In the Beginning (Volkov Bratva #1)(53)

Mishca had mentioned that other members of his family in Russia would be coming as well, but Lauren saw no evidence of that since their car was the only one in the driveway. Maybe they were the first to arrive.

Vlad and Mishca both opened their doors simultaneously, Vlad going to the trunk to grab their bags, Mishca coming around to open the door for her. She tried not to fidget, tugging at the ends of her scarf as he offered her his hand, leading her up the stone steps to the double oak doors. He rang the bell, the resounding ringing echoing throughout the house.

“There is no need to worry,” Mishca whispered reassuringly. “I’ll keep the wolves at bay.”

She squeezed his hand in gratitude. An impeccably dressed butler opening the door for them, stepping to the side to allow them entry.

“Sir, madam,” he said by way of greeting, inclining his head. “Mr. and Mrs. Volkov are in his study awaiting your arrival. May I take your coats?”

“Thanks, Albert,” said Mishca as he handed over their coats. After another nod, Albert was gone.

“This is amazing,” Lauren whispered in astonishment as she took in the incredible interior.

A spiraling staircase led up to the second floor, a massive crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, attracting attention just as much to the Renaissance inspired painting on the ceiling, to the marble flooring where the black was offset by gold threaded throughout.

“Come, I’ll give you a tour later.”

He led her down a long hall, pointing out various family portraits that were hung in gold frames, stopping as they reached one of a woman with a long spill of raven black hair. She had a gentle smile, and Lauren knew who the woman was before Mishca said her name. They shared the same eyes.

“Catja, my mother.” He said it with so much pride and adoration that Lauren might not have realized how sad Mishca was by looking at it if she hadn’t gazed up at him.

“She was beautiful.”

“She was,” he said facing the portrait again. “I try to remember the person she was before she got sick, so I won’t forget.”

“Remember that she loved you. That’s all that matters.”

That made him smile, his somber mood shifting as he pulled her into a hug. “You are a beautiful person, moy dorogoy.”

For one second, guilt overshadowed the pain in his eyes, but Lauren had no idea why he felt the emotion.

“Ahem.”

The moment was broken as Anya appeared in the hall, looking between the two of them, then beyond them to the portrait. A corner of her mouth turned down in distaste, but she quickly masked her true feelings, smiling at Lauren.

“Lauren, nice to see you again. Mishca, your father is waiting.”

Just like that, Mishca’s eyes cleared, but Lauren could hardly notice the change now that blood was rushing in her ears, her heart beating a wild cadence. This was it, the moment she had both anticipated and dreaded.

Mishca’s father’s study showed the true decadence of the Tudor style. It had all the original wood paneling along the walls, one bare of it to fit in windows to allow a view of the fountain. It also had built in bookcases, stacks of leather bound books along the shelves. Some looked older than others and she had to quell the rugs to run her fingers along their spines.

But more importantly, was the man seated behind the cherry-wood desk. He was in his late fifties from what Mishca had told her, but just by looking at him, she wouldn’t have guessed that. His eyes were a dark gray, his black hair graying at the temples. Upon seeing her, he smiled, standing to his full height, which was just a few inches shorter than Mishca, and came around the desk, extending his hand.

“You must be Lauren,” he said coolly, his accent much thicker than Mishca’s, making Lauren have to concentrate to understand him. “It is nice to finally put a face to the name.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Volkov,” she said taking his hand.

He had a firm handshake despite his age and made quite the imposing sight. Whereas Mishca was lean, he was built like a bull.

“Please,” he said waving a hand. “There is no need for such formalities, call me Mikhail. I trust you have met my wife, Anya.”

“Yes,” she replied smiling over at Anya.

“Please have a seat,” Mikhail offered gesturing out to the comfortable looking wingback chairs that were grouped together near the fireplace.

“I must confess,” he went on after they were all seated, “when Mishca told me he was going to bring a girl here, I was astonished. I have never met any of the girls in his life.”

Lauren’s brows shot up as she glanced at Mishca. A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he didn’t comment.

“He must care for you greatly to bring you here.”

Mishca scoffed. “You’re going to scare her off.”

Mikhail’s face split into a grin, his eyes warming. “Nonsense. It is a reasonable assumption, no?”

They broke out into a heated discussion in Russian, snapping back and forth, but while Mishca seemed to be growing angrier, Mikhail only appeared amused.

“Would you care for something to drink, Lauren?” Anya asked cutting in over them, walking over to an antique whiskey service that held several carafes of dark Amber liquid and a couple bottles of water.

She looked between Mishca and Mikhail, shaking her head. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”