Page 32 of Prior Claim
“And the governments and people who hire this private service can always answer honestly that they did nothing.” Sevastyan snorted.
Anton’s hands curled back into fists. “I’m not turning against Mother Russia.”
“Russia is mother and Mother is Russia,” Sevastyan retorted. He gave Raska a long, steady look. “Even if she’s a psychotic bitch.”
Raska reached for her gun.
Sevastyan raised an eyebrow at her. “Do that and Anton won’t tell you about the pharmaceutical shipment coming out of Alaska.”
“Sevastyan!” Anton snapped.
Sevastyan shrugged. “Bargain with something, Da. You’re an idiot. We all know you’re loyal to Russia. Mama wants to know if you’re loyal to family. If you’re useful.”
Anton growled. “It’s not like she’s loyal to me.”
“No, she’s the queen bitch,” Sevastyan said.
Raska drew her gun and jammed it into the base of Sevastyan’s throat. “Call me a bitch again.”
“Queen bitch.” Sevastyan grinned. “Did you not hear the queen part?”
She smirked.
Sevastyan turned back toward Anton, ignoring the gun against his throat. “Think about it, Da. The money is good. You have skills the Merchari need. You’ll be home.”
Anton gave Raska a measured look. “I’m done with undercover. I miss home. I miss my son. I even miss your psychotic ass, though right now I can’t remember why. I want to drink kvass and eat pirozhki without looking over my shoulder. Promise me that, or you might as well shoot me now.”
She sniffed. “Kvass and pirozhki? You’re a cheap date.”
“Russia—home—isn’t cheap.” Anton sagged in his chair.
“And you work for me?” Raska kept her gun against Sevastyan’s throat but her eyes were on Anton.
Anton nodded. “All you had to do was ask.”
Raska slunk toward the table, her gun dragging down Sevastyan’s chest and leaving his body at the level of his belt. She leaned down to Anton. “No other conditions?”
“Don’t get me put in fucking prison.”
She laughed, swirling her gun around her finger. “Don’t worry. Merchari don’t end up in prison. We shop in them.”
Sevastyan grabbed the gun from Raska’s hand and slipped the safety on, handing it back to her. “We don’t kill useful friends,” he snapped at her. “You taught me that when I was seven.”
She laughed, and poked him in the arm with the muzzle, then grabbed him by the hair and kissed him on the cheek.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bracelet dripping in emeralds and rubies, dropping it into her hand. “Don’t wear that in New York for a few years.”
She held it up to the light and laughed, then patted his cheek. “Such a mama’s boy, Sevvy.”
He grinned at her. “It will go with that dress you bought in Barcelona.”
Sevastyan
Sevastyan took Anton to a hotel across the city. On the way, they detoured to a pharmacy. Anton looked around him, lost and out of his depth. Sixteen years away from your homeland would probably do that to a man.
Sevastyan clapped his father on the back. “I got this.”
He grabbed general wound care products and first aid and paid for the items, then they walked on to the hotel. Sevastyan spoke to the front desk, slipping the girl behind it a hefty tip to get kvass and pirozhki sent up to their room.
