Page 141 of Kingmakers, Graduation

Ifeel like such a fool. Everyone told me not to come to Moscow. My familybeggedme not to come. The idea of returning to Chicago, disgraced, a failure, is more than I can bear.

What the fuck am I going to do now?

I doubt Kingmakers will let me back in, even if I wait until next year.

And honestly, I wouldn’t want to go back anyway.

I’ve had a taste of freedom, adulthood, empire-building. Most of the time, I really fucking loved it.

Our business was accelerating by the day. That’s what really pisses me off—Adrik and I built something incredible. Now I guess it’shisbusiness. He gets to keep it all while I walk away with nothing.

All I’ve got in my pocket is a couple thousand in cash. I don’t have my phone ‘cause I threw it out the window. I wouldn’t have done that if I’d known I was going to leave twenty minutes later.

Knowing that Adrik had been tracking me, spying on me, made me feel slimy and exposed. I wouldn’t have minded sharing my location if he’d asked me first, or if it was mutual—the ability to find each other makes sense from a safety perspective. But as per usual he did whatever the fuck he wanted with no consideration for what I think.

My mind twists around and around in a cyclone of negative emotion. I’m alternately furious, regretful, resentful, and afraid. I have no idea what to do, I hate all my options.

I’m not going back to Adrik, I’d rather curl up and die than eat that kind of crow.

And I’m not going back to Chicago, either. That would be admitting defeat.

There has to be another option.

I park my bike at Brateyevskiy Park and walk around the frozen pond for almost two hours, until my toes are ice inside my boots, and I can’t even see my breath floating on the air in front of me ‘cause I’m too fucking cold.

I skipped breakfast this morning so I could meet Krystiyan Kovalenko before Adrik woke up—not that it did me any good. I should have set the meeting for four in the morning. Then I’d have made the deal before the sun came up, and none of this would have happened.

Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered.

This was all gonna blow up in my face sooner or later. Adrik never intended to share power with me. Our conflict was inevitable.

I’m starting to get hungry, even though my guts are twisted up tighter than a slinky. I’ve got to get some food.

I find a little restaurant in Maryino, quiet and almost empty. I order a plate ofkotlety, but when the food comes, I can hardly eat it. I’m miserable, sick to my stomach, my hands shaking with anxiety. I feel like a rag doll, beat up and coming apart at the seams.

I took almost nothing from Adrik’s house—none of the new clothes I bought, no toiletries. All I’ve got is one extra outfit, some cash, my favorite gun, and a few packets of pills I was using for testing purposes.

I ask the waiter to bring me a drink. Even though it’s barely past lunchtime, he drops off a double vodka and soda without so much as a raised eyebrow. God bless the Russians and their acceptance of day-drinking.

I down the liquor too fast, forgetting how empty my stomach is. It hits me hard, the warmth in my chest pleasant and soothing, the dizziness in my head less enjoyable.

Most importantly, it anesthetizes me a little. This aching, wrenching pain inside of me is unbearable. Pressure like I’m being slowly crushed under a pile of stones, like they used to do to witches. Every time I think of the look on Adrik’s face, disdainful and dismissive … every time I think how shameful it felt to be thrown over his shoulder like a fucking sack of potatoes, my ass in the air, all my pretensions laid bare …

I could fucking kill him for that.

And yet I miss him, I miss him already. I miss how I felt with him—elated, euphoric, invincible. The whole world illuminated with beauty and infinite possibility.

But it was a lie, all a fucking lie.

And that makes me angrier than anything. I hate that he tricked me. I hate that he created this attachment between us. He sewed us together down every limb, and now that I’m trying to pull away from it, it’s ripping me apart. It feels like I won’t survive it.

I order another drink, and then another. The waiter brings them, not caring how drunk I get in the corner of his restaurant, so long as I’m quiet and I pay my bill afterward. When he’s not serving me he sits at the bar, slowing working his way through a crossword puzzle.

The more intoxicated I get, the more I come to a conclusion that may or may not be batshit insane: I’m not fucking leaving.

I came to Moscow to make my mark. I’ll be goddamned if I’ll walk away after all the work I put in.

I don’t know how I’m gonna do it, but I createdMolniyaand I’m going to keep selling it.

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