I want to clean our house, but I think my father might kill me if I try. He goes into a rage if I touch anything, even the food in the fridge. Everything has to stay exactly where he put it. Only he can see the order in his jumbled system.
I don’t have to tell the driver the address of the theater. Everyone knows the Bolshoi—it’s featured on the hundred-ruble note. The neoclassical pillars are as familiar to Russians as the Lincoln Memorial is to Americans from their penny.
The Bolshoi is our Phoenix. Four times destroyed by fire and once by a bomb, we’ve rebuilt it every time. Its last renovation symbolizes something rather less inspiring—classic Russian graft. The billion-dollar taxpayer bill was sixteen times the estimated price, and the lead contractor was paid three times over for the same work.
State construction projects are how the oligarchs funnel public money into their pockets. Politicians, businessmen, and Bratva are one and the same in Russia.
Ballet tickets are sold in bulk to mafia dealers, who provide them to the public at double the face value. We have our hand in every pocket. No commerce can be done without the Bratva taking their cut.
I’ve been to the Bolshoi many times before. I know the rehearsal rooms, the backstage, and the secret passageways just as well as the front lobby. My father and I easily make our way through the bustle of dancers in their ripped tights and battered shoes, the air redolent with the scent of hairspray, nylon, and sweat.
“Adrian and Dmitry, it’s been too long,” Danyl Kuznetsov greets us, dapper in his navy suit, with his dark hair and beard freshly trimmed.
Danyl is the one who helped secure my admission to Kingmakers. For that, I owe him two years’ service after I graduate.
“I hear you’re doing very well at school,” Danyl says, clapping me on the back.
“I enjoy the classes,” I say, which is mostly true.
“Now you get a little break. Even God rested for a day.” He chuckles, then pulls me close against his side, nodding toward the pretty little ballerina scurrying by. “You want to fuck one of those? I can bring one upstairs for you. Or two if you like! They’ll do anything for a part in the next show. Or a handful of rubles. They make no money here, not until they become principles.”
“No thank you,” I say stiffly.
“What’s wrong, you don’t like to fuck?”
“I don’t like dancers. Too skinny,” I say.
I don’t want to fuck a ballerina. Just standing in this theater is reminding me of things I don’t want to remember.
“Suit yourself.” Danyl shrugs.
He doesn’t bother asking my father. All the Bratva know that Adrian Yenin won’t disrobe for anything. And they probably prefer it that way. Even the most hardened soldiers don’t enjoy looking at my father’s face.
“Come have a drink, at least,” Danyl says, leading us up the back staircase to the private elevator, where we ascend to the topmost floor.
The penthouse suite is as lush and gleaming as the rest of the theater, every inch of space covered in red velvet, gilded gold, and sparkling chandeliers. I recognize most of the men already gathered, including the three Moscow bosses.
Moscow is divided into three territories, each with its own Pakhan. My father’s territory is run by Abram Balakin. Danyl is his lieutenant, and my father is third in line in terms of authority, though he could never be boss himself, not with his particular proclivities.
Since neither Abram nor Danyl has any children, it’s possible that I could become Pakhan someday. That’s the reason I was accepted to the Heirs division at Kingmakers. But my position is not assured. I’ll have to prove myself at school, and then in the ranks of the Bratva after graduation.
Abram greets me warmly. He’s always liked me, and my father too, because of all the money my father has saved the Bratva through his meticulous record-keeping and careful investment.
“You look strong, Dmitry,” he says approvingly. “They feed you well at school.”
Abram has been fed a little too well himself. His tailors must charge him twice the usual price for a suit, with the vast amount of fine Italian fabric required to cover that belly. His cheeks are floridly flushed from alcohol, and you could fit a weekend’s worth of luggage in the bags under his eyes.
Success has defeated Abram when no enemy could do it. He’s become lazy and complacent, a shadow of the warrior who once slaughtered thirty rivals in a single night.
He must secede his place sometime in the next five years or ten, before it’s taken from him forcibly. I’m sure he knows this. He’s transferring assets out of the country and promoting the men beneath him.
I can almost taste Danyl’s ambition as he stands shoulder to shoulder with his boss. He wants to be Pakhan, badly.
And who will be lieutenant then?
“Abram,” Egor Antonov says. “I brought you one of those Don Arturo cigars you love so well. Smoke with me; my son is home for the summer.”
Egor holds out the cigar to Abram, subtly shouldering aside my father so that he and his son stand in a better position. My father takes a step back, leaning on his walking stick. I clench my fists inside the pockets of my trousers.
I know Vanya Antonov from Kingmakers. He’s an Enforcer in my year, friends with Bodashka Kushnir and Silas Gray. He’s tall and well-built, square-jawed, with a bold Roman nose and dark features. He has an arrogant tilt to his chin and a smile that’s more of a smirk.
“Now there’s another well-built lad,” Abram says, slapping Vanya on the back. “I wish all my soldiers came from Kingmakers.”
“Vanya is strong as an ox. And fights like a bear! He’s knocked a few heads together at school.”
“Oh really?” I say coolly. “I didn’t see you fighting in the tournament last year, Vanya. You weren’t chosen, were you?”
Vanya turns his head to look at me, cocking one well-groomed eyebrow. I bet he plucks them, the prissy bitch.
“No, I wasn’t,” he chuckles. “Probably because it was your cousin doing the choosing.”
“We all know how that goes,” Egor snorts.
Nepotism is an art in Russia.
“I was chosen off talent,” I remind Vanya. “Leo Gallo and I despise each other.”
“So even your own family doesn’t like you,” Vanya replies, smirking all the more.
The other men laugh, and I take a swift step forward, pulling my fists out of my pockets. The only thing preventing me from propelling one of those fists directly into the center of Vanya’s arrogant face is my father’s good hand pressed flat across my chest.
“Control yourself,” he hisses.
“I placed first in the tournament and second in marks,” I tell Vanya. “Whereas I’ve barely heard your name spoken at school. I almost forgot you attended until this moment.”
Abram gives a little snort. Vanya hears it. Now it’s his turn to color, because he has no good response for his complete failure to distinguish himself at Kingmakers.
“I’d be glad to give you a lesson in my skills right now,” he barks, the veneer of civility between us completely rubbed away.
“No need for that, boys,” Abram says in a bored tone. “We have other entertainment planned for the evening.”
He claps his hands. The double doors at the end of the private suite swing open. Twenty elegant women swarm through, dressed in sparkling gowns and diamond jewelry. Every one is tall and slim, their shining hair piled high on their heads. These are no chorus dancers, but the prima ballerinas, expected to drink and dance and socialize with the Bratva. Like geishas, they offer the highest levels of cultured feminine charm. When the Bratva want to fuck, they visit their own brothels. When they want to be entertained, they bring in the ballerinas.