raised their glasses of vodka, I did the same, then brought it to my lips to sip—

Everyone shot theirs, then turned to me. I recalled it was considered rude to put a glass with alcohol back on the table. With a shrug, I downed mine too, and cheers broke out. I couldn’t help but grin, glancing at Sevastyan, who simply stared at me.

I could’ve sworn he’d been jealous of Filip earlier, but if he gave a damn, then why hadn’t he bothered to come get me from my room in the first place?

In any case, I refused to let him ruin this for me. Here I was at an authentic Russian banquet, drinking vodka with my father’s extended . . . clan. I was in the land of my birth, ensconced in a former tsar’s home.

I gazed up, marveling at the frescoes above us. This absolutely looked like the dining room of a tsar. I realized I’d never felt history like this. Which took some of the sting out of my involuntary withdrawal from school.

Tonight, my good mood was bulletproof.

Another toast followed: “Za vas, Natalya Kovaleva!” To you. This time I got my shot down in time with the table. I savored the burn, pleasantly warmed.

When a zakuska—a spread of miscellaneous appetizers—was served, Filip leaned over. “This is called a za-kus-ka.”

Sevastyan said, “Natalie studied Russian—I’m sure she knows what it is.”

I cast him a quick look of appreciation. Having every dish explained to me would’ve gotten old.

Filip’s affable mien never faded, even as he said, “It’s merely etiquette, Sevastyan. To be welcoming to a guest—escorting her from her room and such.”

Thanks for reminding me.

The two men stared each other down. The tense moment was broken by another serving: oysters topped with plentiful caviar from the Volga Delta. Then a fish course followed.

I took a bite of heavenly baked sole, making a sound of bliss; Sevastyan’s eyes were on me.

I shot another glass of vodka; his eyes were on me.