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“I’ll call to thank him.”
“You’ll do more than that. He expects two years of labor from you after you graduate.”
I nod. It’s a reasonable demand, considering the value of the favor.
Most students accepted to Kingmakers are from legacy families—those where the father, the grandfather, and the great-grandfather all attended the school.
My grandfather was part of a KGB task force, instructed to hunt down Bratva. He only rose through the ranks of the organization once he defected. The Bratva hated and distrusted him at first. He forced his way into their world. He advanced through violence and ruthlessness.
Kingmakers is beyond exclusive. They’re scrupulous about who they allow through their doors. Only those who can be trusted with the secrets of mafia families from around the world are allowed to enter.
I scan the letter once more.
“They accepted me to the Heirs division…”
I wasn’t sure if they would. Moscow is divided into three territories with three separate bosses. Technically, my father isn’t one of them. But in our section of the city, the actual boss has no children, and neither does the next man down.
If I do well at Kingmakers, there’s nothing stopping me from ascending to the position ofPakhanin time.
I look at my father’s face, searching for some hint of emotion: pleasure, anticipation, pride.
I see nothing.
“I’m tired,” I tell him. “I’m going to bed early.”
He nods and turns back to the papers spread across his desk.
I go down the long, gloomy hallway to my bedroom.
I strip off my clothes and stand under the boiling hot shower spray for as long as I can stand. Then I take my exfoliating sponge and roughly scrape every millimeter of my skin, cleansing the sweat from my fight, the filth from the subway tunnels, and any possible hair or skin cells that might have touched me from those fucking junkies.
I soap myself over and over, rinsing and then starting once more.
I always make sure that I’m perfectly clean, that I smell of nothing more offensive than soap. I do my own laundry, washing my clothes, my towels, and my sheets every time that I use them.
I can’t stand the thought that I might accidentally smell as musty and unkempt as this house.
The scent clings to everything I own.
I hate that smell.
I hate coming home.
When I’m finally clean, I slip beneath the fresh sheets I put on the bed this morning.
I take a book from my nightstand, the one I’ve been reading the last three nights:Midnight’s Children.
Cracking the spine, I read until the physical exhaustion of the fight finally overtakes the frantic bustle of my brain.
Then I set the book down and let my eyelids drop, trying to remember only the words on the page, without letting my mind wander.
I don’t want to think about anything in my real life.
That’s what books are for.
To take you away . . .
3
