Chapter 34
Amy
Victor Sokolov finds me on a Tuesday evening.
Not in a dark corner somewhere, which would honestly fit his style.
He takes the seat across from me in the quad—in the open, by the colonnade along the east academic building, at six in the evening, when students are still crossing the quad. When the lights are on, and the campus is lit, and I’m not alone.
He’s not alone either.
Two men stand behind him. They are huge and imposing, but not as large as Saint. Almost no one is. These men are chosen for situations where their height and build matter.
They wear expensive casual clothes of men whose money represents their employer. In this case, it’s Victor. He’s rich and flashy, and the way he dresses and his accent when he speaks make it no secret he’s Russian…Russian Mafia, to be exact.
Victor himself is not physically imposing. He is lean and has the kind of face that would be attractive if arranged differently. His facial features are not bad to look at, but his expression has curdled into something that looks like confidence from a distance and contempt up close.
“Amy,” he says.
“How can I help you?” All I know about Victor is what Azriel told me, which is to stay away.
“I don’t need help from you. But I want to continue our conversation since we were rudely interrupted.
See, I know plenty when it comes to you.
You are a scholarship student. No family connections.
GPA of 3.9. Currently of interest to the campus social media page since you left Babylon with Saint Vitale last night, which is an interesting development for someone in your position. ”
My position.
I keep my face exactly where I want it. Neutral. Attentive. A skill I have practiced since I learned that giving your true emotions away has consequences.
“What position is that?” I challenge.
He smiles like a predator. “Prey. That is what they call your kind. The scholarship intake. The ones with no family connections and no one who would ask the right questions if something went wrong. My family has donated its resources to this institution for generations. I’m sure you have figured out by now what it was for. ”
I have.
I’ve known for weeks. I have the knowledge filed and labeled, and I have been sitting with it, turning it over, understanding it, waiting until I know what to do with it.
“What do you want, Victor?” I snap, cutting through his bullshit.
“I want you to understand something. What my family helped organize here has a purpose. Arrangements that keep certain things running smoothly and that does not disappear. You are on the list. And the people who use the list do not need the Order to intervene to keep using it.”
Azriel sometimes does not say things that clearly exist in the space his sentences leave. The Order is the campus institution.
“Where are you going with this? What does all this have to do with me? I’m not the only one on the list,” I point out.
Something shifts in his expression. His eyes travel to the V of my shirt and back.
“I want you, Amy.”
Bile rises in the middle of my chest. “Listen carefully,” I say. “ I’m not interested.”
He looks at me with an expression that tells me he expects me to say everything I plan to, but the expression on his face tells me he’s on a mission to get what he wants, and whatever that is, is not just about me.
“Here is what I want you to understand,” he says, his voice dropping to something more intimate and dangerous.
“Whatever you think Saint Vitale is to you, you are not protected. A name, a car, and a house do not change what you are in this world. People who involve themselves with things they do not understand have a way of becoming part of the landscape.” He pauses.
“You seem like a smart girl. I’m telling you this as a courtesy. ”
A courtesy. Who the fuck does this asshole think he is?
A byproduct of his upbringing. Another entitled idiot who exists to use people like me for leverage, offering a warning dressed as kindness.
I think about the men from my past standing in front of me and telling me what I am, what position I occupy, what the options are for someone in my situation.
My father.
Roman.
Azriel.
Saint.
Every room where someone with power decided to explain my circumstances to me as if they were not things being done to me but simply facts of the world.
I’m so tired of being used.
“Thank you for the courtesy,” I say. Completely even. “Is there anything else?”
He blinks.
“I’m sorry?” he says.
“I asked if there was anything else. If not, I have somewhere I need to be.”
Victor stares at me as I gather my things.
One of the men behind him shifts.
“You should think very carefully,” Victor says, recovering, “about who you trust yourself with and what that costs.”
“I will. Good evening.”
I walk past him down the length of the colonnade and through the gate and across the quad, and I don’t stop until I’m through the dormitory entrance and up the stairs and inside my room with the door closed and locked.
I sit on the bed with my coat still on, and I let the shaking happen because it was always going to happen, and I’m in a place where it is allowed.
I breathe through it.
Five things I can see. Four I can hear. Three I can touch.
When it passes, I open my notebook.
I write:
Victor Sokolov. The Order.
He expected me to be afraid.
I was afraid. But he could not tell.
I close the notebook.
I think about who I can trust.
The chart in my head has two columns. What I know. What I have been told. And underneath both, the question that has been sitting there since the first note slid under my door: Who is keeping me safe and why?
I know the answer.
I’ve known it for a while.
I’m just learning what to do with it.