Kingmakers, Graduation

2. Adrik Petrov

2

ADRIK PETROV

I came all the way to Croatia for Sabrina Gallo.

This might seem like madness, having met her only once before. I guess you could say she made an impression on me.

She haunted me like a piece of music that wouldn’t stop playing in my head. Even when I thought I was thinking of something else, I could hear that husky laugh of hers, wild and mocking, echoing through my brain.

I’m used to being the most outrageous person in the room—the one who will go the furthest and do the most.

I was the electricity.

Until Sabrina crashed down in front of me, like a hundred million volts of lightning right at my feet.

She forced her way into my rescue mission, stubborn and unapologetic. I didn’t want the Gallos with us; it was supposed to be a family affair. I soon saw she was more than capable—downright ingenious. At the end of one single night in her company, I knew I’d never seen anything like her and might never again.

So I demanded that she meet me on the dock on the last day of school.

I wanted a day alone with her—to take her apart like a pocket-watch and see what makes her tick.

I’m good at reading people. Really fucking good.

Once you understand how people think, you know what they’ll do.

I did not predict that within five minutes of meeting her, a schoolgirl who barely comes up to my chin would roar away from me on a stolen bike.

Even less did I guess that Sabrina would beat me to the restaurant, securing her own table right by the window without even accessing my reservation.

“How did you get in here?” I demand, dropping down on the empty seat next to hers.

I’d rather not give her the satisfaction of seeing how sweaty and dirty I became chasing her up here, but without the benefit of a helmet, Sabrina is even worse. She’s halfway to a chimney sweep, her face streaked with dust and her button-up blouse the color of weak tea.

“Nobody turns me away at the door,” she says.

Conceited, but probably true. Sabrina Gallo is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She has the kind of beauty that’s almost upsetting because it jolts you every single time. You keep waiting for so mething to humanize her—an unflattering angle or an ugly expression. It never comes.

Even the dirt only serves to highlight the brilliant whites of her eyes and the flash of her teeth as she grins. Her skin looks toasted, as if she’s been singed over a fire. She licks the dust off her lips, their dusky pink the color of Himalayan salt.

Sabrina crackles with energy, the tiny hairs all around her head glowing gold in the sunshine like filaments. If I touch her, she might electrocute me. And yet I’m aching to get my hands all on her.

I’ve never chased down a woman before.

I don’t give a fuck about dinner—I want her back on that bike. This time, I’m going to catch her.

Sabrina has other plans. She pores over the menu, declaring, “I’m fucking starving. They don’t feed us on the ship. What’s good here?”

“Everything,” I say, plucking the menu from her hands. “But we’re not sitting here.”

A tiny line forms between her eyebrows as she frowns. This only increases her attractiveness, like a vein of gold in kintsugi pottery.

“Why not?”

“Because my table is better,” I say, taking her arm and pulling her to her feet.

This is an excuse to touch her. Her flesh burns against my palm, warm from the sun and the exertion of operating the bike .

People who’ve never ridden a motorcycle have no idea how much strength it requires. I’m not surprised to feel hard muscle beneath the smooth skin of her forearm.

“Why don’t you clean up first?” I say. “The bathroom’s over there.”

“I will after I order. I told you, I’m starving,” she says, obstinate and perfectly satisfied with her current appearance.

She likes opposing me.

She’ll learn soon enough that I get what I want.

There are a hundred ways to bend a person to your will. Not only brute force, which is the crudest tool. I’m infinitely adaptable and fucking relentless.

So I smile at Sabrina and say, “I love a woman with an appetite.”

Her thick lashes flick up at me like a fan, exposing the direct stare of those smoky eyes. A smile tugs at the edge of her lips.

“I bet you do.”

Because she doesn’t know where my table is located and she really is hungry, I have the pleasure of watching her follow me upstairs, docile as a kitten—for the moment, at least.

I’ve reserved the entire rooftop patio. Sheltered from the heat by a thick pergola of lemon trees, the citrus-scented air is cool and fresh. The sun is just beginning to dip down into the water. The cloudless sky glows like a flaming brand, brief but brilliant.

Sabrina raises one soot-black eyebrow, impressed despite herself.

“Alright, it is a better table,” she admits .

Our server hurries over, a crisp white cloth folded over his forearm. His dark hair is pulled back in a bun at the base of his neck, and young as he is, he can’t help staring at Sabrina, even though he knows I’ll be the one paying the tip.

“Can I offer you a drink to start?” he stammers.

“Do you have Vietti?” Sabrina inquiries.

“White or red?”

“Always white,” she declares. “Fuck red wine.”

Unsure how to respond to this heresy, the waiter lets out a nervous chuckle, then turns to me. “And you, sir?”

“The same.”

I don’t share Sabrina’s prejudice against red wine, but I want to drink what she’s drinking.

The silence that follows the waiter’s departure could be awkward. Not for me—I’ve never felt awkward in my life—but perhaps for Sabrina.

She leans back in her chair, arm slung over the back rungs, legs apart, though not quite enough to show her underwear—deliberately irreverent. I assume she wore her uniform to show me how little effort she’s putting into this meeting.

If she were polite, she would ask after my uncle.

Instead, she asks, “What’s going on in Moscow?”

“You’ll have to be more specific. It’s a big city.”

Sabrina lets out an impatient snort. “Ivan Petrov has moved his holdings to America. Your father took control of St. Petersburg. I’m wonder ing who’s going to fill the vacuum in Moscow? Especially now that Danyl Kuznetsov is dead.”

My hand twitches under the table—with excitement, not irritation.

“It sounds like you know more about it than I do.”

“The fuck I do.” Sabrina narrows her eyes. She doesn’t like me playing games.

The Petrovs have kept St. Petersburg as our stronghold for the last twenty years. Still, keeping a foothold in Moscow is essential, as it’s the seat of the High Table. My father sent me there to secure our place. I intend to do much more than that.

“Maybe I’ll take Moscow,” I say idly.

“How much of it?”

“All of it.”

Sabrina bites the edge of her lip, grinning.

“What about the Markovs?”

Now it’s me who raises an eyebrow. The Markovs own the largest territory in Moscow. Nikolai Markov has only daughters. The High Table will not readily accept a female heir, with only with her sister as lieutenant. Nor will the other Pakhans. Neve Markov will be lucky to last a year.

The arrival of the wine interrupts us.

Sabrina seizes her glass, taking an eager draught before I can propose a toast.

“ Pa-yé-kha-lee ,” I say drily, holding up my wine .

Sabrina clinks hers against mine so robustly that she almost cracks the glass.

“ Pa-yé-kha-lee ,” she imitates with surprisingly good inflection.

I take a sip.

“ B’lyad!” I scoff. “It’s pure sugar!”

“I like my wine to taste like cotton candy,” Sabrina laughs.

It’s sweet, but on second taste, not cloying. Actually, clear and refreshing, with a tart pop and slight carbonation. Sabrina grins as I drink a little more.

“You like it,” she says.

“It’s not terrible,” I admit.

Sweets are not among my vices.

Salt on the other hand …

I zero in on the girl sitting across from me.

“Why are you interested in the business of the Bratva?”

“Only one Bratva.”

“Which one?”

“I used to fuck Ilsa Markov,” Sabrina says mischievously.

She’s trying to make me jealous. She should have picked a less-attractive object. I know Ilsa Markov—while she’s too bullish for my taste, the idea of her in bed with Sabrina sends a rush of blood straight to my cock.

“When was that?” I inquire .

“Oh, up until about … last night,” Sabrina smiles wickedly.

I finish the rest of the wine in one swallow.

“And just when I thought I knew everything there was to know about Ilsa …”

“You didn’t know she’s gay?”

“I didn’t know she had such good taste.”

That gets a laugh from Sabrina, so low and delighted that my cock swells to uncomfortable proportions, no longer fitting within my jeans.

This girl is much more intoxicating than the wine. I can’t remember the last time I got hard from conversation alone.

“Would you like to order?” the waiter asks, reappearing with irritating promptness.

I turn a blazing look on him that makes him take a step backward. I’d like to tell him to fuck off for the next several hours, but Sabrina wants food.

“Bring us the fritule,” I say.

“After that I’ll have the filet,” Sabrina interjects, before I can order her entrée as well.

“I’ll have the same,” I pass him our menus.

“I don’t know if I like fritule,” Sabrina says, with an edge of annoyance.

“You will.”

“How do you know? ”

“Because they’re delicious. And much like Ilsa, I trust your taste.”

That mollifies her slightly. The arrival of our appetizer thaws her entirely—the hot, crisp little pastries are stuffed with raisins, fresh-grated orange rind, and a dash of rum. Sabrina devours them in two bites each.

“Fucking fantastic,” she says, willing to admit when I’m right.

Of all the things I like about her, this is one of her best traits.