At first, Pav tried to hide away in a corner, terrified, as they did their business. He learned to stop being scared.
It wouldn’t help.
He needed to be the one who made others scared of him. That was the only way Pav could survive here. He couldn’t be easy prey. He had to be the predator hiding in the dark, and he needed everyone to know it, too.
Pav passed a look at the clock, noting he had another ten minutes to finish washing the one plate, bowl, set of utensils, cup, and pan he’d used to cook that day. He’d finish out his evening by cleaning the rest of his living quarters by hand with hot, soapy water and a rag, like he did every night, do one last walk through the chambers, and depending on how he felt … he might read.
Books, or the ones he found lying around in the old, forgotten rooms upstairs in the Compound, kept him from becoming bored. And, where his education had officially stopped at age twelve, he at least continued reading. That spoke to something good for him, surely.
“Why haven’t you run yet?”
Pav almost dropped the cup he was currently scrubbing at the new voice coming from behind him, but he didn’t. Usually, he just left the door to enter his quarters open because no one came this far into the lower part of the Compound. He was mostly left alone, now. If someone had business down here, it was almost always in the furnace room or with one of the prisoners in the cells.
Never for him, though.
He recognized the voice and maybe that was the reason why he relaxed a little. Not enough that he felt safe, but safety was a fucking joke here. Nothing was ever safe.
“Konstantin,” Pav greeted, not unkindly.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“There’s nothing to answer.”
“I think there is, yes?” Konstantin’s sigh echoed through the space, crawling to Pav’s spot at the kitchen sink slowly. “My father is gone—and he’s the one who put you here over a decade ago.”
“Fourteen years ago.”
“Hmm.”
Pav finished washing the cup and set it on the cupboard with the other washed dishes sitting atop a drying towel. Turning slowly, he found Konstantin Boykov standing in the doorway of his quarters. The man hadn’t even stepped beyond the threshold, and Pav wasn’t sure if he appreciated that, or if that was a sign of something bad yet to come.
“He’s gone,” Konstantin said, “and so why aren’t you? Nothing is keeping you here and no one would stop you.”
“Wouldn’t they?”
He’d tried to run once.
It hadn’t ended well.
Konstantin arched a brow, and it made the man’s hard features sharpen even more. He didn’t look entirely like his exiled father—there were obvious differences—but his features were similar enough that it made Pav pause, and wonder … how alike are you to your father, Konstantin Boykov?
The answer to that question would likely decide how this meeting ended, honestly. Pav still wasn’t willing to ask the question out loud.
“I don’t have any place to go,” Pav replied, “the Compound is my home.”
Konstantin said nothing, but Pav didn’t miss the way the man’s throat jumped like he was swallowing back those words and trying to digest them. “Is that really how you feel?”
“The outside …” Pav cocked his head to the side, choosing his next words carefully. “I don’t know it well.”
“You’ve been allowed to leave.”
“Occasionally. Usually with someone else. Always at night. I know some people beyond these walls—people I met through the people here. Should that make me feel safe enough to trust that I know what the rest of the world is like, too?”
Again, Konstantin said nothing.
Pav didn’t blame the man.
He went back to his work at the sink, finishing up the last few dishes he had to wash, and setting them to dry on the rack. He found Konstantin was still standing in the doorway when he was done, and turned back around.
Pav frowned. “Why aren’t you coming in?”
Konstantin’s brow dipped. “This isn’t my home. You’ve not invited me in.”
That never mattered to anyone before.
This place wasn’t his, either.
Or, that’s what he’d always been told.
Konstantin cleared his throat, drawing Pav’s attention back to him once more. “You’ve always been good to the Boykovs, haven’t you?”
“I wasn’t given a choice.”
“And yet …” Konstantin trailed off with a wave of his hand. “Here you are, Pavel.”
“I’m surprise you even know my name.”
“Do you prefer Zha—”
“Nyet.”
Konstantin nodded. “Settles that, then.”
Did it?
Pav had no idea.
“It’s time the Boykovs are good to you,” the man murmured. “Beginning with protection and letting you have … well, as much freedom as I can allow.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m sure your time spent here has afforded you some education on the Bratva and our life. The rules and so forth.”
“Enough to get by,” Pav returned.
Konstantin smiled coldly. “That’s all you need. We’ll start with the stars—two, on your clavicles. They’ll give you rank and protection. As for your duties … they will vary, but you’ll begin answering to me and my brother today and beyond, yes? You won’t die in these chambers, Pavel. I think you’ve atoned for your father’s actions long enough.”
Pav blinked. “When?”
“For what?”
“The tattoos.”
“Soon. I’ll have a date and address for you, and that’s where it’ll happen.”
Pav’s cheek twitched and his hands balled into tight fists at his sides. Konstantin didn’t miss the actions.
“What is it?” the man asked.
He wanted to swallow the words and keep his weakness to himself. Here, weakness was a target and the last thing he could afford to be around any of these men was weak. Even if it
