The Toy Collector (The Russo Mafia #1)

Chapter 1

Piper

T he late August sun is relent less, baking the pavement as Lena and I walk across the quad, bags slung over our shoulders, cold drinks in hand.

Campus is alive with first-day energy—students reuniting after the summer, freshmen looking lost, and professors checking their watches as they head to class.

It’s our final year of grad school, but the excitement of being back still lingers, that rush of new schedules, new classes, new possibilities.

“God, did we ever look that young and scared?” she giggles, nodding toward a group of freshmen.

“Us? We’ve never looked young, Lee,” I laugh back. “I swear I had crow’s feet at eighteen. And I think I found my first gray hair the day of my final high school exam.”

I take a sip of my iced coffee—whipped cream, caramel drizzle, borderline dessert but absolutely necessary—Lena cradles her iced chai tea like it’s holy.

She eyes my drink with disapproval but wisely doesn’t comment on my drink choice.

As my best friend, her word is law in many areas of my life, just not the calorie goodness that is this drink.

“This is the year, Pipes,” she says, confident as ever. “We own this shit.”

“Damn right,” I mutter.

“We need to manifest good energy. Straight A’s, zero drama, and a thriving social life.”

I snort, licking whipped cream off my straw. “Yes, cause nothing says thriving social life like being a political student,” I mock good-naturedly.

Sighing, she slashes her hand through the air in a dramatic gesture. “Hey, it’s your birthday today, bitch. I don’t want to talk about capstone, internships, or anything else. We’re celebrating this weekend, right?”

Shrugging one should er, I avert my gaze. “Umm… what did you have in mind?”

While we make our way across the quad and into the office building, Lee lists off suggestions, each one involving copious amounts of alcohol. I try to keep my facial expression neutral, pretending to consider the options.

It’s not that I don’t like alcohol. But cocktail bars are more my scene than the loud clubs she’s prattling on about. Seriously, I don’t get the point of those places since you have to scream if you want to have a conversation.

“Give it up,” Lena laughs, hip bumping me as we stop outside the career center where I have a meeting with my advisor.

“I know you hate going out. But seriously, Pipes. This is not just our last first-day. It’s your birthday, and our last year in this place.

That deserves the kind of celebration that leaves a hangover. ”

Groaning, I push the door open. “I’ll think about it,” I promise before I slip into the office.

“It’s happening whether you want it to or not,” Lee announces, and when I turn around to look at her, she’s pointing finger guns at me. “Might as well get with the program.”

Shaking my head, I slip into the office, immediately throwing my now empty plastic cup in the trash can by the door. Damn Lena and her over-the-top ideas.

A smile splays on my lips as I look up from the floor, confidently striding toward the secretary. But as I take my next step, my heel gets snagged on the carpet. I stagger backwards, my ankle wobbles, and just as I go down, I’m mentally cursing the shoes I’m wearing.

“Motherfucker—” Okay, I guess I’m not only using my inner voice.

I throw my arms out to stop myself from falling on my ass in the pristine Georgetown office.

Jesus H. Christ. In the three years I’ve been here, I’ve done everything in my power to be professional. Dressed for success, never skipped a day or delayed an assignment. Yet, here I am, my ass about to be intimately acquainted with the plush carpet, while a curse slips from me.

This distinctly feels like I’ve somehow offended a higher being, one that’s in turn decided to take revenge via humiliation.

My cheeks burn as I hurry to get back up, not sparing a glance at the people sitting in their chairs and waiting for their name to be called. After picking up my laptop bag, I roll my shoulders back and march up to the secretary.

“Hi,” I sing-song, throwing my dark brown hair over my shoulder. “I have an appointment with Mrs. Ellis.”

“Name,” the grouchy woman utters, not once looking up from her computer.

“Piper Harrington,” I reply, trying not to laugh as my gaze lands on her reflection in the window behind her. She’s playing solitaire, not curing some kind of rare diseas e.

Just as she starts telling me to take a seat, my advisor, Mrs. Ellis, sticks her head out of her office. “Come in, Piper,” she smiles.

I follow her into her den, which is exactly what it feels like.

Everything from the walls to the furnishings is cloaked in dark wood and deep jewel tones—mahogany shelves lined with dense books, a Persian rug muted by time, and emerald velvet chairs that look more decorative than practical.

The air is warm and slightly stale, laced with the scent of old paper and something faintly floral—like a perfume that’s long since faded into the walls.

We sit down at her desk, my back to the door. While she opens her laptop, I crane my neck, looking at the single lamp that glows in the corner. I’ll never understand why Mrs. Ellis always has her dark and heavy curtains drawn, especially not on a beautiful day like today.

“So, this is your last year,” she says.

“It is,” I confirm, crossing one leg over the other.

Mrs. Ellis hums as she clicks around on her laptop. “Still on track with the Master’s in Political Communication and Public Policy?”

“Yeah. My focus is mostly campaign strategy and narrative development, media angles, voter outreach, all that.”

“Good,” she says. “That’s a solid niche. Competitive, but with the right experience, you’ll be fine.”

I nod once, already bracing for what she’s about to say.

“That brings us to internships,” she says, confirming my dread. “Have you had any luck?”

“Not yet,” I say, my voice tighter than I mean it to be. “I’ve applied to a bunch; PR consultancies, media firms. Even some smaller campaigns. I’m just waiting to hear back.”

The look she gives me is that of a disappointed parent. “I’d like to tell you there’s time, and there is. But not much. The top-tier placements are probably already gone.”

Ugh, that’s exactly what I didn’t want to hear.

“Simply put, Piper. If you don’t secure an internship by the first of October, you’re out of the running for…”

I squirm in my seat, trying not to look as defeated as I feel as I listen to her go on and on about how much this internship means.

“In fact…” She pauses and taps on her laptop again. “… seventy-eight percent of your peers secured their internships before the summer break.”

“I know,” I sigh.

This is the first time I don’t have a solid plan, the first time I haven’t secured the next step months in advance. And it’s scary.

“This isn’t just for the credit,” she adds. “For someone in your program, the internship isn’t just experience—it’s a graduation requirement.”

“Yeah.” I pause. “I’ll follow up again this week. Maybe reach out to some alumni ?”

“Smart move,” she says.

Mrs. Ellis gives me a few more pointers, before ending the meeting by telling me to come by again in a week. I know what she isn’t saying; if I don’t have an internship by then, I need to pivot.

“Can I ask you one more question?” I ask, not sure I want to, but fully aware I need to know. When she nods, I force the words out. “What happens if I can’t secure an internship?”

“Then you won’t graduate on time.”

The words land like a punch, making me exhale in small puffs. She must see it on my face, because her tone softens just a touch.

“It’s a required component of your track, Piper. The program requires applied fieldwork logged and evaluated by the end of the semester.”

“Right,” I murmur, more to myself than to her.

“Look,” she says, not unkindly. “You’re not behind yet. But this isn’t the year to wait for doors to open. You’ve got the grades, the writing, the instinct—start using your network. Email professors. Go to those boring wine-and-cheese mixers.”

I nod, even though the idea of “networking” makes my skin crawl.

“And Piper?”

I meet her eyes.

“You’re one of the strongest students in your cohort. Don’t let the quiet panic of senior year shrink you.”

I swallow hard and thank her before stepping out, already composing five different follow-up emails in my head.

Feeling dazed, I leave Mrs. Ellis’ office. My plan is to shrug her warning off and head to the lecture, it’s one of my favorites after all. But no matter how much I tell my legs to carry me in that direction, they refuse.

For the first time in my twenty-six years of being alive, I skip class. I tell myself it’s fine—birthday privilege, mental health, whatever excuse I need to not sit through a lecture I won’t hear a word of. What I really need is caffeine, quiet, and distance from campus.

So I walk three blocks east until the buildings start to feel less academic and more curated. I duck into the café I favor when I want to disappear. It’s off the beaten path, and pretentious enough that no one I know comes here.

The girl behind the counter doesn’t even blink when I place my order. It arrives like a small piece of heaven in a glass, and I take it to a small corner table without bothering to open my laptop.

Instead of emailing alumni, rewriting my résumé, or even applying for that underpaid campaign internship Lena swears is a stepping stone, I just sit there.

The funny thing is, I should be panicking. But I’m not. I’m just floating—untethered, like I missed a step and now I’m waiting to land. Everyone else seems so ahead. Their placement secure d, capstone outlined, LinkedIn updated like they’ve been prepping for this since birth.