Destiny and Deception (25 page)

“You’re speaking of things you don’t have full knowledge of,” Gareth grumbled at Gabe.

I rested a hand on Gareth’s arm. “Leave Gareth out of this. If
that’s
the way it needs to be.…”

“What do I need to do to prove myself to you? To show you I’m the alpha male this pack needs to survive and thrive? I’ve fed us, I’ve taken a gunshot for us, I’ve connected you to Dmitri.… What other proof do you need?”

Then I saw them at a stop sign and in the red convertible—her leaning on him in the backseat as Max drove, Pietr mindlessly stroking Jessica’s arm.

And Gabe noticed, too, and growled out his anger.

Jessie

Having forgotten a notebook, I was back at my locker during class when he found me.

“Hey, Jessica.”

I turned so fast my neck hurt. I didn’t know what it was about the guy, but something about Gabriel told me he was far from his mythologically angelic namesake. Something about the way he watched me and talked to me just put me on edge. “Hey.”

“I was thinking about the assignment in Ashton’s class and wondered if maybe you had some advice.”

I nodded, a slow bob up and down of my head. “Sure. What do you need help with about it?” I glanced down the hall. Why did everyone always seem to disappear whenever I had an extreme sense of distress brewing in my stomach?

“I was just wondering what she meant by this question.” He pulled out the textbook and flipped to the right page, pressing the book up against the wall.

Hesitantly, I looked over his shoulder. He was much too close for my comfort.

I tried to work past it and focus on his question. I rested my hand on the page. “Oh. Basically she wants us to—”

And then he sniffed me. Pulled down a deep breath of my scent.

I jumped back from him, releasing the book and letting it drop to the tile floor with a thump. “What are you doing?”

But I
knew
because it was something Pietr had done when I challenged him on that first day of class—Gabriel had taken in my scent so he could track me. So he wouldn’t easily lose me again, even in the thickest of crowds or the busiest of cities.

My heart pounded against my rib cage, racing as I ran through the multitude of possibilities this might really mean. He could find me, track me …

“Relax, Jessica,” he said, crouching to pick up the book with a fluidity Pietr had seemed to have recently forgotten.

“I know what you are.”

“Of course you do. So you should also know that’s just something we do. You don’t need to get so defensive.”

“Fine,” I said. Totally defensively. “I’ll believe it’s just a thing you do. Although Cat and Max have
never
sniffed me like that,” I added belligerently. “But I’m
not
helping with your assignment.”

And I grabbed my notebook, unnerved, and left him there in the hall.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Alexi

It was a large building. Sleek metal ribs and a silvered glass skin scraped the gut of a blue sky, disappearing into the atmosphere in dramatic lines that threatened to stab into the rare cloud. The absence of curves or any hint of softness made it even more clearly masculine, sharp lines and angles, hard and dramatic. The Socialists and Communists who pressed Russia’s traditional artists into factory molds proclaiming only the glory of the State would have been proud. And yet, everything about it bore a stark testament to one man’s gleaming capitalistic dream.

At its very top was rumored to be the living quarters of the man I sought out—his was a prime view, an eagle-eye view, of the city. A place he stayed to be alone and yet intimately connected to every bit of his corporation.

It was a building I could respect. However, it was not filled with men I could respect.

That was exactly what brought me to its front door. Doors, I corrected myself, counting them. Five bold glass doors, two that spun visitors in or out.

I swallowed. This was a big place. A big job.

But I had worked for Nadezhda’s father. Although he owned nothing quite this presumptuous, still, he was involved in a multibillion-dollar industry and it was certainly a multinational business.

The Mafia had ties everywhere.

I was not here to make friends. I was here to influence people, and to encourage them to make the right decision.

I checked my hair in the reflection of the bank of windows as I strode into the main lobby.

Inside, granite was polished to such a high gloss it glowed like Italian marble, gleaming up from the floor. Huge exotic plants decorated the broad room—proof that even this far north man could conquer nature and make tropical plants bloom and bear fruit to his will alone.

I suddenly doubted my ability to influence a man of such standing.
Da
, he had been my grandfather’s assistant, but whereas my grandfather had died in poverty, this man had broken through the dreaded Iron Curtain, crossed an ocean, and
pulled himself up by his bootstraps
, as the saying went.

This man’s building was the culmination of someone’s pride and effort—a glorious corporation built on the backs of many workers. My grandfather would have been jealous—
nyet
. I thought back to his journals and notes. Although he betrayed Wondermann, he would not have been jealous of his advancement. He would have been proud. That was enough to make me feel the opposite way as I stood in the midst of the lobby taking in my surroundings.

Hanging from the high ceiling ahead of me was a lengthy banner that read:
BUILDING A STRONGER, BETTER YOUTH TO LIGHT THE FUTURE’S PATH
.

I froze. Where had I heard that before…? Was it something Jessie had said?

Directly beneath the banner was a large desk swarming with security officers and special uniforms. The colors of their uniforms appeared to have been chosen to complement the accents lining the walls and trimming out the large frames of paintings of two men. Done in a classical portrait style, one picture showed a man with only a fringe of graying hair, his complexion sallow, his cheeks sunken. Here was a man who had seen better times. Yet there was a brightness about his eyes, a sharpness, an intellect, and depth that even this mediocre painter managed to capture.

Below the first portrait and engraved on a small brass plate was the name
WONDERMANN
. My grandfather’s assistant, coworker, and confidante; the man Grandfather willingly betrayed in the name of the advancement of science—and the embracing of his own agenda. He was the company’s founder and now the owner of a multibillion-dollar multinational corporation.

Beside that portrait was another done by the same artist, the style an absolute mimicry of the classic. This one was of a much younger man, still older than myself, but a man with sharp features, narrow eyes, and an unforgiving stare. This was a man not to be trifled with. This was a man with a hunger in his eyes. And certainly a man I was glad I would not be meeting.

Before the opposite wall was a bronze bust of the first man, the founder, Walter Wondermann, a glossy rendition of someone so important—or self-important—that a statue was required in the building that bore his name.

I swallowed hard. How could I broker a deal with a man of this sort? He was rich; he was powerful; and who was I? Just another Russian-American struggling to make a better life for himself and his siblings.

And, evidently all of the students at Junction High School.

So little of what I had become was what I had expected to be.

I forced my feet to move me forward. To propel me toward the security guards who would be the first judge of my worthiness. If they would allow me to pass, I was as good as home free. But if they stopped me…? I blinked as I arrived at the counter. I had not imagined the possibility of rejection.

“Hello, yes, can I help you?” a security guard asked. His hair was thinning on top as much as his middle was expanding.

“
Da
—yes,” I stammered. “I am here to see Mr. Wondermann.”

He looked me up and down, his gaze skeptical. “Do you have an appointment?”

“
Nyet
—no.”

“Not every person walking in off the street gets to see the head of the corporation. He’s a very important man with a very busy schedule.”

“I understand,” I said. “I realize he is a very busy and important man. However, I feel certain the information I have is information that he would want to be aware of as soon as possible.”

“Really? So you feel that you are important enough—or the information you have is important enough—that you should be able to just immediately go to the top of the building and see the man who owns everything here?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s start with your name.”

“Alexi Rusakova.”

He picked up the phone and punched in a few numbers.

“No—wait. That name might not mean anything to him.”

He hung the phone up and glared at me. “So are you Alexi Rusakova?”

“Yes. Yes, of course. But he might know my family better by my grandfather’s name.”

“Oh, I see. So this is a case of my grandfather knew his grandfather and so now we should be best friends? Hey, Mikey, get a load of this guy. He comes in off the street and he thinks he should be the boss’s best friend because his grandfather and the boss’s grandfather used to—what?—play cards together?”

Another guard looked at me and pursed his lips. “Beat it, buddy. We get a dozen like you every morning. Everyone knows someone who knows the boss. It’s like—what?—seven degrees of separation from Kevin-freakin’-Bacon. The boss is a busy man. He don’t have time for class reunions. Especially when it’s not with members of his own class—if you know what I mean.”

The first guard snorted at his comment and looked me up and down again. This time more pointedly. No. I didn’t belong to Wondermann’s social class—I had to presume he could afford to make his very own—but I knew he wanted what I had. It was just a matter of getting a message to him so he could say yes and invite me up.

“Tell him I know about the village of Bolkgorod and what happened to the children.”

The guard’s eyes narrowed. “Are you threatening him with libel or slander? This village, and the kids there—are you some fruit loop trying to make a quick buck by making some bogus blackmail claim? Because the boss, he has lawyers, you hear what I’m saying? Lawyers that make everyone else’s lawyers look like angels.”

“Yeah he do, Benny,” Mikey agreed solemnly. “Take a little advice, pal. You don’t wanna mess with the boss.” He leaned across the desk’s wide, black counter, cupping one broad and worn hand around his mouth. “This one guy—he came here spouting some pretty crazy stuff about the boss and so the boss said,
Yeah. I’ll see him
. So the boss saw him and … well, let’s just say no one else
ever
saw him again. If you catch my drift.”

“Geez, Mikey.” Benny waved at him. “You’ll make the poor kid piss himself. Look. It’s not like the boss is in with the mob or nuthin’, but you don’t wanna make him angry. Got it?”

“I’m not here to make him angry,” I assured. “Or to be fitted for cement shoes.”

“Heyyy. He caught my drift. Yeah, the Hudson’s lookin’ mighty full already. Don’t wanna be chummin’ those waters.”

“But,” I concluded, “I do want you to deliver my message. I’m Alexi Rusakova. Grandson of Mordechai Feldman. Son of Hazel Feldman, and I know what happened to the children of Bolkgorod.”

“He’s a ballsy one, ain’t he?”

I merely tilted my head and appraised them both through slitted eyelids. I would stand my ground. I widened my stance, threw back my shoulders, placed my fists on my hips, and made my body language clear.

The guard picked up the phone again. “Yeah, Stewart, could you deliver the following message to the boss? Yeah. I know. He’s a very busy man. Oh, yeah? In a meeting right now?” He looked at me, warning hot in his eyes.

I just stared back, daring him to hang up. To not follow through. Thank god I was a better bluffer in conversation than in poker. “That’s okay, I’ll wait. You’ll need pencil and paper. No. Sure. It can be pen. Hey, did you see the Mets game? Yeah, yeah. Of course you did. Quite a last inning, huh? Good. You ready? Here’s the message: I’ve got standing right here before me a guy who says he’s Alexi Rusakova, son of Hazel Feldman and grandson of Mordechai Feldman—no, that’s not all. No. I know, right? Not often we pass along the whole family lineage. Anyhow. Guy says to tell the boss he knows about what happened at Bolkgorod and the kids there. Says he wants to talk to the boss. Huh. I’ll find out.” He cupped the phone’s mouthpiece with his hand. “You wanna talk to the boss about the kids?”

“In a way. Yes,” I agreed. The kids were directly connected to the Rusakova bloodline. And the Rusakova bloodline was connected to the research I could provide.
If
he was willing to stop the drug trials on the students of Junction High and withdraw all his company’s supplies to their cafeteria.

“Yeah. He says, in a way, yes. How the hell should I know?” Again he covered the mouthpiece. “In what way?”

“Tell him I know the offspring of those children.”

“Something about he knows the offspring of those kids. Yeah. Sure. I’ll hold.” He looked at me, his eyes going vacant for a moment. “Mikey,” he grumbled, “how do we get better music for when we’re on hold? This elevator crap’s about to put me to sleep. It can’t be good for business.”

“What would you suggest?” Mikey asked, shaking out a newspaper only to fold it over and scan the lobby once more.

“I dunno. Something cool—something that pumps you up—like Meat Loaf.
Bat Out of Hell
would keep me on the line.”

“I’ll make a note of it,” Mikey said with a grin. But he simply set the paper down, adjusted the flashlight on his belt, and said, “I’m going for rounds.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

His eyes flashed, and I knew the guard on the other end of the phone was back. “Oh, yeah? Well, I’ll be damned. Thanks, Stewart.”

He set the phone back down. “Yo, Mikey. Hold up. I need you to escort the good Mr. Rusakova to the penthouse.”