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Books. So many books. My father has books—but he never reads them. He thinks books are a good marker of sophistication, but he’d never bother wasting time trying to actually move through one cover to cover. He thinks that sort of thing is for people that don’t live out on the streets, like he does—as if he’s some sophisticated homeless man, instead of a rich pimp.
But I like books. I pick a few titles out at random. Charles Dickens, Leo Tolstoy, Anton Chekov. Lots of Russian old masters, mostly in the original language, though I spot a few English translations. I heft a copy ofWar and Peacein my hands and it feels like a huge concrete brick.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for the literate type.”
I jump and turn around, the book held tight against my chest like a set of armor.
Feliks stands in the doorway, his right hand on his left elbow while his left hand strokes his chin, smirking. He tilts his head and squints at the book in my arms.
“Is that Tolstoy? God, he’s such a bore. All those Russians are. Do you know why?”
I shake my head, not sure what else to do. My heart’s racing and my throat goes dry. This is the last person I wanted to run into. The animosity between him and Maxim at dinner was palpable, and I know this man is the one person Maxim really wants to keep me away from. Feliks is smiling, but it’s the grin of a hungry jackal as it corners a lost baby zebra.
“Russia is so dreary and cold,” he says, waving a hand in the air. “Half the year, all they can do is sit around and hide indoors. So they wrote these enormous books because they had nothing else to do. It’s all kopeks and murders and existential angst. Not worth your time, believe me.”
I manage to find my voice. “I read some Chekov. It’s not that bad.”
“Short stories.” He rolls his eyes and steps into the room. I take a step back. “It’s an inferior form.”
“Are you a big reader?” I know the question is stupid. Obviously, he reads. But I don’t know what else to say, and I’m desperate to escape. He’s a bratva man, and though I know his family is deep into the Russian thing, I can’t imagine he’d waste his time on books when he could be out killing people or stealing from small businesses or whatever it is they do.
I wish I’d stayed backed in the room and sent Maxim more dirty texts, or at least encouraged him to keep describing his ideal sexual encounter.
“I used to be when I was younger.” He touches the spines nearest him. “I went through all these years ago. Father made me learn Russian so I could read the old masters in the original.” He smiles to himself, but his smile quickly fades. “He never bothered forcing Emmie or the others to learn it.”
“That sounds hard,” I say stupidly.
“Do you know any Italian? I assume you have to, considering you’re from a Familia.”
I shake my head. “Papa speaks it, but he says we don’t live in the old world anymore.”
Feliks snorts. “You never leave the old world behind.”
“Maybe you’re right.” I inch closer to the door. “I should be getting back.”
“Taking that book with you?” His eyebrows raise.
I stop moving. “Is that not allowed?”
“No, no, it’s okay. I’m sure my father won’t mind if you read his first edition copy of the original English translation.”
I gape at the book in my hands. I hadn’t realized it was so old—until this second. I nearly drop it in my surprise, but manage to hurry back and slip it onto the shelf.
Feliks smiles at me and says nothing as I stand there, breathing hard. I’m rattled and I want to run away, but he angles himself between me and the exit again.
“Let me ask you something, little mafia girl. Why are you here with my brother?”
“I’m his guest.” I look away, heat rising to my cheeks. I hate how easily Feliks gets at me. They all know what my relationship with Maxim is supposed to be, and it isn’t exactly flattering.
“Come now. We both know what’s going on. You’re his mistress.”
“We’re in a relationship.” Which is somewhat true.
He barks a laugh and I jump, startled. He grins at me. “You’re his whore. Don’t deny it, mafia girl. Did your daddy sell you to Maxim for a better deal? I can’t blame him. My brother’s the second most important man in the Novalov bratva, which makes him extremely important. But a whore gets coin and nothing else. You have no influence in this house.”
“I’m not a whore,” I say, glaring at him. My breath comes faster, and my anger only makes Feliks smile bigger.
“As you say, but remember this. Maxim won’t be in power forever. One day Father will realize he needs his own blood in charge, and when that happens, he’ll cast Maxim aside for one of his real sons.”
