The Professional by Kresley Cole

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 numerousacademic 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.
    “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, Paxán, 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. Thenan unfamiliar feeling came over me, a protectiveness for