“Kovalev’s in a congress.” At my nonplussed look, Sevastyan explained, “It’s like a summit meeting for vory.”

“Don’t you think my going to Russia will just magnify this problem?”

“We have men there, safeguards in place. Your father’s compound is a fortress.”

A mafiya compound? I could just see it: some gray and dingy Soviet-era monolith. Inside, the décor would be a riot of gaudy knickknacks, selected on the basis not of taste, but of price. And Kovalev . . . I pictured a hulking brute in a tracksuit, wearing so many thick gold chains that his neck looked like a ring toss. He probably kept white tigers and had a diamond-encrusted toilet.

Ugh. I frowned at Sevastyan. “Forcing me back there wasn’t always the plan?”

He shook his head.

“So if those bad guys hadn’t headed to the States, would you have kept spying on me from afar?”

“I would have remained in place—protecting you—until your father could travel here to meet you.”

“If you were my sole bodyguard, when did you sleep?”

“While you were in class or at work. When I knew you’d be around others for a while.” That meant he’d gotten even fewer hours than I had. He cocked his head. “I can sleep when I’m dead, no?”

Exactly what I’d thought. “This is a lot for Kovalev to put on your shoulders.” I couldn’t imagine a task like that—having another person’s life in my hands.

“I would do anything he asked me.”

“Is devotion like that common in your . . . organization?”

“He’s been a father to me since I was young. I owe him my life,” Sevastyan said in a tone that told me he would not be unpacking that comment.

“Then in a way, you’re like my much, much older brother.”

Another scowl from the Russian. He didn’t like that remark at all. “I’m only seven or so years older than you are.”

I waved that information away. “And my mother . . . ?”

“I must let Kovalev explain that. It’s not my story to tell.”

“At least tell me if she’s alive.”

I might’ve seen a flicker of pity in Sevastyan’s eyes. I assumed the worst, grief hitting me like a swift stab to my heart. All these years of wondering . . . Now it seemed that I’d never meet her, never speak to her.

Stemming tears, I asked, “Do I have any siblings?”

“None.”

“Grandparents?” Mom and Dad had been older when they’d adopted me, and my grandparents had passed away over my childhood.

He shook his head. “Only your father and a distant cousin you’ll meet.” He rose, then crossed to a marble counter in the middle of the sitting area. With the push of a button, a panel retracted to reveal a stocked wet bar with a full range of bar and stemware. He poured two drinks into cut-crystal glasses. A vodka rocks for himself—and a chilled Sprite for me?

“No warm milk?” I accepted the glass and drank, surly because it tasted so good.

Returning to his seat, he ran a finger around the edge of his glass, but he hadn’t taken a sip. Just as his drink at the bar had been untouched. “I don’t have your preferred tequila.”

“Preferred? I drink whatever folks buy me. I’ve been on a budget.”

Had my comment amused him? “The last budget you’ll ever have, I assure you.”

Because he expected me to spend the family blood money. Reminded of my situation, I said, “I’m having a hard time believing two strange men would really hurt me.”

“They target relatives. When Kovalev started out in the Bratva, their code prohibited members from having a family, from having anything they cared about other than the brotherhood—because family is a weakness that enemies can use against you.”

As I tried to imagine such a brutal world, Sevastyan continued, “That’s why Kovalev sent your mother away. He didn’t know she was pregnant. Not until you started this search.”

“You said my DNA matched his. But why would his have been available?”

“There were others before you, claiming to be fathered by him. Initially, I came to Nebraska to discover if this was some type of scam.” Gazing into his glass, Sevastyan said, “Kovalev never wanted it to be true before you.”

“Why not?”

Sevastyan faced me again. “The others were deceitful gold diggers, cold-blooded and seemingly committed to unemployment. You held down three jobs, all while finishing your master’s degree with honors. You even learned to speak Russian. You wanted to find him, but you didn’t need to. At least, not financially.” Had Sevastyan sounded . . . admiring?

The thought warmed me. Until I remembered that my DNA tied me to a mobster. “There could have been a mistake in the match. A clerical error or something.”

Sevastyan raised his glass to his lips, only to lower it without taking a drink. “Your resemblance to his mother is uncanny.”

I looked like my grandmother. I found myself softening, but not enough to soothe my misgivings. “So what does my father do? In a criminal sense. Run girls? Guns and drugs?”

Sevastyan gave me a look as if my question was the height of ridiculousness. “The bulk of his business is related to real estate and construction. But he also mediates disputes between gangs, and he sells protection to business owners. He does a brisk trade blackmailing politicians. No girls, no guns, no drugs. That’s part of why we’re having this conflict—because he doesn’t want that in his territory.”