Page 62 of Crowned

“Can I help you?”

A man comes into view down the hall and approaches me with that same suspicious expression on his face.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Lugovskaya. My name’s Kirill.”

The short, neat woman and the stocky man survey me with unfriendly eyes. Mrs. Lugovskaya announces, “We aren’t hiring any gardeners or grounds staff at this time.”

“I’m not looking for work. I want—”

But a suspicious gleam has come into Mr. Lugovskaya’s eyes. “What’s your family name, boy.”

Theboyis a cold slap to the face. “Angelov.”

His nostrils flare in outrage. “It was you who interfered with our daughter. Leave, immediately.”

“No, listen—”

But Mr. Lugovskaya has turned a mottled shade of red and is advancing on me. He grabs me by the lapels and shoves me off his doorstep.

“That was my brother. I’m Kirill. Get your fucking hands off me.”

For the past few months, I’ve been doing as many push-ups as I can manage as soon as I wake up. This week I’ve made it to two hundred, and I thought I noticed some muscle tone developing across my arms and chest.

But Mr. Lugovskaya is shouting at me, threatening to have me beaten. Cussing me out with all the names that have been heaped on my head over the years. He reaches for the umbrella stand by the door and brandishes a walking stick over his head.

I throw a punch at him that my father would have dodged, no matter how drunk he was, but Mr. Lugovskaya lives in a perfect house with a perfect life, and he isn’t used to fighting. My fist smashes into his face and he goes staggering off to the side.

Mrs. Lugovskaya screeches at the top of her lungs. “How dare you attack my husband! Get out of our house!”

There’s the sound of running footsteps from within the house and Katya appears at the top of the stairs. She stares at the scene by the front door, wringing her hands with a wretched expression on her face.

With his hand over his bloodied nose, Mr. Lugovskaya points a finger at his daughter and bellows, “You, go back to your room.”

Just before he slams the door in my face, he snarls. “I’ll have you shot if you ever show your face around here again.”

I turn away, flicking my aching hand. That probably could have gone better, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll marry Katya anyway. Permission is the last thing I need, and I was only asking because I thought it’s what Katya wanted.

But first I have to fix something. I was lying to Katya about having money and a job, but I think I know what to do about that. I heard a rumor about some interesting work that pays well. The person who told me the rumor was arrested last week, but that’s probably because he’s stupid and careless.

I make my way across town in the dark. There are some warehouses down by the train tracks and a few guards scattered around, but it’s easy to creep past them. I’m standing in a pool of light by some closed doors, wondering whether I should knock, when an angry voice calls out, “What the fuck? How did you get there?”

Before I can answer, a huge man grabs me by my collar and is half strangling me with my T-shirt.

“I know Stepan,” I choke out. “I’m here for work.”

“That prick,” the man grumbles, but he opens a door and marches me through it, roaring, “Boss! Someone to see you about work.”

The inside of the warehouse is poorly lit and filled with stacked crates. The boxes are spray-painted with familiar food logos but inside one are guns nestled in straw.

The man holding me gives me a shove, and I stumble forward into a pool of light.

A tall figure with dark hair is checking the contents of a crate against a manifest on a clipboard. His indifferent gray eyes give me a once-over. He doesn’t introduce himself, but I know who he is. Everyone does.

Konstantin Zhukov, the man who’s replacing the disorganized criminals in this town with organized ones.

He’s young, maybe mid-twenties, and I can imagine him with a beautiful woman like Yelena Lugovskaya on his arm. Everything about this man is sleek and expensive, but there’s a hard and bitter expression in his eyes.

“How did you get past my guard?” Konstantin asks, turning back to his notes.

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