Sevastyan
Sevastyan stepped out of the taxi into the dark of the early London night.
There was a light rain. A doorman hurried forward with an umbrella, covering him.
Sevastyan adjusted his cuffs and strode forward to the door of the extravagant house Raska was renting.
She’d been in London for a month now. Who knew how long she would stay.
But the house suited her. Over the top, something probably built by an English noble three hundred years ago and now rented out to cover maintenance costs.
The door opened as he approached, and a bowing butler pointed him upwards towards the drawing room.
Raska’s soiree was already in full swing.
He handed the butler his overcoat, leaving his suit on full display, black jacket, gold corset vest over a black button-down shirt, not a single wrinkle showing over his waist, black slacks that had been tailored to his body, wing-tipped black Italian leather Oxford shoes.
His hair was pulled back from his face, loosely braided except for a few strands of short bangs framing his temples like the horns of a Chinese dragon.
The rest of the length hung down over his shoulders to the middle of his back.
His black tie was fastened by a large bloodstone brooch.
A string of rubies hung on a gold chain from an ear cuff on one ear.
A miniature sword swung from the other. Beneath his right eye, stamped in black, was an ornate image of the Russian Orthodox cross with the slanted third bisecting line, indicating the fate of the thieves hung to die on Gethsemane with the Christ.
Men and women in various levels of finery leaned on the bannister of the grand staircase. They turned as he approached. Some raised their hands to cover their open mouth as they saw his face.
They were essential to his plan, but also inconsequential.
He passed them without engaging, entering the vast drawing room on his own.
Couches and tables were strewn about, individuals sitting and standing in a plethora of formations.
Half were familiar, half were known by reputation.
Most were in Rei’s database. Dirk stood by the French doors leading to the terrace, though they were closed because of the weather.
He was surrounded by a few people in conversation, champagne glass in his hand.
In the center of the entire party, wrapped in sheer swaths of red, was Raska, draped across a fainting couch.
Her hair was up on her head, vinelike curls framing her face.
The delicate heart-shaped point of her chin accented the dark line of her lips.
She wore gold contacts over her dark eyes.
He strode straight to her. The man sitting at her feet backed away. The crowd turned towards them as Sevastyan closed the distance. He leaned down over her, brushing his lips near her cheek.
“Happy Mother’s Day,” he murmured, taking her hand and raising it to his lips.
She smirked up at him, eyes glittering, taking in him and his attire. “It’s not Mother’s Day.”
“With you, every day is Mother’s Day,” Sevastyan said, lowering her hand to her dress.
True pleasure spread over her features. “Ah, Sevastyan.”
“I do suppose your staff is competent enough to clean the carpet?” Sevastyan murmured.
Her eyes darkened with excitement.
He straightened and drew a small gun from beneath his jacket, extended it with both hands and pulled the trigger.
Across the room, Dirk’s body jerked once. His hand pressed against his chest and looked down. Then he fell.
Sevastyan lowered the gun and drew out a silk square, starting to clean it.
“If anyone has an issue, take it up with the Yadro. Now, I have an assignment to get back to, if the rest of you would cease making messes that require cleaning.”
He leaned forward, brushing his lips over Raska’s forehead and palming a note into her hand. She took it, her smaller fingers curling around the paper. As he drew back, she watched him with what could only be labeled as lust.
“Mother.” He bowed his head and then stood and turned, striding from the drawing room.
No one followed.