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Natalia chuckles and adjusts her hair in the mirror. Today, the side that isn’t buzzed is braided back against her head, ending in a small bun at the base of her neck. “I should have guessed you were a goody-goody. All charitable and selfless.”
I laugh. “Only in theory. I don’t actually have the money to donate to charity.”
“But if you had money, you’d donate it?”
I shrug. “I hope so. I like to think I’d be a generous rich person.”
“Then you’ll never be a rich person,” she says. “People don’t get rich by being generous and giving all their money away. They build houses like this next to the ocean and hire poor, idealistic suckers like you to work for them.”
I wince. “Ouch. Harsh.”
“Honest, not harsh,” she cackles. “Sorry, but it’s true. It’s okay, though: I’m not gonna be rich, either. I spend it as fast as I get it.”
I spray glass cleaner on the next mirror over, obscuring my reflection. “Well, find out what line of work Kirill is in and maybe you can bust onto that scene. It pays well, apparently.”
“I don’t think I want to live that kind of high-risk lifestyle.”
The cleaner is dripping down the mirror, heading quickly for the floor, but I spin around. “Huh?”
“Kirill’s work,” she clarifies. “That whole crime syndicate thing? Not for me. I’m not a goody-goody, but I’m not into breaking femurs and shit.”
I feel myself pale.Breaking femurs? More like breaking tibias. I saw it with my own eyes.
“You know this for sure?” I ask carefully.
“Notfor sure,for sure. But there’s no way you haven’t heard the rumors.” Natalia sits up. I can see the blurry outline of her in the wet mirror. “You okay, Rayne?”
I’m standing perfectly still, glass cleaner pooling along the seam of the mirror and the concrete floor. Quickly, I shake off my shock and start to wipe down the mirror with my rag.
“I’m fine. I just haven’t heard anything about him. I thought he was some kind of businessman.”
“He is,” she says. “But the guy I’m seeing is a tattoo artist. He’s done a lot of work with the local motorcycle clubs. And they chat while they’re working. Kirill’s name has come up.”
I snap around once again, eyes wide. “He’s in a motorcycle gang?”
“No,” she laughs. “But he’s associated with them, at least. And that isn’t a smoking gun or anything, but it’s not nothing. It’s enough that I’m going to stay on his good side, if you know what I mean.”
“Is that why we can’t go to the third floor?” I ask, speaking more to myself than anyone. A million thoughts are running through my head. Images of chains hanging from the ceilings, steel bars secured to the windows, soundproof walls that swallow up the endless screams of his enemies.
Natalia pushes herself off the bench with a groan and gets back to cleaning. “I don’t know. I’ve asked everyone and no one knows a thing.”
“Even Sonya?”
“Hell no! I haven’t talked to Sonya any more than necessary. That bitch is like a ghost. And she wouldn’t tell me anything anyway. She’s in on the secret, remember?”
“Oh, right. She goes up there.”
Complicitis the word that pops up in my head.
For a few minutes, I get lost in the cleaning, the details. The hum of the separate air conditioning unit for the gym buzzing like a white noise. The smell of the disinfectant. The squishy workout pads under my feet.
If my brain wasn’t busy spinning a thousand different horrifying tales about Kirill and all of his blood-soaked secrets, this would be nice. Pleasant, even. Despite what my sisters think, there’s something satisfying about tackling a physical task and seeing a distinct final product when you’re done. When Natalia and I are nearly finished wiping down the mirrors and all of the machines, the gym glistens. It almost makes me want to work out.
Not quite, but almost.
“Do you think Viktoria knows about the third floor?” I ask as we’re packing up our stuff.
“Probably,” Natalia says. “She’s his girlfriend, so I’m sure she knows something.”
