Page 63 of Mayflower

He’s talking, of course, about the contract I gave up for his sake, or Maddy’s, to be exact. And South Africans are not on good terms with him. Also, his rapid change of topics is peculiar. I think it’s a trick to catch people lying or simply slipping and telling the truth. He is good. He seems relaxed, but I know he’s studying my body language like an expert psychologist.

“Jean Artrout, the senator,” I answer.

“And you know him how?”

“He is the father of one of the residents here.”

“Siena Artrout.”

He knows it all, of course. “Right.”

Maddy’s eyes flicker at me.

“You are good at making connections with important people, Raven.”

“Thank you. I try, Mr. Tsariuk.”

“Aleksei,” he insists on me calling him that while everyone else at Ayana addresses him as Mr. Tsariuk and behind his back call him His Majesty or Papa Tsariuk.

Surprisingly, for the next several hours, Aleksei eases on the interrogation and instead tells me about Milena. Not her school years or fancy places they used to travel to abroad, but them spending summer months in Taiga, the northern parts of Russia, at a distant relative’s place in the country, and fishing in the Yenisei River. That Milena used to like mushroom hunting. That she learned how to shoot a rifle at the age of eight. That’s when I ask questions, about her but mostly about Tsariuk’s past. And he sees right through it—that I want to avoid talking about myself but also want to know more about him.

Three hours later, we are still at the table, drinking.

Maddy sips wine. I drink whiskey. Tsariuk’s choice is cognac.

“Drink,” he insists, pouring another shot for me, and I force it in, though I’m pretty roasted already because I drank close to half a bottle. “Eat,” he adds. “You cannot drink much if you do not eat.”

There’s a table full of appetizers, though we finished dinner. But supposedly, Tsariuk explains, this is not food, these are drinking snacks. A table full.

“Why drink so much then?” I ask.

Tsariuk leans on one elbow on the table and snorts at me in amused contempt. “Liquor helps untie a tongue.”

That’s gotta be some Russian expression, but it sounds legit.

“You drink just enough to do business and ease the tension,” he explains. “But if you want someone to tell the truth, you get them drunk.”

I’m getting there. Fast. “Does that work on you?”

“Works on everyone. I am not afraid to tell the truth.”

True that.

Maddy only smiles. She smiles the entire evening, so at ease that it makes me wonder if these two both conspired to get me drunk. Even more so when the conversation somehow brings up my deal with him.

“Do not worry about your Gen-Alpha shares.”

Maddy stiffens, giving him a reproachful stare.

“I don’t,” I say.

“You take care of her”—Tsariuk nods at Maddy while he stares me down—“and you will be taken care of.”

“I have all I need.”

“Poverty is nothing to be proud of.”

Now I smile drunkenly. “I am not poor.”

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