Kingmakers, Graduation

23. Sabrina

23

SAbrINA

C ooking drugs is a little more complicated than I anticipated. Especially since this isn’t a simple compound. It’s a mix of MDMA, LSD, THC, and a dash of amphetamines. The MDMA is the base, providing the euphoria and the stamina to stay awake all night long. The amphetamines provide a tiny jolt on the front end, so the energy hits right away. The LSD makes music sound heavenly, so our partygoers will want to dance. And the THC acts like nitrous oxide in an engine, juicing the other drugs while mellowing out the jitters from the ex and the speed.

There’s only so much information we can look up online. These are scheduled substances, and they haven’t been studied in systemized trials, not to the degree they should have been. In the ’60s MDMA was used in marital therapy, but the hysteria of the anti-drug crackdown in the Reagan era put paid to all that. Only just now is the medical community finally acknowledging the benefits of psychedelics in treating depression and PTSD .

Hakim and I read everything we can, but at the end of the day we’re just a couple of mad scientists using our own bodies as guinea pigs. Or, more often, my body—Hakim is paranoid that we’re gonna fry our brains, and in any case, he’s no use evaluating certain “side effects” I want to examine, as he has no girlfriend at the moment.

Still, he’s just as brilliant as Adrik promised. He’s the one who figures out the time-delay capsules so everything will hit at the right time. He’s also got way more experience with lab equipment, so he finds us just the right painted lightbulbs to make sure our lysergic acid doesn’t degrade under UV light, and constructs our respirators and ventilation hoods so we don’t asphyxiate.

I’m the one who designs the pill itself: a lemon-yellow lightning bolt, the size of your pinky nail.

“Can’t we just stamp the pills?” Hakim complains, when the custom casing proves devilishly tricky.

“No,” I insist. “This will be easier to recognize, harder to counterfeit.”

“You’re stamping your logo all over a brand that doesn’t exist yet.”

“It will soon enough.”

Hakim and I spend all day in the lab together, sometimes twelve or fourteen hours in a row, both of us sweating heavily inside our protective gear. The lab fills with a witch’s brew of steam and smoke, shimmering and toxic. It’s a relief when the temperature drops at the end of October, even though it makes the ride to and from the brewery much chillier. Adrik buys me a new set of leathers, thick and warm, with a black mink trim around the hood.

“A helmet would keep you warmer,” he urges .

“It’s the only fresh air I get,” I say. “I spend my whole day inside goggles and a respirator.”

As we near a finished product, Hakim and I work late into the night. The textile plants and purse factories run twenty-four seven. We often leave as the haggard workers change shifts, their conversation a babble of languages, their shoulders stooped from long hours hunched over machinery, attaching buttons and stitching straps.

Hakim and I don’t eat while we’re working—there’s too much danger of cross-contamination. Instead, we take breaks at the American diner on the other side of the purse factory.

The diner is located inside a chrome trailer shaped like a bullet. The neon sign with its retro script reads Shake Burgers in good old English, the spelling accurate even if the syntax is a little jumbled.

I made Hakim come here the first dozen times because I missed American food more than I expected. The thick-cut fries and sizzling burgers with lacy, browned edges are a taste of home, even if they’re cooked by a scowling Russian girl who seems to loathe everything about her own establishment.

Lately, however, Hakim has been suggesting Shake Burgers of his own volition, an alteration I credit to the miserable cook, who will only answer Hakim’s questions in single-syllable grunts. On the other hand, she’s got facial piercings and no eyebrows, sharpie on her fingernails, and hair cut and dyed at home, possibly using the same Kool-Aid packets provided with the kid’s meal. In short, she’s just Hakim’s type.

The cook’s name is Alla, her little sister is Misha.

Misha perches on a stool at the long Formica countertop, poring over her homework. She has a lot of homework for a twelve-year-old. I can’t read the covers on her textbooks, but from the thickness of the spines and the complexity of the diagrams inside, I suspect she’s in some kind of gifted program. And she’s real uppity about it. She likes to fire questions at me, like, “What was the most expensive war ever fought?” and, “Why do you think Venus and Earth developed so differently?”

“I’m not doing your homework for you,” I tell her.

“You just don’t know the answers.”

“Your questions are subjective. Or unknowable.”

“Everything is knowable.”

“Maybe in the future—not today.”

“Not for you, you mean.”

I tap the cover of her astronomy textbook.

“If I read that thing, I’d remember everything in it. But guess what? I don’t want to fill my head with a bunch of shit about exoplanets. I’m more interested in what I’m doing right here on earth.”

Misha narrows her eyes behind the thick lenses of her granny glasses. Because these glasses magnify her eyes to double their actual size, the effect is something like an adorable little tree frog squinting at me from its perch on a branch.

“Which is … working at the purse factory,” she says.

She knows damn well that’s not what Hakim and I are doing.

I smile blandly. “I love purses.”

“You don’t even carry a purse. ”

“They won’t let me when I’m working. I might steal other purses and put them in my purse.”

Misha rolls her eyes, burying her nose in her textbook again.

We always sit at the counter so Hakim can harass Alla while she works.

“So … what do you do for fun?”

Alla ignores him.

“Can I get a chocolate shake?” I ask her.

“Misha,” she barks. “Make shake.”

Misha sets her pencil down in the crevice of her open textbook, sliding off her stool. With painstaking precision, she measures the ingredients for my shake into a steel tumbler and begins operating a machine so old and cantankerous that it’s sole intention seems to be to rip off one of her pipe-cleaner arms.

“Don’t you have child labor laws in Russia?” I say to Alla.

“She is not child,” Alla grunts. “She is demon.”

Alla’s English is about on par with the name of the diner—comprehensible, but not exactly elegant. Since my Russian remains gibberish to anyone besides Adrik, I’m not one to judge.

Misha pushes her glasses up her nose, fixing her sister with a calm stare.

“It’s not the medieval era. I’m not a demon just because I bathe every day.”

“I bathe,” Alla retorts.

“With soap ?” Misha demands .

She looks like a fussy little schoolteacher with her oversized glasses and mousy braids. As far as I can tell, her family consists only of herself and her sister. She’s here all the time because otherwise she’d be alone in whatever tiny apartment they share.

Once Misha has set a postcard-worthy shake in front of me, complete with a snowy peak of whipped cream and one garishly bright maraschino cherry, she scoots her stool a little closer. “Alla says I read too much and it makes me weird.”

“Something made you weird,” I say. “I dunno if it was the books.”

“Do you read fiction?” she asks me.

“Yeah. When I can sit still long enough.”

“What’s your favorite book?”

I consider. “Well … when I was your age, it was Ender’s Game. ”

“What’s that?”

“It’s about a kid, a really smart kid. He’s trained by the military. You’d probably like it,” I laugh. “He’s weird, too.”

Misha nods solemnly. “I’ll look for it at the library.”

The bell over the door jingles as Adrik pushes his way inside. He comes to see me at the lab at least once a day, and often meets me after work so we can ride home together.

Tonight there’s a light dusting of rain on the shoulders of his leather jacket, and tiny droplets glinting in his thick black hair.

“I didn’t realize it was raining,” I say.

He shakes his head like an animal, spattering my arm, then runs his hand through his hair in a rough motion that’s become achingly famili ar to me. It makes my stomach clench up. It makes my knees squeeze together under the counter.

“Not much,” he assures me.

“ Vy golodniye? ” Alla says. You hungry?

Adrik is the only person she likes.

“I’d never say no to your food.” He grins.

Alla really is an excellent cook, even though she hates her job with the fire of a thousand suns. Every time she lights the grill, I get the feeling she’s about to toss the match on the floor and burn the whole trailer to the ground.

In less than ten minutes, she brings Adrik a plate of piping hot fries and a burger with grilled onions and extra mustard.

Despite having just finished a plate of my own, I’m seized by the impulse to take the biggest bite possible out of that burger.

“Go ahead.” Adrik pushes me the plate. “You look hungrier than me.”

I doubt that—Adrik is just as busy as Hakim and me, bringing in the first shipments of raw materials, liaising with Eban Franko, setting up our distribution channels, and bribing the appropriate cops.

It’s not all work and no play, however. Not when we’re testing the drugs.

“I’ve got a new formula for you,” I murmur to Adrik.

“For tonight?”

“Yup. ”

He grabs my knee under the counter, hard, making a low rumble in his throat.

“Good. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“You haven’t eaten.”

“There’s only one thing I want to eat.”

“Gross,” Hakim says, from Adrik’s other side.

“You better change your attitude,” Adrik says, slapping Hakim on the shoulder as he stands. “Those are the words of a single man.”

“You coming with us?” I ask Hakim.

“Go ahead. I’ll come along when I’m finished.”

He only has six fries left on his plate, but I’m guessing he’s gonna stretch them out as long as possible once he’s alone with Alla. Well, as alone as you can be with a highly observant twelve-year-old three stools down.

“Can I have a box?” I ask Alla. “I’ll eat this for breakfast.”

She passes me a Styrofoam takeout container. I tip Adrik’s burger inside, leaving her a wad of folded rubles as a tip.

“That’s too much,” Alla says, annoyed instead of gratified.

“That’s how good the food is.”

“Americans love to tip,” Adrik says, smoothing over my unwanted generosity.

“They love to show off,” Alla retorts, unsmoothed.

“Yeah.” I shrug. “That’s about right. ”

Alla doesn’t want my charity, but Misha has holes in her shoes. Sometimes there’s no right thing to do, just the lesser of two wrongs.

“What should we call it?” Adrik asks.

“ Molniya. That’s why I shaped it that way—it’s lightning in a pill.”

“Which version is this?”

“I dunno—6.0, maybe.”

I hold up the little yellow bolt to pop in his mouth.

“How do I know you’re getting the doses right?”

I scowl at him. “I don’t remember you picking me up at the dock at MIT. I’m estimating.”

Adrik laughs. “Fair enough. I have one more question, though—what if it makes the customers a little too content? What if they don’t want to pay for lap dances? The strippers won’t sell it if it doesn’t help them make money.”

I pretend to pout. “You don’t have faith in me.”

“This is business, not religion.”

“What about a little wager, then?”

Adrik sits up straighter on the bed, a wolf catching scent of its favorite prey. He loves a good bet.

“What kind of wager?”

“How much cash do you have on you? ”

He pulls a wad of bills out of his pocket, some rubles, but mostly American Benjamins, the currency no Russian will refuse.

“A lot,” he says.

“I’m going to charge you a thousand dollars a song,” I tell him. “You try and keep as much as you can.”

He smiles. “And what do I get if I can resist you?”

“I’ll wear my helmet every time I ride my bike.”

“Like a good girl.”

“Like the best good girl,” I say, trailing my finger down his chest.

“And if you win?”

“I want a new gun. An expensive one.”

“A John Wick gun?” he teases me.

Andrei and Hakim and I have been watching the trilogy, drooling over the endless supply of high-tech hardware John Wick seems to keep buried in every convenient basement.

“Yes. I want the actual gun Keanu Reeves held in his hand. Imagine how jealous Andrei would be.”

“He might cry.”

“God, I hope so.”

“You have to win first …”

I laugh. “Baby … you just signed a deal with the devil. I’ve already won.”

I put the pill on my tongue and lean forward, passing it into Adrik’s mouth. He washes it down with a little water, passing me the glass so I c an swallow my own pill.

“Now what?” he says.

“Now we wait.”

Adrik lays back against the pillows, hands behind his head, looking up at the thick gray rainclouds filling the frame of our gothic window.

I make a playlist on my phone—sexy songs I can dance to.

“Better keep that playlist short,” Adrik says. “Two, three songs max. You ain’t winning this bet.”

I shake my head at him, adding my tenth song. “You’re dreamin’, babe.”

Twenty minutes passes.

“I don’t feel a thing,” Adrik says. “You might need to up the dose—I weigh a lot more than you.”

“Yeah, remember that you said that, and be glad I don’t listen to you.”

He laughs. “You’re saying it’s going to hit me hard?”

“Like a sledgehammer.”

His voice has softened a little, and he’s gazing up at the window with a dreamy, unfocused expression.

“You already hit me that way, baby girl … the moment I laid eyes on you. I thought I was in control. I thought I was ready. What a fucking fool I was …”

I love when his arms are up like that, showing off the thick bulges of forearm and bicep. I trace the lines of his muscles, below the sleeve of his t-shirt. Adrik lowers one arm, stretching it out so I can keep touching him. Though the hair on his head is so thick, Adrik has very little on his body. It makes his skin surprisingly smooth.

“Ho … lee … shit …” he breathes. “That feels incredible.”

I’m mesmerized by the bluish veins beneath the rich brown skin, by the masculine proportions of his wrist and fingers. His fingers are thick and strong, but beautifully shaped. His hands have become the most erotic thing about him, because of the way they look touching my body. Because of the way they make me feel …

“All my best and happiest memories involve those hands,” I murmur.

“Are you happy here?” Adrik asks, his brilliant blue eyes searching my face. “I want you to be happy …”

“I’m always happy when we’re working together.”

He smiles. “We’re working so hard right now …”

I laugh. “Someone give us a raise already.”

“Okay. I think I feel it now. ‘Cause I can’t stand up.”

“It hits the hardest the first time … maybe.”

“If you got the dose wrong and I’m about to die … I’m completely fine with that.”

“Fuck,” I say. “I forgot to get a chair.”

“Where are you going?”

I’m trying to push myself off the bed, but the floor keeps moving away under my feet.

“I gotta get one … ”

“Those chairs are a thousand miles away. There’s no possible way. You should give up and lay here with me.”

“No, no, no. We have a bet. And I have to test some things …”

“You’re the best scientist. They’re gonna give you a Nobel Prize.”

“They really should. But these things are so political.”

“It’s like when Saving Private Ryan lost to Shakespeare In Love . So unfair …”

His voice is drifting away behind me as I stumble out of the room and down the hallway. Everything I look at seems magnified. I’m suddenly aware of the wood grain in the floorboards, and the range of color in the dingy plastered walls—mauve and pink and dove gray mixed in what I thought was a simple cream.

When I come to the head of the stairs, I do the sensible thing and sit down on my butt, scooting down the steps one by one.

As I’m bumping along, Jasper comes up the other way, walking on two legs.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he says.

“These steps … are so tall … and so long. I think they were made for giants.”

“These are totally normal steps.”

“How would you know, Jasper?” I demand. “How many steps have you even seen?”

He squints at me. “Are you high?”

“I will ask the questions, comrade! And my question is … can you please get me a chair? ”

He gives me another hard stare, then says, “What kind of chair?”

“Just like … a normal one.”

With a sigh, he turns around, descending the steps once more. I can’t tell if he’s gone for a long time or a short time, or if he’ll ever be back again.

In fact, I had a little bit forgotten what I was even waiting for when he returns with a folding chair.

“Thank you, Jasper,” I say, overflowing with gratitude. “Seriously. I don’t know how you did it.”

He sets the chair against the wall at the top of the stairs.

“You gonna make it back to your room?”

“Probably.”

Shaking his head, Jasper turns the other way down the hall.

I slowly drag the chair back to Adrik, which takes another hundred years.

He sits up on the bed, startled.

“Holy shit, I thought you died.”

“This is you grieving? You were staring at the clouds.”

“There’s so many of them.”

“Do you know they weigh a million pounds?”

“That’s impossible.”

“It’s true.”

“Don’t … don’t try and trick me with your made-up cloud facts. ”

“Here,” I say, unfolding the chair. “Sit on this.”

“But then I’d have to move.”

“It’s not that bad once you’re doing it.”

Adrik rolls off the bed, standing gingerly. “Oh. You’re right.”

He sinks down on the chair, grabbing my wrist and pulling me closer.

“Why are you so far away?”

“Hold on,” I say. “I need better clothes.”

Quickly, I change into high heels, a wrap skirt, and a top that ties in the front. These aren’t things I would ever wear together as an outfit, but they’ll be easy to take off.

When I return, even though it’s only been a couple of minutes, the room is much darker. The sun is going down, sped by the thick blanket of clouds.

I start the music, Company by Tinashe.

“You got your cash?” I grin.

“I’ve got somebody’s money,” Adrik says, pulling it out of his pocket.

“Now remember,” I say sternly, “you’re trying to keep as much as you can.”

“I already want to give it all to you.”

I laugh. “But then you lose the bet.”

Adrik frowns, trying to recover his competitive fire. “Okay. I’m gonna keep this money. No matter how tempting you look. No matter how sexy you are when you dance … oh Jesus, this is so unfair.”

I’m already swaying to the music, running my hands through my hair. My nails feel phenomenal against my scalp. Touching myself has never felt so good. I brush my hands down my chest, feeling my hard nipples against my palms, following the curves of my waist and hips, caressing my body.

In the dim room, I could almost believe I was in a strip club. I can’t see Adrik’s features as distinctly. He could be anyone. Just another John, here to spend money on me …

I can hear the separate parts of the music in a way I usually never notice—the beat going on and on in a complicated cycle, the glitchy synthesizer, the soft little exhalations the singer makes outside of the actual singing.

I have to move. I HAVE to, it’s not a choice. Hitting the beat with my hips, my shoulders, feels intensely sensual and satisfying. Adrik’s eyes follow every motion. Everywhere I touch myself he stares, lips parted, the tip of his tongue dancing across his sharp white teeth.

I roll my hips toward him, showing a long slice of my thigh through the slit of the skirt. Adrik pulls a hundred-dollar bill off his roll, holding it out to me. Tempting me to come closer.

I step within his reach. He tucks the bill in the waistband of my skirt. His fingertips brush my skin.

I feel a wild thrill, like I’m broke as fuck and I really need the money .

I’m sinking into the fantasy. Believing in it. I feel like there could be people all around us watching, but I don’t see them in the dark, and I don’t care. All my focus is on the man in the chair. What I want from him … and what I plan to do to him …

I sway my ass right in front of his face, knowing it looks full and juicy from behind, the tight material of the skirt stretched across the cheeks.

Adrik groans. I feel his fingers fumbling as he tucks another bill in the back of the skirt.

I face him again, leaning forward so he can get a look at the round tops of my breasts, shoved up sky-high by the one and only push-up bra I own. This bra is the definition of catfishing—it makes me look like I have double-Ds, like my tits are fake.

Adrik lets out a sound halfway between a rumble and a sigh, his eyes crawling over my breasts. He likes that they look like implants, it’s perfect for the stripper fantasy. He tucks a hundred-dollar bill between them, letting his fingers slide across the top of my breasts. His fingers are warm and heavy, and even the money feels sensual brushing against my skin with papery softness.

Each bill he pushes into my underwear gives me a pulse of pleasure. It’s a reward, and I’m highly motivated by rewards. I want more money. I’ll do whatever it takes to get it.

Stepping back, I slowly untie the front of my shirt, swaying to the music. Adrik is mesmerized, his eyes glinting like blue diamond. He shifts in the chair, his cock thick and swollen down the leg of his jeans.

I open my top like I’m unveiling a priceless work of art to his view.

“Fucking hell …” he breathes .

The shirt slides down my right arm, dropping to the floor. I get down on my knees, presenting my breasts to him, now only covered by the bra, holding my hands over my head and posing. I turn side to side, slowly, sensuously, sliding one hand lightly down the side of my neck and over my left breast. I run the tip of my middle finger up and down the place where the cup of my bra meets my breast, teasing him, watching his face to see his reaction.

“You like what you see, Daddy?” I murmur, in my softest baby girl voice.

“I fucking love it,” Adrik growls.

“You want to see more?”

“ Yes.”

Adrik tucks another bill in the shoulder strap of my bra. I have money all over me now. Instead of feeling cheapened, I’m expensive and valuable. This man will pay anything for a peek at another inch of skin.

I lift the tie at my hip and put it in Adrik’s hand, inviting him to undo my skirt. He pulls at the bow, the flimsy skirt falling away from my hips. I’m in my bra and thong now, and the sky-high heels on which I can barely walk, let alone dance, but Adrik doesn’t notice any stumbles.

I turn around so he can get a good look at my ass, bisected by the string of the thong. I lean forward in a yoga pose, back arched, my bare cheeks presented to his view.

I’m understanding now why strippers dance and move and pose the way they do—it’s all about offering up body parts to the man for his approval. Adrik likes what he sees—he rains money down on me, a handfu l of bills thrown over my back and ass so they float around me like falling leaves.

I twerk my ass, I shake it for him shamelessly. He throws another handful of money. I feel rich, I feel stunning, I feel glorious …

Adrik leans forward. His hand brushes against my ass, furtively, like he knows he’s not supposed to do it—tucking more money into my thong in apology. It’s kinky as fuck that he’s not supposed to touch. Each contact of fingers against flesh feels forbidden and thrilling. I’m seducing him, and he can’t resist.

I roll over onto my back, giving him a quick flash as my legs pinwheel open and closed again. I lay on the floor in front of him, writhing with the music, rolling my hips. Pushing off against the stilettos, I lift my hips higher, enticing him to tuck more money in my thong.

He pushes bills into the waistband, and then more into the front. Money is filthy, I know that, but the dirtiness of it, the cash against my bare skin, arouses me. He lifts my panties higher than he needs to so he can get a glimpse beneath. The back of his hand grazes that forbidden delta under my thong. My underwear is soaked, sticking to my skin.

He’s Adrik, but he’s also a stranger. His face looks different, hard with lust. All I see is his clenched jaw and the rigid muscle beneath his tight black t-shirt.

I want to be closer to that body. I want to feel his heat against my flesh.

I unclasp my bra, facing away from him so all he sees is my bare back at first. Then I turn, hands covering my breasts. I peel my fingers away, unveiling my breasts like he’s never seen them before .

“Fucking spectacular,” he groans.

He holds up a wad of bills, beckoning me closer.

I straddle his lap, the heels so high that I can easily rest my feet on the floor. I take the money and put his face between my bare breasts, my hand cradling the back of his head. His body is on fire, his head burns against my palm and heat radiates from his chest. His cock presses against the damp material of my thong, his massive hands cradling my ass on both sides.

“Can I?” he says, opening his mouth.

“Yes, Daddy.”

He closes his mouth around my breast, sucking hard. I grind on his lap, sliding my pussy against the rigid rod of his cock, murmuring in his ear, “You gonna come see me every night, Daddy?”

“Yes …” he moans.

“Will you always ask for me? Your favorite baby girl?”

“God, yes.”

I nuzzle against his ear, inhaling the richness of his skin and the animal scent of his hair.

“It feels like you have a big cock, Daddy …”

“It’s throbbing …”

“It must be so tight in those pants … you want me to let it out for you?”

“Please, baby … ”

I slide off his lap, getting down on my knees once more. Slowly, prong by prong, I unzip his jeans. I slip my hand inside his boxer shorts, gripping the burning thickness of his cock, setting it free.

It stands straight up in his lap, dusky and monstrous in the dim light. I can almost see it pulsing, the skin stretched painfully tight.

Light as a feather, I float my fingertips across the head, wrenching a groan from deep in his chest.

“ Ty menya prosto ubivayesh …” You’re going to fucking kill me …

Adrik never speaks Russian to me. The harshness of his voice, and the fact that I can understand him, gives me a deep sexual thrill. It’s the essential Adrik, raw and real. The gangster. The Bratva. The man who wants to take me to the darkest of places …

“You’re working too hard, Daddy …” I say softly. “You’re under too much stress. Do you need your baby girl to take care of you?”

“Da, pozhaluysta …” he murmurs. Yes, please … His head is tilted back, his eyes half-closed. With absolute abandon he pushes the rest of his cash at me.

I don’t give a fuck that I just won the bet. I don’t care about the money anymore … I want that cock in my mouth.

If I really were a stripper, I’d want the same thing. I wouldn’t be able to grind against this body, to feel that massive cock throbbing under me, without wanting to play with it. I’d feel the same heat flushing through me. The same watering in my mouth. I’d risk anything to take him to a back room where no one could interrupt us …

Gently, I close my mouth around the head of his cock. His skin is velvet against my tongue, a texture I can taste as well as feel. It’s cream and salt and sweetness all at once. I suck the head, fluttering my tongue against the underside, soaking it in my mouth.

Adrik makes a noise that vibrates in his chest.

I lift my head.

“More, Daddy?”

“ Ahhhhh …” he moans.

Taking that as a yes, I close my mouth over the head again. My tongue is slippery, it glides over the silky skin. I bob my head up and down, soaking his cock.

I pretend he’s my favorite client and I’m pleasing him so he’ll come back again and again. I pretend I have a crush on him, that I’m hoping someday he’ll take me on a real date …

Fantasy and reality swirl inside my head. I’m not sure who I am or who he is. We can be anything and everything to each other. In the darkness of the room, in the sensual teasing of the music, all I know is that my pussy is on fire, aching, dying to be touched …

I reach down and touch myself while I suck his cock. My pussy slides against the flat of my fingers. I moan around his cock.

“Are you touching yourself?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Come up here and feed it to me.”

I straddle his lap once more, hovering over his cock. I touch his tongue, letting him taste my wetness. He closes his lips around my fingers, sucking gently.

“Nothing tastes as good as that pussy. ”

“You want to feel it, Daddy?”

“ Mmm … da …”

I pull my thong to the side and lower down on his cock. It slides right inside me, wet from my mouth. I’m so soaked it feels like I poured a bottle of baby oil over us both. There’s no roughness, no friction, only smooth, delicious pleasure.

It feels wrong and forbidden, like I could get caught any moment. Like I should make him wear a condom at least. But I’ll die if I don’t have his cock inside me, if I take it out for even a second.

He’s still wearing his shirt and jeans. My thong rubs against me. The barrier of our clothing only make his bare cock in my pussy all the more erotic. All my focus is on our naked flesh, him touching me in the places that count most.

However I met Adrik, in any time or place, in any universe, this is how it would end. We’re two elements that have to combine, we can’t be kept apart. Are we sodium chloride, or deuterium and tritium? Stable or explosive?

It doesn’t matter—we can’t keep our hands off each other, we never could. This is right and anything that comes between us is wrong.

I ride his cock with more than lust—with a sense of cosmic purpose.

I’m grinding to the music, my body automatically following the beat. Dancing on his cock. That’s how I know it takes exactly two lines for me to come.

My pussy clamps around his cock, my fingernails digging into his back.

“ Adrik … Ohhh, Adrik …”

I’m cumming and cumming, warm and wet and melting all over his lap.

Adrik is cumming too, deep inside me, his hand on the small of my back. He lets out a garbled roar in which I think he says, Ya lyublyu tebya, ya take sil’no tebya lyublyu … I love you, I love you so much …

I’m flushed with every good chemical, the ones I dosed myself with, and the ones that occur naturally when people touch, when they whisper in each other’s ears, when they understand each other …

I murmur, “We’re gonna be so fucking rich.”

We lay in bed afterward, my head on Adrik’s chest, ear against his heart so I can hear it beating, deep and steady like a metronome.

I’m thinking how vivid the stripper fantasy became. That was a side effect I wasn’t expecting—I wonder if it will happen every time on Molniya , or if it was specific to what we were doing?

“I thought you said it was a party drug,” Adrik says. “Felt more like a sex drug to me.”

“Well, it would be different if we were at a club, obviously. It makes you want to do more of whatever you’re doing. So if you were dancing, you’d want to keep dancing. If you’re talking, you want to talk forever.”

“Are you sure about that? You might start an orgy by accident … ”

“You think I should dial it back a little?”

“No,” Adrik says. “You’re the artist. I trust your judgment.”

My face is so hot with pleasure that I tuck my cheek against Adrik’s neck so he won’t notice. Nothing feels as good as his good opinion of me.

“That’s not a bad idea …” I murmur.

“What?”

“A sex drug. I could make other formulas …”

Adrik makes an amused sound. “I volunteer as a test subject.”

I’m so lost in thought, imagining the possibilities, that his next sentence jolts me.

“I want you to start picking up some of the shipments with Jasper.”

“What?” I say, sitting up, leaning on one elbow. “Why?”

“I know you want to be involved in more than just the manufacturing side.”

I scan his face in the pale moonlight leaking in through the window.

“You’re just trying to make Jasper talk to me.”

Adrik chuckles. “Yeah, maybe.”

“It’s not gonna work. He can sit in silence for hours. I’ve timed him.”

“It’s not for you,” Adrik says. “It’s for him.”

“What do you mean? ”

“He’s lonely. Depressed.” Adrik trails his fingers lightly up and down my forearm. “You’re my yellow sun. Jasper needs a little of that light.”

“But … he fucking hates me.”

“It doesn’t matter. You shine on him and it will warm him up. Whether he wants it or not.”

I consider this, at last saying, “Yeah, alright. I’ll do it. As a favor to you.”

He kisses me. “Thank you, baby girl.”

I smile. “I thought that was my stripper name.”

“You are my baby girl … I’ll always take care of you.”

I never wanted to be taken care of. It’s not a nickname I would have liked. But everything is different with Adrik. Black becomes white, wrong becomes right. He’s so powerful … it means something to be protected by him.

I lay back down on his chest. Each breath in his lungs raises and lowers me by several inches.

“Jasper’s whole family is dead,” Adrik says.

“I didn’t know that.”

“They were killed when he was eight. His father’s lawyer took custody of him. He shipped Jasper off to boarding school.”

“Oh yeah … same school as Chay Wagner, right? And Rocco Prince.”

“Yeah. When I met Jasper at Kingmakers, I was a Senior, he was a Freshman. He was a fucking mess. Angry, aggressive. Drinking too much. Getting in fights every week. It was like he wanted everyone to hate him. But I saw something in him.”

“Like you did in me,” I say quietly.

“Exactly. I was his friend. I protected him. But then I graduated, and he fell in with Rocco and the rest of those assholes.”

“Half of them are dead now,” I tell Adrik. “Did you know that? Wade Dyer by accident—Rocco Prince on purpose.”

“Yeah, I heard. I don’t think it was good for Jasper. When I saw him in Moscow again, he was so fucked up I thought he’d been sick or something. He was skin and bones.”

I know he’s trying to make me feel sympathy for Jasper. Unfortunately, it’s working.

“Okay, okay,” I say. “I’ll even consider being nice to him.”

Adrik pulls me close against him. “When you turn on your charm, no one can resist you.”

I laugh. “And when I’m a dick, nobody can stand me.”

He squeezes me tighter. “I can.”

When Adrik falls asleep, I’m still awake in the dark.

It’s not because I’m agitated—actually I’m still suffused with warmth. More comfortable than I’ve been since I came to Moscow.

But my brain is firing madly, not at all interested in going to sleep.

As carefully as I can, I slip out from under the weight of his arm and roll out of the bed, landing on the floorboards naked and barefo oted. I grab Adrik’s t-shirt off the floor and pull it over my head. It comes down almost to my knees.

Taking my phone off the nightstand, I creep out of the room, trying to avoid the places where the floor creaks.

I head downstairs to the kitchen, thinking I might eat the rest of that burger.

The house is silent, even Andrei and Hakim have gone to bed.

I heat up the food in the rickety old microwave and wolf it down.

When I’m finished, I scroll through my messages.

I’ve talked to my mom twice since I’ve been here, and my dad just once. The conversation wasn’t pleasant. It went something like this:

Dad: “You need to get your ass home IMMEDIATELY.”

Me: “That’s not happening.”

Dad: “I’m not playing with you, Sabrina. You cannot fuck with the Bratva. You get yourself in trouble over there and I can’t save you.”

Me: “I don’t need you to save me. I can take care of myself.”

Dad: “We tangled with the Bratva in Chicago, and not the High Table either—we fucked with someone’s cousin’s cousin’s cousin and my father was killed and our house burned to the ground. Something I didn’t witness ’cause I was in the hospital with seven bullets in my back. You are in the heart of Moscow begging for these people to skin you alive for the fun of it.”

That’s when I lost my temper.

“I’ve heard that story a hundred times. Stop trying to pin your mistakes on me! I’ve got my own life to live, my own choices to make. I’d rather die by my own decisions than live by yours.”

He was quiet on the other side of the line, so quiet I thought he’d hung up. Then he said, “You don’t know what that means. You’ve never felt real pain. You’ve never been tortured. You’ve never made a mistake that haunts you the rest of your life—if you even live long enough to experience that particular hell.”

My guts were churning. He was scaring me—not as much as he wanted to, but some. I hated what I was putting him through, him and my mom. She cried on the phone, begging me to come home.

All I could say to my father was, “I’m happy here. I’m not coming back, not anytime soon.”

The “happy” was a bit of an exaggeration. Sometimes I’m very happy in Moscow. Other times I’m exhausted and frustrated.

I’m pretty good buds with Hakim at this point. Chief is friendly, and Andrei is always down for mayhem. But I’ve made basically no progress with Vlad or Jasper—even after bribing them with high-end escorts.

As I scroll through my phone, I see a message from my aunt Aida.

Thinking about you today. It was raining and I remembered how much you loved jumping in puddles when you were little. You never seemed to feel the cold.

I text her back.

I felt it. Just thought it was worth it, I guess.

She calls me a moment later. I’m surprised to see she’s awake, until I remember it’s only dinner time in Chicago .

“Hey, Auntie.”

“Hey, love. How are you doing?”

My aunt’s voice is like stepping into a warm bath. I can picture her so clearly: the smile lines around her eyes, her look like we’re sharing a secret, the way she holds her shoulders like she’s barely suppressing a laugh.

I was feeling kind of stressed and shitty, but now I can honestly reply, “Not bad.”

“How’s the Russian coming on?”

“Medium.”

“And the roommates?”

“Oh, they still hate me. Well, half of them anyway.”

She laughs, a laugh that’s very like my own, though probably a little nicer.

“Give it time.”

It occurs to me that Aida has her own experience with hostile roommates, having married into a family that feuded with ours for about two hundred years prior to the wedding. She had to live in their house. Eat at their table. My aunt Riona was probably ten times meaner than Jasper could ever dream of being.

Somehow, Aida made them love her.

People say I’m like my aunt. But I know the truth. While we both can be funny and wild, Aida is warm at heart. I have cruelty in me and spitefulness. I’m more like my father—and everybody hated Nero .

Just ‘cause I’m like him doesn’t mean I have to behave like him.

“Can I ask you something?” I say to Aida.

“Yeah, shoot.”

“You were a stranger in a strange land … how did you do it? How’d you get the Griffins to accept you?”

She lets out a soft sigh. “Well … are you a visitor? Or is this home?”

I have to think about that for a minute.

I’ve come to realize that none of the Wolfpack has family they want to return to. Jasper has none at all, Hakim’s parents think he’s a criminal who’s disgraced their name. Chief is the product of a failed marriage, both parents having moved on, remarried, and had children with their new families. Andrei was raised by his grandparents, one now dead, the other in a retirement home. And Vlad is a Petrov himself, though only distantly related to Adrik.

When Jasper accused me of playing a game here while intending to return to Chicago, he wasn’t entirely wrong. I do still think of Chicago as home.

But I want to build my life here with Adrik. I’ve committed to that. More than I’ve ever committed to anything before.

“I don’t know,” I say, at last.

I can hear my aunt’s gentle breath on the other end of the line, listening, not judging.

She says, “They’ll accept you as family if you treat them as family.”

“I do,” I say. “Mostly.”

She laughs .

“Just remember this, little love. I’m a Gallo … but I’m also a Griffin.”

That’s hard for me to imagine.

When my mother married my father, she was swallowed up by the Gallos. I’ve been defined by that name all my life. My uncles and aunts and cousins are powerful figures, known to everyone I know. I’m compared to them, taught by them, shaped by them.

It’s hard to imagine trading that identity for another, or even sharing it.

“How long did that take you?” I ask her. “To really feel like both.”

“It’s bonding to your partner that does it. When you’re truly partners, you become as one person. Your goals are the same. Your desires are the same. Everything you do is for both of you—you’re not selfish anymore.”

I can’t picture that, either.

I don’t know if I could ever be that way. I am selfish. It’s always been about what I want.

“I’m not as good as you,” I say to Aida. “I don’t know if I ever will be.”

She laughs. “I’m not good. But I am happy. And I hope you’ll be that.”

“I hope so too.”

“Sabrina … you have so much fire in you. Give that passion to someone, really give it to them, holding nothing back, and see what happens.”

“Like you did with Uncle Cal? ”

“That’s right. I gave it all to him … after a little resistance.”

I laugh, quietly so I don’t wake anyone up. “Gallos don’t do anything the easy way.”

“No,” Aida says. “But it always works out in the end.”

That’s why everyone loves Aida. Because she never gives up hope. She could have her neck under a guillotine and she’d still laugh and say, I’ll figure something out.

Maybe she’s right. If the blade comes down on your neck, crying about it won’t change a thing. Maybe it’s better to die happy, believing life is good and will go on forever.

“Thanks, Auntie,” I say. “I love you. And I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. But not as much as your mom—make sure to call her.”

“I will,” I promise.

I end the call and throw the remains of my burger in the trash.

As I’m about to head back upstairs, I hear music coming from the other side of the house. It’s light and soft, so faint that at first I think I’m imagining it.

I pad down the hallway, passing the closed doors belonging to Andrei and Hakim.

The last room is Vlad’s. His door is slightly ajar. At first I think he’s listening to music, but then a note fumbles and I realize he must be playing himself.

Peeking in the room, I see Vlad cross-legged on the bed, holding a tiny ukulele in his massive hands. Even a normal guitar would look small compared to him. The ukulele is comically undersized, like a toy. A nd yet he’s making lovely music with those sausage-sized fingers.

After a moment I recognize the song—one of my mom’s favorites, La Vie En Rose.

I can’t help lingering just outside the door, listening. It brings back my parents’ kitchen so vividly: my grandpa Axel sitting in his favorite hideous green chair in the corner, his head nodding because he could never sit in the sunshine without falling asleep. My mother making empanadillas. She’s so good with her hands, everything she touches comes out just right. My brother Damien stealing one from the first batch, sitting down to eat it while he reads. Unlike me, he can read for hours and hours, oblivious to all distractions.

And then my dad. Coming into the kitchen not for the food, but for my mother. Lifting her hair off the back of her neck so he can kiss her there. And then, when that’s not enough, turning her around, kissing her again, not minding that her floury hands are getting all over his clothes.

Then dancing with her to this song. When he dances, he doesn’t limp. He shows that grace, that lightness that must have accompanied every movement when he was young. When he holds my mother in his arms, you’d never know he’s in pain.

It’s not a glamorous kitchen, like one out of a magazine. My parents’ house is small, comfortable, messy at times. My mother doesn’t care to decorate, and my father doesn’t care to spend money on anything without wheels. The rugs are from Puerto Rico, the tiles on the floor in the same cheerful prints, laid by my grandpa when his knees were still good.

My eyes are hot, my throat tight.

I’m very alone in the dark hallway, even with Vlad on the other side of the door.

I shift in place, forgetting about the floorboards. Vlad hears the creak and stops playing.

I could run away, but that would be stupid.

Instead, I push the door open, saying, “Sorry. I really like that song.”

Vlad looks at me, silent, unsmiling.

“It’s my mom’s favorite.”

“Hm,” he grunts. “Mine too.”

“Do you know the words?”

“Yeah. Can’t sing for shit, though.”

“Me neither.”

He plucks the strings with his thick fingers, beginning over again.

I lean against the doorframe, closing my eyes. Letting the notes float around me in the air.

Even though I really have no voice, I softly sing along:

Hold me close and hold me fast …

This magic spell you cast …

This is la vie en rose …

I sing the whole song, imagining my mom singing it the way she does, much sweeter than I could ever manage.

When it’s over, we both stay quiet a moment, letting the last vibrations fade away.

“How come the ukulele?” I ask Vlad.

“I went to Hawaii once. Only time I ever went on a trip with my parents. It felt like we flew to literal paradise. Not like here. It didn’t seem like the same planet at all. Every place we saw was more beautiful than the last. More peaceful. I heard the ukulele, like angels strumming on harps. It was men playing it, big men. I was already a big kid. I thought, I could do that. I could make it feel like heaven everywhere I go. It’s not the same when I play it here. But it’s a little the same.”

This is the most I’ve ever heard Vlad speak at once. Especially sober.

“It was heaven,” I say. “For a minute.”

Vlad lets out a puff of air. He’s not smiling, but he’s also not glowering at me like usual.

“Why are you awake?”

I shrug. “Sometimes I get wired and can’t sleep even when I’m tired.”

He nods. “Me too.”

“Well.” I lift one hand in farewell, or maybe a salute. “Thanks.”

As I leave I hear him strumming the chorus one last time.