It took him a good fifteen to twenty minutes to navigate the maze of hallways in the basement of the Compound before he finally stood in the doorway of the furnace and boiler room. He eyed the men standing in front of the furnace, as they tossed paper after paper into the flames licking out of the large door they’d thrown wide open while they did their work. He didn’t care to ask the two what they were doing.
Dressed in black clothes and talking to one another in low, hushed Russian, they seemed intent on finishing their task of burning papers. So much so, that they didn’t even notice he was standing in the doorway at first. He recognized them, of course. He’d seen their hawk-like faces around the Compound often, but he rarely spoke to them. The same way he often chose to keep quiet with anyone else who came around.
Boykov men—soldiers. No one particularly important, but at the same time, every man who worked for the Boykov family held some kind of importance.
It just depended on who liked them.
His time here taught him that.
“Zhatka, nice to see you this evening.”
The taller of the two greeted him first when he finally noticed Pav standing there. The other man—rounder and shorter—looked up at his comrade’s statement, and his gaze darted to where Pav was standing in the doorway. He didn’t miss the fear that flickered in the second man’s eyes while the first seemed entirely unconcerned.
That wasn’t unusual, either.
Some of these men were terrified of Pav—maybe it was because they had been a witness to the things he was capable of one too many times, and they were worried they might be the next man to find himself in one of Pav’s chambers.
Who knew?
“I need the furnace,” Pav said, not bothering with a greeting for them. He didn’t care to say hello, or make nice. That wasn’t his job here—he only cared about that, not them. “Finish up your work by the time I get back here, will you?”
The first man—Anton, he believed was his name—lifted his head from the papers he was looking over in a folder. “What do you need the furnace for?”
“None of your business. Finish your work by the time I get back, or you can help me with mine.”
That did it.
Both men were quick to nod.
Pav might laugh, if he were capable of it. No one wanted to be the Zhatka. No one wanted the job of death. That was just left for him, in the darkness and shadows. Maybe that was what he found comfort in.
Death.
It did feel like an old friend, now.
“Oh, Pav?” Anton asked as he turned to leave.
“Da?”
“Any reason why I heard the boss wants to talk to you?”
Pav’s shoulders tensed, but not for the reason one might think. The boss was gone—Vadim, the man who decided to keep and train him like a puppy … well, he was no longer running the Boykovs. He’d heard those whispers and rumors.
There was always a bit of truth to them, right?
Instead of answering the man’s question, Pav simply asked, “Which boss?”
“Konstantin.”
Ah.
The second Boykov son.
Well, what the fuck did he want with Pav? Couldn’t they leave him to his musty, death-filled peace? Konstantin’s father always did. It was easier this way.
• • •
There was something to be said for the familiarity of routine. It was one of the few things Pav chose to take comfort in because it was the one thing—other than the chambers—that he truly had control of when it came to his life and days. His days, and evenings, were often scheduled down to thirty-minute increments. From the time he woke up, until the point he laid his head back down on an old mattress covered with a black sheet to sleep.
He had one clock in the chambers. A digital clock that sat on the counter in the small kitchen section of his living quarters. One might call it an apartment, but he didn’t know if he would call the total of two rooms that. It was set up like a bachelor’s loft—the kitchen, dining, seating, and bedroom area was really one semi-large space, and the bathroom was offset in a separate room.
The place was made of cement walls, no windows, and bare bulbs for lights. Any and all things that decorated the place—which was basically nothing except for his clothes, the blankets on his bed, and the towels in the bathroom—came from a supply area in an upper section of the Compound. He didn’t know who kept the supply room full of personal items and household things, not to mention, food … but someone did it. He was grateful because it was one less thing he had to worry about.
He’d come to the Compound a young boy—all of twelve. He’d known how to care for himself on a very basic level, but not much more. Occasionally, a man would show up to his living quarters when he was younger and show him this or that. The people who taught him things like how to shave, how to cook something that didn’t come in a can … he didn’t even know their names.
He supposed it was no different than someone training an animal. They came in, he was taught how to do a specific thing, and once he had mastered it, they’d pat him on the head like he was a good boy, and left him to his business.
Just like Vadim had said. He was an animal to be trained.
And kept.
Those men didn’t just come to teach him how to take care of himself, either. No, they also came to beat the hell out of him occasionally—toughen you up, suka. He quickly learned how to fight back, too. They’d come to make him
