From Russia With Fangs

by Jacey Conrad

  “We need to get over there before Alexei gets back, for other reasons too,” she said, giving her brother a significant look. “Now that Papa’s dead, all bets are off. The minute I get the Bullet to Andrey, he can break the engagement without appearing to be weak.”

  Irina couldn’t seem to keep up with their conversation. Trunks and Bullet and broken engagements. What the hell were her siblings even talking about? How could they be talking about such ridiculous details when Papa and Viktor were dead? She stared at them both, her brow furrowed in confusion.

  Galina sighed and pressed a kiss to her sister’s forehead. “I’ll call Franny.” Irina nodded, but only because she recognized one word, “Franny.”

  “We’ll be back soon,” Galina whispered, brushing tears from her sister’s cheeks. “I love you.”

  At some point, Konstantin had the presence of mind to give Irina alcohol. Lots of it. And then he gave her more. When she had all of her brain cells firing again, she was sure she was going to like Kon.

  By the time Franny swept in to the house, armed with baked ziti and wine, she was good and drunk. Kon peeled Irina off the couch and carried her upstairs, where Franny tucked her into bed with a box of tissues. Irina’s face felt stiff and raw with tears.

  “I don’t know what to say, pumpkin,” Franny said, tucking Irina’s hair behind her ears.

  “It fucking sucks, Franny.”

  Franny nodded, wrapping her arms around Irina. “That about covers it.”

  Irina dozed off and on for hours while Franny sat in a comfy chair by her bed. Her cheeks stuck to the pillow and she was pretty sure she’d sprained something in her eyes from crying. She heard voices downstairs, Galya, saying something good and loud, but she wasn’t aware enough to keep track of what was being said. Franny rose and walked into the hallway, closing the door behind her.

  Irina curled up in the middle of the bed, the bed she’d just shared with Viktor a few nights ago, and pressed the pillow he’d used against her stomach. She’d washed the sheets, but she couldn’t help but hope that there was some trace of his scent left there. They should have shared more of those nights, if she’d been brave enough to stand up to her father. She should have been brave enough to leave. She should have stood up for the man she loved. She should have told him…so many things.

  “Rina?” Galya was standing near her bed, a look of concern on her tear-stained face.

  “Has there been any more news?” Irina asked, sitting up slightly.

  “Not really, no.” Galina smoothed Irina’s hair back from her damp cheeks.

  “So it’s been confirmed?” There was a shadow of hope in her voice, like it was all a mistake that Papa and Viktor had been in a different car or had decided to take the public bus on a lark.

  “As much as it can be for right now. They’re going to use dental records to identify the bodies, but from what the staff told me, Viktor was scheduled to drive Papa this afternoon.”

  “So Vitya’s gone.” Irina said it quietly, with so much hurt in her voice that Galina felt like she’d been punched.

  “Yes, from everything we’ve heard. I’m sorry.”

  “Is there going to be a funeral for him?” Irina asked quietly. “I know it seems like I’m not just as fucking devastated about Papa. I am, I promise, but for right now, all I seem to be able to focus on is Viktor and that he doesn’t have anybody. His parents are both gone and he didn’t have a family and I feel like I’m the only one on Earth who’s mourning him and goddamn it, this is just so fucking unfair.”

  “Did you want to arrange something for him?” Galina asked. “We can go to Kandinsky’s. Get him one of those Elvis caskets.”

  Despite herself Irina laughed, though the noise came out as a sob. “That’s fucking wrong, Galya.”

  “I know, emotions make me uncomfortable. This is how I cope.”

  “And someday soon, I will find your inappropriate jokes really funny. But today is not that day,” Irina said so softly Galina barely heard. “Could you give me a minute? I’ll be down soon, I promise.”

  “Sure. I’ll leave you alone,” Galina said. “You come down when you’re ready.” She leaned over and kissed her sister’s cheek. Irina nodded.

  As the door closed behind Galina, Irina pressed her face into the pillow, searching for any trace of Viktor’s scent. And when she couldn’t find it, she wept.

  Papa’s funeral, the reading of his will, lighting his funeral pyre—Irina felt like she was watching it from underwater. The grief that had been absent from Sergei’s death came crashing down on her head twice-over. And the worst part of it all was that she couldn’t mourn for Viktor publically. She had to pretend her tears were solely for her father.

  Irina couldn’t seem to function beyond getting herself dressed and sitting quietly where Nik or Galina directed her. Galina had to take over planning the funeral and the reception. She had to receive the heads of the families as they arrived at the funeral, as Alexei was too busy drinking himself into a self-congratulatory, pre-coronation stupor in their father’s office. Galina lit the funeral pyre, because Alexei was missing entirely with no explanation. And Irina was left with her death-grip on poor Kon’s arm, listening to the respectful murmurs about “Poor Irina” who had lost so much in the past year and was so obviously crushed by grief.

  It was all a fucking lie.

  She missed Viktor with an ache so acute she couldn’t define where the pain ended and she began. She didn’t know how she would go on like this, she didn’t know if her body had the energy to keep up this struggle to breathe. How could it hurt so much to lose someone she’d known for such a short time? So much of her life seemed altered, empty, without Viktor’s presence. She longed for the low rumble of Viktor’s voice in her ear. She missed the way he tried to hide his smile. On the rare occasions she could sleep, she woke up swearing she could feel the heat of his hands on her skin.

  Her father was gone. The man who had rescued her from a life of poverty and pain, had been taken from her in the most violent, sudden manner possible. But all she could think of was her lost lover. She would take time to be ashamed of it later.

  If her life was uncertain before, now it was blown to hell. She was no longer a daughter. She was no longer a wife. The man she loved was gone. And when Andrey broke their engagement (rightly so, considering her sister’s feelings for him), she would be left without protection from Alexei’s madness.

  Irina didn’t know what she would do with her time from here out. She knew that Galina was handling a lot of “family business,” gathering allies and supporters wherever she could, a prospect made that much easier by her brother’s erratic, disrespectful behavior during her father’s memorials. Andrey was helping, of course, wherever he could, but Galya was building her own empire from the ashes of their father’s through sheer force of will.

  Irina admired her sister so much more for being able to fight through her grief to focus on the big picture, taking advantage of Alexei’s predictable weakness. Irina felt like she was fighting to the surface of the murky water that had surrounded her since the moment Nik had come to her, pale-faced and tearful. She fought, every morning, to come out of the fog just a little bit more, so she could do her sister credit.

  The high-ranking officers in the Sudenko family were meeting that day with Andrey to determine the future of the two factions’ relationship, and Galya had warned her to wait by the phone. If Alexei had his way, that relationship was headed toward an unhappy break-up in which no one would be able “stay friends.”

  Konstantin stayed with her all day, keeping up a steady stream of tea and sandwiches and telling her stories of his childhood with Andrey. While she was happy to know more about the man Nik loved, when the doorbell rang, Irina was grateful for a reprieve from the chatter.

  Konstantin used his wolfy agility to duck around her and open the door. Over Kon’s shoulder, Irina made the flashing gold and blue of FBI credentials.

  “Irina Volkov?” a man’
s booming voice demanded. Kon’s shoulders hunched into a protective stance.

  “Kon,” she said softly, as the agent repeated her name.

  She gently nudged her overprotective werewolf bodyguard aside and let the Ice Queen mask slide into place. She kept her tone cool and distant when she answered. “Yes. I’m Irina Volkov.”

  This was not the first time the FBI had shown up on Irina’s doorstep. Growing up a Sudenko, she’d learned proper search warrant procedure by the time she was ten. Hell, the Feds had searched her house while she and Sergei were on their ill-fated honeymoon, hoping to find illicit or smuggled goods among their recently unpacked wedding presents. However, this was the first time she’d faced a federal agent without Papa or even Sergei.

  She recognized the agent as the unabashed dark-haired spy from the blue surveillance van, out in front of Mama Yaga’s. His credentials read “Assistant Special Agent in Charge John Gregory.” He was in his mid-thirties, with that clean-cut, generically all-American look common to federal agents. Galina once speculated that there was a SuperCuts just outside Quantico that stayed busy giving every Academy graduate the same circa 1953 haircut. He raked his dark blue eyes over her, assessing, quantifying, and Irina saw a gleeful anticipation reflected in them. She’d seen that look often enough in Sergei’s eyes to know this was not an authority figure in whom she could place her trust.

  Behind him, Irina noted Gregory’s balding partner, standing in her yard, with four additional FBI sport-utility vehicles parked in front of her house with their lights flashing through the steady patter of rain. For the first time, she regretted that there was no security detail camped out in her yard. Despite Kon’s presence, she felt very much alone.

  “Mrs. Volkov, my name is John Gregory and I have a few questions for you regarding your father’s death. We’d like you to come with us.”

  Fear and worry had Irina reaching for the cell phone in her pocket. But Galina was busy with the meeting, and so was Nik. Uncle Petyr would try to pull his patented “piss off the feds” routine that inevitably led to obstruction charges. She certainly couldn’t call Alexi. There was no one but Irina. She forced her mind to focus on the situation at hand. They wanted to question her, about her father’s death, about Viktor’s death. She would have to relive the last time she’d spoken to her father. And that would bring to mind the last time she’d spoken to Viktor, the last time she’d kissed Viktor, the last time she’d touched him. The very idea made her throat tighten with panic. Irina pursed her lips, willing herself to stop, to consider, before blurting the first thing that came to mind. “I don’t think that will be possible, Mr. Gregory.”

  “I don’t you understand the situation, Mrs. Volkov. I’m asking you, very politely, to get in the car. I don’t have to ask politely, but I’m doing so out of courtesy and respect for your…situation.”

  Her situation. She supposed he mentioned her station as Irina Volkov, perpetual mourner. That was it. She’d decided not to like Agent Gregory.

  “And I don’t believe you can ask me to do anything without my lawyer present,” she told him.

  “Well, you can try calling your lawyer, but I don’t think you’ll get an answer. I believe your brothers and sister are in a meeting, across town,” Agent Gregory said pleasantly.

  Kon’s eyes narrowed and he let loose an almost imperceptible growl. Irina placed a steadying hand on his chest. He glanced down at her and she shook her head. He huffed, but stepped behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder. She was comfortable enough with the strong Beta to appreciate the contact. She felt safe with Kon. If Nik trusted Konstantin, she could trust him. Irina should have known that there would be a detail following her siblings. And wasn’t it a strange coincidence that the agent had chosen this moment, when she was alone, to appear on her doorstep with questions.

  “Would you come on already?” the balding partner yelled, hitching his belt over a belly that just beginning to paunch. “It’s pissing rain out here. Just put her in the car and let’s go!”

  Agent Gregory turned around gave the other agents a pacifying wave. “It’s all right, Tim. Really. I’m sure Mrs. Volkov is going to be cooperative. Aren’t you, Mrs. Volkov?”

  Irina lifted an eyebrow and didn’t answer. Because she was not, in fact, planning on being cooperative.

  “Tell you what,” Agent Gregory said cheerfully. “How about instead of going down to the field office, we just sit down in your kitchen for a cup of coffee and have a chat? It would be much less formal. More friendly.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Tim yelled. “We’re supposed to take her downtown!”

  “Calm down, Tim,” Agent Gregory chided. “Why don’t you tell the others to stand down? Mrs. Volkov and I will just sit down and have a little talk, won’t we? And of course, your, uh, friend, can stay if that makes you more comfortable.” Agent Gregory nodded to Konstantin.

  “I suppose,” Irina said, her voice flat and unaffected.

  Tim made a disgusted noise and moved toward the FBI vehicles, waving the others off. The whole scene felt a little…rehearsed. This show of force with the fleet of SUVs and extra agents. The whole “bad cop, slightly more reasonable cop” routine. It was misdirection, meant to make her feel like they were doing her some sort of favor, “making an exception” by questioning her at home. They had separated the weakest member from the pack and now they were pouncing on her, hoping that she would spill family secrets as she sobbed into her coffee.

  Well, fuck a bunch of that.

  Three hours.

  Three hours she’d spent sitting at her kitchen table with an untouched mug of coffee gripped between her hands while Agent Gregory pretended to have a friendly conversation with her. If a conversation consisting mostly of questions like, “Which of your siblings has the most to gain if the event of your father’s death?” and “Which of your siblings has the most experience with explosives?” could be considered friendly. His questions were carefully constructed to prevent negative answers or the possibility of Irina claiming ignorance. Agent Gregory also wanted a full account of her whereabouts on the day of the explosion and what she could remember of her siblings’ schedules.

  Irina resisted Nik’s “talking to the cops” advice. She didn’t play the tragic, helpless widow. She didn’t cry. She answered as honestly and carefully as she could, without giving extra information. And she could see Agent Gregory getting more frustrated with every response. And she was just Sudenko enough to fight through the numbness and enjoy that. She resented his presence in her kitchen, her refuge. She resented the fact that she was considered the thinnest link in the chain, the weak spot that would break. And she could feel the bitterness of it slowly burning away the fog that had surrounded her head since Vitya’s death.

  Agent Gregory stirred sugar and cream into his fourth cup of coffee, frowning. His navy blue striped tie was loosened from its careful knot. His windbreaker was draped over the back of his chair. And he was struggling to keep that blandly pleasant expression on his face. With Irina handling the meeting relatively well, Kon had stopped trying to text her out-of-pocket siblings several cups of coffee ago and was now playing Candy Crush on his phone.

  “What’s going to happen to your family business now that your father is dead?” he asked, his voice straining to keep its veneer of politeness.

  “I couldn’t really say,” Irina said. “Surely, you don’t expect us to worry about something so inconsequential as business when our father has died.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t call your family business inconsequential, Mrs. Volkov. You’ve got quite the empire going. Stolen artifacts, drug trafficking, gambling, smuggling,” Agent Gregory said, reaching into his briefcase and pulling out eight-by-ten printouts of pictures. Images of men Irina didn’t recognize loading boxes from a barge to a truck, of Alexei and Nik standing in front of Nik’s law office, of Galina standing on a sidewalk and having what looked like a heated discussion with Andrey, of crates being carried out of her father�
�s restaurants under the cover of night. “Laundering stolen diamonds through your jewelry shop.”

  Finally, he pulled out a picture of her storefront. Irina’s eyes went wide as she recognized the image. It was dated weeks before, just after the momentous family evening at the ballet. Viktor was walking beside her, his hand resting on the small of her back. His whole body was oriented around Irina’s, as if he could shield her from every evil. He wasn’t smiling, but he was looking at her like she was something precious, the center of his universe.

  Irina’s heart seemed to stop, like it was in danger of imploding. Her wide, whiskey-colored eyes locked on Gregory’s eager face. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream and flip the table and curse the agent for showing her this, for reminding her that Viktor was gone. But she didn’t move. She didn’t flinch. She was the fucking Ice Queen.

  “All I see are some pictures of my family having conversations and some people carrying boxes. If what you say is true, Agent Gregory, then surely a motivated and talented agent such as yourself would develop enough evidence to pursue charges against us.”

  Agent Gregory’s handsome face flushed an unpleasant shade of magenta. He stared into her eyes, as if he could read her secrets by studying her corneas. Irina took a page from Andrey’s book. Without blinking, she offered him a serene smile and rose from the table, regal as any royal ever dreamed. “Now, I think we can agree that I’ve been cooperative and hospitable. I’ve answered all of your questions to the best of my ability. So, I am asking you, very politely, to leave my house. I don’t have to ask politely, but I’m doing so out of courtesy and respect for your,” she paused and glanced down at him, “situation as assistant special agent in charge. If you have any further questions for me, please contact my brother, Nikolai. As you’re aware, he’s my attorney.”

  Agent Gregory lost his grip on his pleasant face and scowled at her. She ratcheted up the beauty queen grin and gestured to the door. Kon stood, the scraping of his chair against the floor jarring Agent Gregory into motion. He sprang up from his chair and shoved his photos in his briefcase. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Volkov. We’ll talk soon.”