Nikolai heard a sharp intake of breath behind him. He scanned the doorway once more, thinking that the government officials must have arrived.
Instead, he saw a couple walking through the door: a handsome, arrogant-looking man, and the most beautiful woman Nikolai had ever seen.
The girl paused in the entryway, looking around with a slight air of nervousness.
Her boyfriend slipped her jacket off her shoulders, revealing an absolutely stunning figure wrapped up in a skin-tight white dress. The dress made her glow like an angel. The brilliant white fabric contrasted her smooth, tanned skin and the coal-black waves of hair falling down her back. Her finely-shaped brows formed a high arch above the most intriguing pair of eyes imaginable—wide-set, heavily-lashed, vivid green, and slightly slanted up at the outer corners.
Her high cheekbones cut down to a deliciously full mouth, at the corners of which he could see a hint of what might possibly be dimples, if the girl in question were to smile.
He thought she must be Russian, but strangely he had never seen her before. And Nikolai knew everybody in Moscow. Especially all the pretty girls. Though it seemed an insult to call this girl “pretty.” He felt like he had spotted a rare or even mythical creature in the wild—so lovely she hardly seemed real.
“Who’s that?” he said, not realizing he was speaking aloud.
“That’s Nadia Turgenev and her fiancé Maxim Oleksei,” his father said at once.
“Did you invite them?” Nikolai said, surprised that his father knew this couple, when Nikolai had never laid eyes on them before.
“No,” Zavier said.
“How do you know who they are, then?”
“The Olekseis live in Taganskaya. You know Grigory,” Zavier said.
Nikolai made a disdainful sound. Grigory Oleksei was brash, ignorant, and classless. The whole family was trash, as far as Nikolai was concerned. No wonder Maxim Oleksei had that look of idiotic conceit on his face.
The Turgenev name carried a lot more clout, however.
“Who’s the father of the girl?” Nikolai asked.
“Petya Turgenev,” Zavier replied. “Her mother was Samara Lebedev.”
Nikolai stiffened.
The Lebedevs were old enemies of the Markovs. It was an ancient feud, with so many offenses and betrayals and so much blood shed on both sides that it would be difficult to say which family had struck the first blow. Of course, the Markovs would point the finger at the Lebedevs, and vice versa.
The Lebedevs had the higher status in family name. But the Markovs were relentless, cunning, strategic. They had slowly gained the advantage over time. Especially once the Lebedev patriarch went mad and their empire began to crumble.
Nikolai had heard plenty of stories from his grandfather, who particularly despised Stanislav Lebedev. If Dimitri Markov were still alive, he would have been so happy to see that family brought low, while the Markovs were only increasing in wealth and stature year by year.
“Do you want me to tell them to leave?” Nikolai asked his father.
“No need,” Zavier said calmly. “Who knows, they may even prove themselves useful.”
It seemed like nothing but a distraction to Nikolai, but he wasn’t about to argue. He had more important things to worry about.
And in fact, those important things were walking in the door right now.
Igor Popov and Mikhail Mikhailov, the Minister of Economic Development and the Minister of Transportation.
Nikolai gave a signal to his lieutenant Leonid, who would greet the visitors, and bring them up to the study. Nikolai and his father would wait inside. It wouldn’t do to look too eager.
In fact, that was part of the reason for the party that night—so the Ministers could drink and smoke and avail themselves of the girls Nikolai had hired, but also to show the popularity of the Markovs, their ability to surround themselves with all the wealthy, beautiful, and important people of Moscow.
A few minutes later, Nikolai heard the Ministers chuckling to one another as their heavy footsteps trod the thick carpeting of the hallway. Nikolai’s father stood back from the doorway, allowing Nikolai to take the lead in the meeting, at least at first.
Nikolai shook hands, clapping the men on their shoulders. Popov was nearly as tall as Nikolai himself, but with a barrel chest and a belly to match. He had already helped himself to a glass of champagne on the way up the stairs. Mikhailov was a good deal shorter, so bald that his head shone like a billiard ball. He had a friendly, jolly face, but Nikolai knew too much about the man to be fooled by that.
“Nikolai my boy!” Mikhailov said, shaking Nikolai’s hand with both of his own hands. “What great things you’ve been doing with the Markov business. Everywhere I go, I hear your name. It makes me think you must be almost as clever as your father.”
