From Russia With Claws (9 page)

“And what do you think?” she asked him, curious as to which way her father was leaning.

“I’ve already spoken to his father.”

Galina smiled. Perhaps her father wasn’t as blind as she thought he was.

The Merry Widow

E
VERYONE
W
HO
W
AS
A
NYONE
came to Sergei Volkov’s funeral. It was like the damn Oscars for Russian criminals who embraced questionable fashion choices. The Kandinsky Funeral Parlor had been reserved for the occasion; Anya Volkov had spared no expense for the send-off of her beloved Sergei.

Galina smoothed her black dress over her hips one last time and looked over at Irina. The only word that came to mind when she saw her sister was resplendent. Irina was wearing a fiery red dress and the diamond necklace that she’d worn at Katy’s Sweet Sixteen party. Her makeup and hair were flawless.

Mama Anya was sending Irina death glares as she hovered over the casket that held her son’s body. They were all gathered in the private viewing room—the Sudenkos and their bodyguards, and the Volkovs. The Volkov contingent consisted of Mama Anya, her remaining son, Gregori, and their two men. Irina stood out like the proverbial rose among thorns.

Mama Anya wept openly, sobbing over Sergei’s body. Galina watched Irina step over to Anya, her hands out to comfort the woman. Before she got within a foot of her, Irina’s mother-in-law snapped upright and whirled around to face Irina.

“Don’t touch me!” she shrieked, eyes wild in a face contorted by grief. “You never loved him. If you had, you would have given him children and he might have had something to fight for! Just look at the way you’re dressed, like a whore on her way to a party. No respect! No modesty! No heart! You were always a cold, unfeeling woman! You didn’t deserve my Sergei!”

Galina had to agree with her. No one on earth deserved Sergei. Galina thought that Mama Anya might be done, but she was mistaken.

“You pack your things and get out of my son’s house. It is mine now, by right! Go back to your father’s house, you useless little human bitch!”

“You’re right,” Irina said, her voice quiet but forceful, “I didn’t deserve your son.”

Galina interposed herself smoothly between the two women before someone drew blood. Viktor, who was shadowing Irina for the funeral, looked as if he was going to use Anya as a chew toy. Galina couldn’t blame him. After the spew of insults that the woman had hurled at Irina, she wanted to smack Anya until her hand hurt—after she’d toughened it up beating on a tree for six months. “Okay, why don’t we all just give Irina a moment alone? Give her the opportunity to say good-bye to her husband.”

She snagged Anya’s arm in a firm grip, tightening it when the older woman began to struggle. “My baby! I won’t leave
that woman
alone with my baby!”

Galina had had quite enough of this fuckery. She leaned down and whispered in Anya’s ear, “Listen to me. You can either walk out of here, or you can be carried out of here unconscious. It makes no damn difference to me, but let’s at least try to have a modicum of decorum in the funeral home.”

Mama Anya stopped her keening long enough to stare at Galina in horror. At the same time, Galina signaled Nik and Viktor over to help Mama Anya out of the private viewing room. The other bodyguards helped usher everyone else out. When Anya had been safely conveyed to somewhere that wasn’t there, Galina walked over to Irina.

Her sister stood stone-faced before the casket. Galina lightly touched her arm to get her attention. “Take your time. We’ll meet you at the receiving line.” She squeezed her sister’s arm, kissed her on the cheek, and left her alone with her dead husband.

Galina closed the door behind her to give Irina some privacy, resting against it as she gathered her thoughts. This was a farce of the highest order. The casket Mama Anya had picked out was the Elvis Presley of caskets: gleaming white, gilded to within an inch of its life, and covered in huge swaths of white roses. She’d hired a horse and carriage to carry the abomination to the cemetery.

Franny walked up to her. “How’s Irina doing? I just saw Mrs. Volkov having the vapors in the receiving room.”

Galina grimaced, rubbing at the bridge of her nose with her thumb and index finger. She was getting one hell of a headache from all of this nitwittery. She wanted to take Irina, go back to her house, and watch stupid movies for two days.

“Mama Anya is a giant pain in the ass,” Galina gritted. “Irina’s hanging in there, but it hasn’t been an easy day.”

“Gotcha. I’m on it.” Franny disappeared back down the hall, a woman on a mission.

Galina followed more slowly. She dreaded standing in the receiving line, but she’d do it for Irina. She wasn’t sorry Sergei was gone, and she wasn’t going to pretend she was torn up over his death. She was happy her sister was rid of her albatross of a husband. It wasn’t particularly nice, but Galina didn’t think you got anywhere as a woman—at least not in her family—by being nice.

The number of people in the receiving room was staggering. Mama Anya must have strong-armed the entire
Volk Organizatsiya
to attend. Galina knew that half of those here despised Sergei, but a lot of business was conducted at funerals. She was hoping to corner one of Sergei’s old lieutenants and see if she could glean any information about what Sergei had stolen from Andrey.

Maksim Federov stood near her father, shaking his hand and offering condolences. His suit was tailored, but it still looked a bit too big for him, giving her the impression that he was playing dress up in his big brother’s clothes. Galina ducked behind a knot of mourners, not ready to make small talk with the Caviar Prince.

“My sincerest apologies for the loss to your family, Miss Sudenko.” Andrey’s voice was rich and warm. Galina turned to see him watching her, a sly smile on his face as if they shared a private joke.

She extended her hand, feeling the now-familiar tension twist within her. He took her fingers in his, pressing his lips to the back of her hand, deliberately nipping at each knuckle. His eyes never left her face and Galina felt herself growing warm. She pressed her thighs together, cursing Andrey to the lowest hell possible. He knew what he was doing to her and he knew he was doing it to her in the middle of a room full of werewolves. If she had to leave to change her underwear, everyone would know why.

He smirked at her in a way that made her insides melt. She could have killed him. Twice.

“Thank you for the kind words, Mr. Lupesco.” She gave him a tight smile. Andrey’s silvery eyes snapped with mirth. Konstantin, the bodyguard who had grabbed her at Sergei’s shooting, stood directly behind Andrey’s left shoulder, and his usual blank mask was marred by the amusement dancing in his eyes.

Oh, this was just lovely. She wondered how much Konstantin knew about her and Andrey’s extracurricular activities.

She took her hand back from Andrey’s grasp. “If you’ll excuse me, I should go and check on Irina.” Galina searched the room and found her father deep in conversation with another high ranking member of the
Organizatsiya
. “I believe my father wished to speak with you.” She inclined her head in his direction.

“Of course, Miss Sudenko. Again, my condolences.”

Galina smiled wickedly at him, an idea forming in her head. It wasn’t fair that he got to have all of the fun making her uncomfortable. She stepped to his side, intending to go around him. Konstantin moved back a pace to allow her room, conveniently blocking her from sight for just a moment. As she walked behind Andrey, she ran her hand down his ass, feeling him jerk in surprise. “Good-bye, Mr. Lupesco.”

Once she was free of the room, she used her sense of smell to guide her to Irina. Her sister wasn’t in the private viewing room, but she was nearby. And Irina was clearly feeling something she hadn’t felt in
quite
some time if the scent of arousal was any indication. Who knew that funerals could be hotbeds of inappropriate sexual encounters?

Galina followed the scent to a nearby coat closet and flung open the door. She managed to keep her jaw from hitting the floor, but just barely. Irina and Viktor—
Viktor
—were tangled against the wall of the closet, and her sister wore the look of a woman who’d quite possibly gotten a glimpse of Heaven during an earthshaking orgasm. The smell of sex hung heavy in the air.

“Oh, for the love of fuck,” she said as she stepped in and closed the door behind her.

Viktor spun, arms braced around Irina as if protecting her from danger. He growled—actually
growled
—at her! She crossed her arms over her chest and raised one blond eyebrow at the two of them. Things had just gotten
very
interesting.

“You fucking
reek
of him, Rina. What were you thinking? I mean, I don’t blame you for hopping on that train, but at your husband’s funeral? That’s a little tacky. Not to mention there’s a fucking werewolf cabal out there who will smell that mess under your dress.”

She turned on Viktor, wanting to smack him for being so careless. She didn’t care who her sister got her rocks off with, but a large number of people in the next room over would care a great deal. “And
you,
you fucking moron! I know why she’s not behaving rationally, but you’re supposed to be thinking with something other than your junk.”

Viktor looked abashed, glancing over his shoulder at Irina as if he only just fully grasped the danger they’d put themselves in. Galina couldn’t help but roll her eyes. At least she tried to be a little circumspect in her dealings with Andrey. “There’s a break in the receiving line, go out the back way, get my car and bring it around. I’ll take the merry widow here and meet you at the employee exit.”

Viktor nodded, then leaned in to press one last kiss to Irina’s swollen mouth. Galina smacked his shoulder. “Damn it, cut that out and get out of here, you hormonal dumbass.”

Huffing at her, Viktor walked out of the closet. Why didn’t he just get a goddamned plane and skywrite that he’d just finger fucked her sister in a coatroom? Dazed, Irina slumped against the wall, trying to pull her clothing back to rights.

“Rocked your world, did he?” Galina asked her.

Irina nodded, still stunned. “Why are we going home?”

Galina adjusted Irina’s clothes, pulling everything back in place. She explained again about the werewolves gathered in the next room, preparing to mourn for Irina’s dead husband while she’d been getting busy in the closet. When it looked like Irina understood, she draped her sister’s arm over her shoulder and opened the door.

The hallway was thankfully empty, so Galina stepped out of the closet, holding Irina up as she walked them toward the exit. She spotted a little blond boy coming out of the area that passed for the private lounge for the family. Pulling a twenty out of her purse, Galina waved it at the kid. “Find Ilya Sudenko and tell him that Galina had to take Irina home because she’s taken ill.”

The little boy nodded eagerly, snatching the bill out of Galina’s hand. “What if I can’t remember all of it?” he asked. “Another twenty might help my memory.”

“I don’t know whether to smack you or hire you, kid,” Galina muttered, taking another bill out of her purse and handing it to him. “Now get out of here before I decide to feed those to you.”

The boy grinned, tucking the bills into his jacket. He turned and ran down the hall to deliver the message. Galina glanced at Irina, still leaning against her in a daze. “Greedy little Volkov.”

Galina pulled into Irina’s driveway to find Franny already waiting for them. She’d gotten Irina into her car with little problem, although for a few minutes she thought she might need to pistol whip Viktor with his own gun to get him to leave Irina and clean himself up.

Irina had begun to feel the guilt of her coat closet sexy times on the way home, so it was good that Franny came prepared. While Galina burned her sister’s funeral dress—on Irina’s order—Franny rolled a massive joint with the ease of long practice.

The flames were burning quite nicely, the dress just ash in the grate. Irina sat beside her on the couch, freshly scrubbed and wearing comfortable clothes. Franny grinned at them over the rolling paper. Galina heartily approved of Irina’s friend and her idea to get Irina properly and truly relaxed.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” Irina fretted. “For one thing that was an awfully phallic gesture, so I don’t know if I want to smoke your surrogate penis.”

“Oh would you just lighten up,” Franny told her. “I have been trying to get you to smoke since college. This is going to be funny as hell.”

Galina snorted, because she agreed with Franny. It
would
be funny as hell to see Irina finally high. Her sister was wound way too tight, not that she didn’t have a reason to be.

Irina glared at her. She said, “I never smoked in college because I had to go home every weekend to my family of werewolves, who will smell this shit from a mile away.”

“Oh, just blame it on me,” Galina said airily, checking the messages on her voice mail. “Everybody will believe it. Besides, you’re thirty years old. If you want to get high, you should be able to get high.” She excused herself to make a phone call.

Galina dialed Stepan Pleshenko’s number. He was a collector of Estruscan art, on the board of several museums, and a huge mover in the Seattle arts scene. He was also not afraid of acquiring artifacts with questionable provenance. She’d met him when she’d been home last summer. They’d discussed art during the intermission of
Rigoletto
.