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I nod in response because my own voice fails me.
The man walks a circle around me and my brother, looking us up and down as if he’s inspecting us. “I’ve heard about the both of you. I don’t think you realize how fast word can travel.”
“It took you long enough,” Kirill says with determination.
My mouth falls open and I look back up at Kirill. There isn’t any shame in his glare. It’s as if he’s wanted to get this man’s attention for some time, but why would he want that?
The stranger tilts his head, welcoming the idea Kirill has been committing crimes to get his attention. Almost ...proud.
A wicked smile takes over his lips. “Okay.”
I turn and pull at my brother’s arm, begging to get out of this situation. We shouldn’t be standing near a dead body asking for problems. He said I needed to steal so we can eat, but I’m starting to think he did all this on purpose.
We stole from the wrong person, and that’s exactly what Kirill wanted.Does he think he and I can’t conquer the world by ourselves?
“All right, get in the car.” Mr. Gray turns on his heels and begins to walk out of the alley, leaving the dead man to rot.
“Us?” Kirill asks as if he expects anything less.
Mr. Gray stops and turns around slowly. “Unless you’d like to go back to what you were doing.”
I race after him, afraid he’ll leave. He has a long stride to his walk, and I struggle to keep up with him. Kirill and I must look like little ducklings following their mother. The thought alone is kind of embarrassing, but I’ll own up to it. The man is direct with his words and holds a strong sense of purpose. I fear him a million times over, but it’s not the fear that I’ve come to know. In a strange way, I want to follow every step he takes.
A black Mercedes pulls up to the edge of the sidewalk. Mr. Gray opens the door and motions for us to get in. I’ve never been in a car before, and I’m sure it shows. I stare at the shiny leather cushions as I scoot to the other side to make room for my brother.
“Where do you two live?”
“Just around the corner. It’s the gray building with bikes in the yard.”
The man is strong and apathetic. I can tell by the lack of worry lines on his forehead that he doesn’t carry concern on his shoulders. To be a man like him means to expect everyone around you will be just as tough.But what happens if I share my pity for others?No one should ever want to be like him, but a tug at my heart tells me to take note of everything he does.
“Idi k nim domoy.”
Kirill grabs onto my hand and holds it tight to his chest, his heart beating fast.Is he scared?This is what he wanted all along—he should be thrilled about this. My eyes fall to my lap and my mind races in circles. Kirill is a very private person, and I shouldn’t be upset with him for trying to help us, but anger crashes through me when I realize he should have told me about his plan. That’s the least he could have done.
“Kirill,” I whisper as quietly as I can.
The muscles in his neck tense when he leans down to hear me. “Who is this man?”
He licks the bottom of his lip and looks around us to make sure no one’s listening. “He’s Bratva,” he says in a low growl.
Bratva.We shouldn’t be involved with them—I know that much. The crimes my brother and I commit are child’s play compared to what the Bratva does. If Kirill means to work for them, stealing is the last thing we’ll be doing.
The car comes to a short stop, and Mr. Gray opens the door. “Out,” he demands.
I scramble to get out and stand on the sidewalk. I don’t want to go back into that building. I never want to see it again.
“Which door?”
I look up at the man whose eyes are filled with purpose. He looks pissed, but not at me or my brother. Lifting my head, I survey the buildings that surround us. They all look exactly the same, built with cheap material, the stone walls threatening to crumble from a single touch. Trash is placed where bushes should be growing. The lights that hang from the walls flicker on and off, hardly guiding the walkway.
I grab onto his hand and lead him to the rusted yellow door that separates me from my failed excuse of a father. Mr. Gray sniffles and kicks the door down as if it’s made of paper. He steps over the trash and wrinkles his nose at the rancid smell.
I follow behind him while my brother waits outside. I don’t blame Kirill for not wanting to come in. He’s suffered at the hands of our father much longer than I have.
My father stands up from the couch, bags of chips and beer cans falling off his lap. “Mikhail,” he grumbles in Russian, “who is this?”
“Kirill, do you need anything from inside here?” Mr. Gray asks, looking back at him.
