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“Adrik?” Sabrina says, eyebrows raised in mock surprise. “He told me he was an Elvis impersonator.”
“Elvis!” Mykah chortles, spraying my arm with a little bit of spit. “Get me comb, I see it now.”
He holds up his hands, framing my hair, squinting and picturing me with a pompadour. With his fingers spread, I can easily see the missing fingers on his right hand.
“Buy your own comb,” I say, throwing down some cash and picking up our drinks.
“Privet,” Mykah says, leaning in before I can leave. “Krystiyanzdes’.”Krystiyanis here.He jerks his head in the appropriate direction without looking or pointing.
I glance the same way, without letting my eyes rest on the group crammed into the far corner table.
“Blagadoryu,”I murmur, turning away and leading Sabrina to our own table.
“What did he say to you?” she demands once we’re seated.
“He was letting me know we’ve got an old friend in the house.”
“The table in the corner?”
She doesn’t miss a thing.
“Yeah. The pretty boy in the too-tight suit.”
Sabrina laughs softly. “How do you know him?”
“From school. ‘Friend’ was an exaggeration—I fucking loathe him.”
Sabrina looks at me with curiosity.
“What does it take to get on your bad side?”
“I told him something in confidence. When it got out, I knew he couldn’t be trusted. That was the first reason … I’ve had plenty since.”
“Well, don’t worry,” Sabrina says, giving me a sly smile. “Your secrets are safe with me.”
“What secrets do you know?”
“Plenty. You talk in your sleep …”
“What do I say?”
“I just promised not to tell anyone.”
I take a sip of my drink. “That’s probably for the best.”
“Is everyone here Bratva?” Sabrina asks, letting her gaze shift around the room, the tables obscured by cigar and hookah smoke, and the low light.
“Most of them.”
She examines one table after another from under her lashes, before pronouncing, “They don’t look how I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
She shrugs. “More tattoos.”
“The old ways are dying out. You’ve got to blend in nowadays, it’s better for business. If they have the marks, they keep them where a suit can cover.”
“Not everyone,” Sabrina says, looking at the man nursing a pint at the table next to ours, his shaved skull covered with a sprawling black widow spider.
