Kingmakers, Graduation

26. Adrik

26

ADRIK

O n Christmas Eve, I broker a deal with the Markovs for 25,000 doses of Molniya. The Markovs own the largest slice of Moscow, and they don’t let anyone else sell in their territory. They used to buy from the Chechens, but Sabrina’s pill is the new hotness. Everyone wants it.

Sabrina’s coming along with me for the hand-off, because Ilsa will be there. Their friendship survived the breakup, though Sabrina’s been too busy to actually meet up with Ilsa since she came here.

I find her in the living room, trying to help Chief with his Tinder profile. Andrei sprawls on one of the beanbag chairs, shouting out opposite advice: “You need a pic where you look tough, manly. Doing something impressive. Maybe holding a big wad of cash.”

“He’s not trying to attract you, Andrei.” Sabrina rolls her eyes. “He wants an actual human woman.”

“Women love money. ”

“He’s not looking for a sugar baby. Here, Chief—this should be your profile pic.”

She points to one of Chief working on his bike, his coveralls down around his waist, only an undershirt on his upper half, his hair messy and grease all up his arms.

“I’m dirty,” Chief protests. “I look like a scrub.”

“You look competent,” Sabrina insists. “Look at your hands, your forearms …”

“Forearms!” Andrei scoffs.

“You’re gonna get swiped by girls who want to be touched,” Sabrina says, ignoring Andrei.

“I’m wearing my glasses. Glasses aren’t popular in Russia.”

“You look intelligent. You gotta be yourself on dating apps. There’s no point trying to look like one thing and showing up as another.”

“He won’t get any matches as himself,” Andrei warns.

“What do you know?” Sabrina snorts. “I haven’t seen you go on one date since I’ve been here.”

“I’m busy.”

“Yeah, busy losing to Hakim in Dr. Mario .”

“I don’t always lose,” Andrei says with dignity.

“What’s your caption?” Sabrina says, turning back to Chief.

“It says, ‘If you want to get to know me then ask.’ ”

“That’s terrible. ”

Chief grimaces. “I was trying to be mysterious. I don’t know what to write.”

“You need to write the line that gets you what you want. The right bait for the right fish. You don’t want just any girl—you want the right girl. That’s why it’s best to be genuine all along. How about …’Match with me and I’ll make the first move.’ ”

“What girls will that get?”

“Curious ones. I know how funny you are on your keyboard. Go through their profile, find something interesting about them, come at these girls like you know them, the way you text me. You’re the funniest person in our group chats.”

“That’s true,” I back her up.

Chief is far more confident through text than in person. Sabrina is smart to compliment his strengths—it’s what I would do. In fact, it is what I do when I’m trying to build him up.

“Not in person, though,” Chief sighs.

Sabrina says, “Let them meet the best you first. Here, show me your matches.”

Chief shows her the only girl who’s swiped right on him: a nervous-looking blonde whose profile pic is mostly the giant black cat sitting on her lap.

“Okay, so look through her pics,” Sabrina says. “What do you think she wants you to notice in this picture?”

She points to an image where the blonde girl is standing under a tree in Gorky park, wearing a red summer dress with buttons down the front .

“She looks … pretty,” Chief says.

“That’s good,” Sabrina encourages. “But let’s compliment more than her looks—let’s compliment her taste. Something like, I bet when girls think they want to wear a pretty red dress, this is what they picture in their heads. You’re telling her that she’s stylish and iconic. That she created a moment. That other girls would admire her if they saw this pic.”

“Alright …” Chief says, typing out the message.

Andrei watches with interest.

Chief hits send.

“Let me know if she replies,” Sabrina says.

“You ready to go?” I ask her.

“Wait!” Andrei cries. “What about my profile?”

Sabrina laughs. “I’m gonna need a lot more time to fix yours. I’ll do it when we get back.”

“You should be charging for your services,” I tell Sabrina as we climb in the car.

“They can’t afford me,” she says airily.

“I see the effort you’re making,” I lay my hand on her thigh. “And I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, we’re getting on alright. Even Jasper has his good points. I mean, not his personality, or behavior, or mood … but something.”

I try not to let her see me smile.

“He’s punctual, you can say that for him,” Sabrina says, as if it pains her to admit even that .

“He’s a lot more than punctual.”

“Sure—he also makes the best coffee.”

I pretend to be hurt. “I thought you said I made the best coffee?”

“Well, you had just made me cum three times when I said that.”

“Four times, actually.”

“I’m glad one of us keeps track.”

We’re driving into the Presnensky District, where the Markovs have the majority of their hotels and restaurants. The Markovs control their territory with an iron fist, because the majority of their income comes from krysha. Those who pay for protection expect business to run smoothly. In a sense, the Markovs are both landlord and security force. They’re cautious about what product gets trafficked on their streets and in their properties.

Because this is the first of hopefully many such transactions, I’m doing the deal in person. Neve Markov will be representing her family. We’re meeting at the Aurora hotel on the bend of the Moskva, close to Krasnaya Park.

I’ve dressed a little nicer than normal, in slacks and a black wool coat.

Sabrina eyes me as I toss the keys to the valet.

“You clean up nice.”

“Likewise.”

She’s all in white today—white trousers, a white turtleneck, and a white coat belted at the waist, with the collar turned up against the cold. As she stands in front of the ornate stone facade of the hotel, thick flakes of snow drifting down around her and settling in her dark hair, I think how exotic she looks, and yet perfectly at home.

“Ready?” I say, taking the briefcase from the backseat.

“Of course.”

She tucks her hand in the crook of my arm and we ascend the steps together.

We take the elevator to the eighteenth floor where we meet Neve Markov in a private suite overlooking the river.

Ilsa opens the door. I think she intends to greet us with a handshake, but the moment Sabrina sees her, she throws her arms around Ilsa’s waist and hugs her hard. Ilsa can’t help smiling and hugging her back.

“Good to see you,” she says. “You know my sister, Neve, and this is Simon Severov.”

“ Rad nashei vstreche,” Simon says to Sabrina. Nice to meet you. He shakes her hand and then mine, though we’ve met before.

“Please sit down,” Neve gestures to a small, striped sofa. She and her fiancé sit opposite us. There’s room for Ilsa on the same couch, but she takes the armchair to the left of us instead.

I set the briefcase on the table between us and open it, turning the case so Neve and Simon can see the neat packets of pills shaped like yellow lightning bolts.

“And what is exactly is in this?” Simon asks. His accent is thicker than Neve’s, but his English is good for someone who went to school here in Moscow.

“It’s proprietary,” Sabrina replies .

“Then how can I test it?” Simon says, his upper lip curling slightly.

Ilsa shoots him a look, her jaw tight. I suspect she’s more annoyed by the fact that he’s speaking for her sister than by the questions themselves.

“It’s already been tested in the best clubs in the city,” I say calmly. “We’re selling out faster than we can make more.”

“Will there be a problem getting consistent delivery?” Neve inquires.

Neve Markov has a low, clear voice that seems to cut through the space between us. She has an air of calm authority, a way of sitting still with her hands neat and immobile in her lap, only her eyes moving. I’ve heard other Bratva speak disparagingly of her, laughing at the idea of a female Pakhan with her sister as lieutenant. I doubt they’d talk the same way if she were in the room. There’s nothing laughable about her, not in person.

I assure her, “If we make a deal for regular transactions, you’ll get your orders.”

“Good.” She nods. “Once a month then, to start. Is that agreeable?”

It’s more than agreeable. The Markovs are flush with cash—a steady order will help fund our operation as we grow.

“Forty a pill?” I say. “American dollars?”

She nods.

Molniya re-sells for sixty each, an astronomical price compared to the Netherlands or the UK, but that’s the cost of party drugs in Russia. The materials are difficult to smuggle in, the bribes ruinous, the penalties draconian if you’re caught. We could all receive a life sentence in Siberia just for meeting here today .

Ilsa hoists the black duffle bag next to her chair, setting it on the coffee table. She unzips the bag, showing me the stacks within. I can count the money at a glance—a hundred bills per strap, $10,000 per stack, a hundred stacks total, for a cool million in cash.

American dollars are more convenient than rubles. They take less space, and can be used in payment cross-border. Anyone will take them, happily.

Our business complete, Sabrina takes the money and Ilsa the pills. Neve brings the tea service from the side table, setting it out between us.

The large silver samovar is filled with traditional Russian Caravan. In the old days when the camel caravans took sixteen months to bring tea from China, it would arrive flavored with smoke from the campfires along the route. Nowadays the flavor is added intentionally via oxidization.

Neve pours the concentrate into each of our cups, to which we add the desired amount of hot water. I make mine dark as creosote, and Sabrina’s the color of her lovely tan skin. She hasn’t come to appreciate our tea quite yet, not at full blast.

Simon drinks his the old way, with a cube of sugar held between his teeth.

We chat as we eat the stacks of sandwiches and tiny pastel-colored cakes. Or I should say, Neve, Simon, Sabrina, and I chat, while Ilsa sits in near silence. She’s in a somber mood, though not because of me and Sabrina, I don’t think.

Neve is telling Sabrina all about her wedding venue, an old estate in the countryside outside Moscow.

“I’ll send you and Adrik an invitation, of course. ”

“Do you do bridesmaids in Russia?” Sabrina asks. “This is your chance to make Ilsa wear pink.”

Neve smiles. “No bridesmaids. Isla will be my witness—it’s like a maid of honor. She gets a sash.”

“And Neve will wear a crown,” Simon says. “As is fitting for my queen.”

He lifts her hand, pressing her knuckles to his lips.

Ilsa doesn’t like that phrasing one bit. Her eyes narrow and she sets her cake back down on her plate without taking a bite.

As we all set our plates aside, Neve says, “If you’d like, I’ve reserved the suite for your use tonight. There will be fireworks over the Moskva—you’ll have a perfect view.”

I would never stay in a room overnight after a normal business meeting—especially not with this much cash on me. But I’ve known the Markovs all my life. I consider us friends as well as allies.

Besides, Sabrina has no poker face—I can see how this idea excites her. If only so we can fuck as loud as we want without the Wolfpack overhearing.

“ Spasibo,” I say. “That’s very generous.”

“I’ll send the staff for the dishes,” Neve says, shaking our hands in farewell. I see Simon’s diamond glittering on her finger, bigger than one of our pills.

“We should go for lunch together,” Sabrina says to Ilsa. “If either of us ever takes a day off.”

“I’d love that,” Ilsa says .

I think it’s the only sentence she’s spoken the whole meeting. Sabrina is going to have to meet Ilsa one-on-one if she wants to actually talk to her, because it’s pretty clear Ilsa despises her sister’s fiancé and isn’t going to say shit when he’s around.

In a reverse of our entrance, Neve, Ilsa, and Simon depart, leaving Sabrina and me alone in the suite.

“What should we do?” I ask Sabrina.

She bites the edge of her lip, looking me up and down.

“I can think of a few things …”

Several hours later, we’re laying on the bed in the dark. The only light comes through the large windows overlooking the river. The clouds have cleared away enough that I can see the flat disk of the moon, cold and silvery, looking down upon its twin rippling in the dark water below.

I hear a faint popping sound. A small flare shoots up into the air, then bursts into thick purple sparks, like a chrysanthemum blooming in the sky. It’s followed by a dozen more flares. Our window erupts in color.

The fireworks glisten on Sabrina’s naked body. They tint her skin in brilliant bursts of blue, gold, silver, and green. The sparks reflect in her eyes.

“I got you something,” I tell her.

She sits up on one elbow, her sheaf of black hair tumbling down, trailing across the rumpled sheets.

“What is it?” she asks, eager as a child.

I take a flat box from my coat pocket, opening it to her view.

The diamond collar is colorless as ice, but it glows like flame as another firework erupts.

Sabrina’s mouth falls open.

She stretches out a hand, stopping just short of the glittering jewels. Afraid to even touch it.

“Put it on,” I say.

She turns obediently, lifting her hair off the nape of her neck.

I drape the diamonds around her throat, fastening the clasp behind her.

Sabrina slips her feet back into her shoes, abandoned next to the bed. She stands in front of the window, naked except for her heels and the diamond collar. A firework detonates above her left shoulder, drenching her in a shower of silver light.

She’s so fucking beautiful.

I can’t breathe. I can’t speak. All I can do is stare.

I wish I could capture this moment and freeze it forever in time.

I lift my phone and snap a picture of her, though I know it could never do justice to her living, breathing beauty. Or to the way she makes me feel .

Sabrina touches the diamonds at her throat, her eyes glinting just as brilliantly.

“We’re really doing it, aren’t we?” she says.

Her face is flushed with triumph—the diamonds, the penthouse suite, the two of us here together …

“Nothing can stop us,” I say. “I’m invincible with you.”

Sabrina grins, her teeth a flash of white in the dark between fireworks. She grabs the bag of cash and takes out a stack, ripping off the band. Throwing the money up in the air, she lets it drift down around her. The bills flutter through the air, illuminated in bursts of gold and green.

Sabrina grabs another stack, and another. She’s pulling them apart, throwing them at me. The money covers the bed, the floor, the side tables. She jumps on the bed and flings cash in the air, jumping up and down, bouncing the money on the mattress, creating a blizzard of bills.

She’s laughing maniacally, making a hell of a mess. Her naked breasts bounce on her chest, her hair buoyant, the diamonds sparkling on her throat, the money floating like a thousand papery butterflies.

I gather up an armful of cash and fling it up. The money is a joke, barely real to me. It’s what it represents: ambition, success, Sabrina’s genius and mine in concert together. I kiss her as it rains down on us.

Sometimes you work and work toward a goal, but when you finally achieve it, it fails to provide the happiness you thought you would feel .

This is the opposite of that.

For all the thousands of times I imagined how it would feel to have the world at my feet, I never could have imagined it like this.

Everything is better with Sabrina by my side. She charges every moment, she bursts me open like a firework. I’m flaming with light and color, and pure, electric bliss.

We’re jumping on the bed together, naked and out of our minds. With each leap, another firework bursts, booming outside the window like a cannon blast, I’m holding her hands, looking in her face. She’s laughing wildly, her eyes brighter than stars.

This is the happiest I’ve ever been. Maybe the happiest I ever will be.

It’s because of her that success comes so early and tastes so sweet.

There’s no end of dreaming with Sabrina. No end of believing. It’s the most American thing about her—she really thinks she can do anything. And so do I, when I’m with her.

Sabrina wears the diamond collar all night long. She keeps it on while we fuck, and wears it with her robe while we order room service, sampling the Markovs’ burgers and fries.

Sabrina is quickly converting me to her love of cheeseburgers. She eats them at least three times a week, and I’ll admit, they’re satisfying. Especially when you’ve been exerting yourself all night long.

I pour us each a glass of Riesling.

“Not as sweet as Vietti,” I tease her. “But not bad. ”

Sabrina takes a massive bite of her burger, washing it down with wine.

“It’ll do,” she says. And then, “I got something for you, too.”

“You did?”

I didn’t expect anything—it’s my job to spoil Sabrina, not the other way around.

Sabrina retrieves her coat, pulling a small, paper-wrapped package from the pocket.

“I picked it up yesterday,” she says. “I was afraid it wouldn’t come in time.”

I rip open the paper, revealing a switchblade like Sabrina’s, only more expensive-looking. The scrimshaw handle is richly oiled, the blade shimmering with waves of layered Damascus steel.

“That’s fossilized mammoth bone,” Sabrina says. “In the handle. I thought it was cool.”

I hold the knife up to the light so I can read the engraving, so small I almost missed it:

You. Always you.

It’s what I said to her from down between her thighs the night I pleasured her for hours. She’s saying it back to me because it meant something to her.

Sabrina is not sentimental. She rarely shows tenderness in this way.

It affects me more than I want to let her see .

Her own knife is probably her favorite belonging. She carries it with her everywhere and uses it even for tasks she probably shouldn’t, like opening envelopes and cutting tags off clothes.

I slip the knife in my pocket, knowing that every time I touch it or use it or feel its weight, I’ll think of her. A little piece of her with me all the time.

“I love it,” I say, pulling her close.

“Well, I didn’t know you were gonna upstage me with this.” Sabrina touches the diamonds at her throat.

“That’s how it should be. I’d be ashamed if you gave me a better gift.”

“What if I want to give you the better gift?”

“Then you should date Andrei. He’d love a sugar mama.”

Sabrina snorts, but she’s shaking her head at me, mildly annoyed.

“But what if I?—”

I silence her with my mouth.

“You are the gift, Sabrina. You’re what I want.”