Kingmakers, Graduation

41. Sabrina

41

SAbrINA

B efore Adrik has entirely left the room, Ilsa pulls her gun out, her hand on my shoulder. She backs me out the opposite way, hustling me back to our rooms to pack up whatever we need.

It’s not Adrik she’s worried about—it’s the rest of Krystiyan’s men. Now that Krystiyan is dead, they’re unallied and disconnected. A roving band of guns-for-hire until they find their next opportunity.

She’s throwing my stuff in a bag, taking too much of the shit Krystiyan bought me which I would never wear in a million years.

“What are you doing?” I hiss at her. “We need to get back out there, we could still use some of those men.”

“And pay them with what? We haven’t made a profit. You’ve only drained half Kovalenko’s money—which we no longer have access to. We need to get out of here before those guys realize they’re not getting their last paycheck. ”

She picks up my backpack and forces it onto my arm.

“Why are you in such a rush? We need our equipment at the very least?—”

Ilsa wheels on me. “Sabrina, it’s over!”

She’s not packing anymore, she’s just staring at me like we already had this conversation and I didn’t hear it.

“What are you talking about? We can find another partner.”

“There’s not going to be another partner. Adrik’s buddied up with Yuri Koslov. He’s High Table, nobody else is going to join our vendetta against two of the most dangerous people in the city. And even if they would—” she holds up her hand to forestall me, “ I’m done. It was fun, it was crazy, it was a much-needed break, but it’s time to get back to real life.”

I can’t believe she’s saying this.

“This is my life,” I hiss at her. “I’m not going back to Chicago.”

“Well, I’m going home,” she says. “And you should do the same.”

She’s trying to be brisk and matter of fact, but when she sees the look on my face, she can’t keep it up. She stops and puts her arms around me for a minute, not saying anything. Just holding me.

It feels like every awful sensation is trying to spill out of me. Ilsa’s arms are the only thing keeping me together. I’m a broken vessel that will collapse unless it’s cradled just right.

Eventually she has to let go.

“Come with me,” she says .

I shake my head. “No thanks. I never really cared for Simon, either.”

She looks at me, trying to read my face.

I force a smile. Like I’m not terrified to be alone. Like I’m not minutes from falling apart.

“I’ll be fine,” I lie. “You can go.”

I think I fool her. She’s reassured enough to say, “Same old Sabrina.”

“Same old Diana.”

She smiles and shakes her head.

“See ya, kid.”

When she’s gone, I can’t even take any Mechtat, ‘cause there’s no one to keep an eye out for me anymore.

I spend the night at a cheap hotel in Odintsovo.

For the first time since I came to Moscow, I’m completely alone.

I’ve got about $6K in cash, a mix of American dollars and rubles. Also a couple baggies of product, about two hundred pills in total.

I sit on the chintz bedspread and think, playing with my dad’s old knife. I twist my wrist to float the blade out and back again, running through the tricks I know mindlessly, repetitively. The blade slices through the air with a sound like scissors, tucking in and out of the handles, flashes of silver in the dark like a coin turning underw ater.

The knife feels like a part of my hand. I’ve had it all my life. I haven’t cut myself in years, even when I play with it drunk.

At this moment, I’m stone cold sober.

I’ve been using too much. Trying to escape the wave that washed over me the moment I lost Adrik.

I’m trapped in this deep, dark coldness. The drugs keep me asleep. Every time I wake and draw breath, water rushes in and I drown all over again.

Alone in this hotel room, I’m drowning and drowning and drowning.

Seeing Adrik tore me apart all over again.

He walked in like a warrior, radiating power and confidence. Krystiyan was a fool to step in front of him—anyone could see that no one could stand before him.

He cut Krystiyan’s throat with the knife I gave him. Then he threatened me with that same knife, my fucking gift to him, my words on the handle.

His face was a mask of anger and disdain.

He barked at me to come with him—not a request, an order.

He hasn’t changed at all.

Except that he hates me now.

I know how weak I was in that moment. He looked so confident, so ferocious. Everything in me was crying out for his touch. If he would have said a word of kindness or apology, if he even said he missed me … I would have melted in an instant .

He didn’t say it, because that’s not how he feels.

He only wants me back out of pride.

I flick the knife out again. This time it knicks the edge of my index finger.

I look at the bead of blood, bright as a jewel.

I can’t feel the cut, not even when I raise my finger to my mouth and suck on it. It tastes of copper.

I’m going home … you should do the same …

Going back to Chicago is quitting.

I’m a lot of things … but I’m not a fucking quitter.

Adrik thinks he’s won? I’m not even close to done yet.

There’s nearly full batches of Molniya and Mechtat complete at the lab. The Wolfpack might have cleared it out, but if not … those drugs are worth a lot of money.

I close my knife and set it on the nightstand.

In the morning, I’ll see what I can salvage.