In a way, the situation reminds me of the maids we had at home, of the food they used to prepare to please my sister. She was the picky eater, I was not. I took whatever they gave us and never complained. It made me invisible. So much so that when I did ask for something different—strawberry, instead of blueberry jam for my pancakes—they threw accusations in my face for making their lives hard.
I cried that night, under my covers, because I couldn’t understand what I’d done wrong. I was a child.
I sigh, a flicker of the same familiar sadness I carry with me pulsing through my chest.
“I’m sorry,” I say, noticing the way she quickly glances at me. “I’ve been trying to get to know you since, you know, we kind of see each other every day. But it’s clear something is preventing you from speaking to me. I’m just feeling really lonely, and… anyway, yeah, I’m sorry, and it won’t happen again. Thanks for the food.”
For a short moment, her face relaxes with a timid smile, but she remains silent as she pours milk into my coffee.
Tears form at the backs of my eyes, so I get up from the floor and walk to the bathroom. Closing the door behind me, I slide down to the floor again, covering my eyes with my palms as my shoulders shake with quiet sobs.
I’m so alone right now. So unbelievably alone.
I haven’t heard from anyone back home, including Sasha, even though I briefly explained things over the phone.
Turns out my parents hadn’t even told him, and since he was traveling for the riding tournaments, he hadn’t heard from anyone else either. But what can he do about it? On his own, he’s no match for the Rykov Bratva. And like me, Sasha is almost always by himself.
I cry into my palms, my throat swelling with pain, eyes burning from the salt in my tears. Corinne must be long gone by now, so I don’t bother muffling my voice anymore.
Sitting there, on the cold bathroom floor, for what feels like forever, I break until my eyes dry out and my body resumes its normal breathing pattern.
When I finally get up, I crawl back into bed, even though I just recently woke up.
What’s the point of staying awake, anyway?
10
WOLFGANG
The tattooed man in front of me drums his fingers on his whiskey glass. “Ten percent,” he says, the Albanian accent sharp on his tongue.
I nod slowly, absently, looking to the side, then back at him. “Like I said, it’s five percent or none. We’ve already secured enough deals to move forward without you.”
“What’s there to say I can’t get more from the Italians?”
“You can try. But by the time you meet with them, we’ll already own the territory. Do with this information what you will.”
As the Albanian Mafia head ponders with his decision, I look behind his shoulder at the two men coming in. Politicians.
Senator Maddox Thorne, campaigning for president, stands next to Rowan King. High up in the military, he’s the man you call when everything goes wrong. He doesn’t seem bothered by the scrutiny he’s received lately over his involvement in the government. To me, he looks like someone who owns his decisions. And I can respect that.
The Hive is the only place where someone like me and the Albanian can be under the same roof with people like them.
It’s an exclusive gentlemen’s club in New York City, where our positions don’t matter other than to grant us an invitation to join. Once you’re in, you’re here to do business, so all your disdain remains outside.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I take it out, seeing a message from Corinne.
I told her to text me if Victoria was giving her a hard time, but I haven’t heard from her till now. Keeping my phone under the table, I peer down to read what she sent.
C: sorry to bother you
C: she hasn’t eaten anything today
C: thought you might wanna know
I frown, my attention completely on this conversation now.
W: Why? Is she sick?
