Demyan Volkov didn’t smile back. “It is good we’re meeting as men first.”
His Petersburger accent was faint but distinct, a reminder that he was Russian first but from the cultural center of St. Petersburg. He signaled for more shot glasses, which were delivered so fast that the waiter must have been on ice skates. Another waiter shoved three chairs over for my uncle, Konstantin, and me to sit on the outside edge of the table.
Volkov tipped a vodka bottle over the cluster of shot glasses in the middle of the table, pouring neat shots with a practiced hand.
He looked up at me over the tilted bottle. “You want vodka?”
“Of course. Let’s drink to your health.”
That boarding school of mine had taught us customs and manners of every country, but everyone knew never to turn down a Russian’s offer of vodka. It was rude and aroused suspicions.
Konstantin took his shot glass, raised it to toast, and threw back the shot.
I did the same. Top-shelf vodka burned tasteless chemical fire in my sinuses and throat with an aftertaste of paint thinner, and I gasped a little. I wasn’t a vodka shots kind of guy. Scotch on the rocks was my drink, from the hellfire-smoke aroma toswirling the clinking cubes as they melted, diluting the whiskey and separating the flavors.
Volkov poured more shots, saying, “Your uncle Michel has been instrumental in arranging this deal. We drink to your health, Michel.”
He slammed back a second shot of premium vodka in as many minutes.
Konstantin held his shot glass out for a refill, as did I, because it was Russian-polite.
If I’d known Michel was going to spring Russians on us, I wouldn’t have drunk that bottle of wine over supper with John.
Or ordered those several whiskeys at the bar.
I wasn’t proud of the fact that my knees already felt fluid. Konstantin was probably in better shape as he was in college and still training his constitution, but I often went days or longer between drinks. Doing business in the Middle East made one’s liver lazy.
We held out our shot glasses as Volkov spoke. “And it is good to meet both of you,TsesarevichNicolai andvelikiy knjazKonstantin.”
Beside me, Kostya choked but turned it into a cough. He knew exactly why we didn’t claim or even tolerate those titles.
I took over, becauseno,that was not proper.No oneshould call us the tsar’s successor and a Russian grand prince inanycompany, but especially among other Russians. “While we appreciate your courtesy, we don’t use those titles,ever.Our family rightfully abdicated. We renounced them.”
Volkov shrugged and threw back his shot, which was not a retraction.
We did the same.
Damn it, Michel had set up a meeting with Russian legitimists, of all people. Was he trying to get us shot? I’d have to check my cologne for Novichok for the next few weeks.
Fuck, I was starting to feel the alcohol, and the several shots of vodka in my stomach were only beginning to filter into my blood, already flammable from my earlier imbibing.
Volkov poured more shots, his aim only slightly less accurate than before. “It’s an honor to meet the scions of the imperial Russian family.”
That term was marginally less likely to get us shoved out a window.
I would have avoided mentioning it if given the option.
But I was never given the option.
Instead, I said, “Yes, thank you for your kind greetings. It’s an honor to meet you, a noble businessman, Demyan Volkov.”
Konstantin echoed what I’d said but stammered a little, thrown off his game after being greeted as the Grand Prince of Russia.
We drank again.
Kostya’s fumble was funny, though I didn’t allow a shred of amusement to show on my face. Hell, I was pretty sure Konstantin hadn’t told his friends at college that he was second in line for the throne of the Tsars of Russia, after me.
If we were ever restored.
