Page 62 of Kingmakers, Graduation

Jasper spits out the open window. “Fucking parasites.”

I smile to myself. The antipathy between criminals and politicians has always amused me, each of us disgusted at the corruption of the other. At least criminals are honest—we admit what we are.

“It didn’t used to be this way,” Adrik tells me. “The number of cars in Moscow has doubled in the last ten years.”

The further we drive into the center of the city, the more I’m astounded at its sprawling mass. Twelve million people live here, I looked it up before I came. The number gave me no idea of its real density—four times the size of Chicago, and in some places, just as modern in appearance. To the west, I see a forest of skyscrapers, gleaming glass towers to rival any at home.

But I’m not at home. The heavy Brutalist architecture reminds me of that, the many cement tenements and, in the distance, the unmistakable red brick Kremlin and the colorful onion domes of the basilica.

The cars themselves are a bizarre mix of ultra-luxury Ferraris and beemers, bumper to bumper with Ladas and Kias held together with wire and twine.

On the plane I read that the average salary in Moscow is $1100 a month. Conversely, Moscow has more billionaires than London or San Francisco. I can see the dichotomy everywhere I look, the gated communities of the privileged jammed up against the cramped Soviet apartments of the worker ants.

“Where’s the Den?” I ask Adrik.

“In Lyublino,” he says. “Not much further.”

Jasper navigates a series of increasingly narrow streets, through concrete buildings that loom up on both sides, claustrophobically close. Everything in Moscow is built on a grandiose scale, thick and heavy and hulking. Each glimpse of a park is a relief, a breath of green in all this gray.

We’ve passed through countless strata of neighborhoods. Lyublino is on the seedier side—metal bars across the windows, graffiti in the alleyways. I see a mural of a woman with crow’s wings growing out of her eyes, and another of a technicolor Matryoshka doll.

At last we reach the end of the road where Adrik’s house sits. We pass through an iron gate running beneath a pointed archway topped by several spires, the crumbling stone blackened with soot and grime. Adrik’s parents live in a monastery in St. Petersburg—perhaps his childhood home influenced his choice. The Den resembles a gothic church, dark and ornate, with mats of crawling ivy attempting to pull down the dilapidated stones.

Jasper pulls the SUV into an alcove of cars, among which I see Adrik’s bike and several others of similar style. I’ll have to get a bike of my own—fuck sitting in Moscow traffic.

“Come meet everyone,” Adrik says, taking my hand.

He lets go before we enter the house, which I prefer. I don’t want to be presented as his paramour, I’m here to work.

The interior of the Den is dim and cool, thankfully smelling only of damp and dust, not sweaty men. Tiny motes swim in the thin bands of watery sunshine crossing the hall.

The floors are bare stone, relieved by a few faded rugs. No art hangs on the wall, and the furniture I can see is sparse and shabby. I leave my suitcase by the door. Adrik does the same.

He leads me through a warren of narrow passageways, past a kitchen with two mismatched refrigerators and one vast farmhouse table, then down a short set of steps into a large common room.

Here we find the rest of the Wolfpack.

I hear the gruff laughter and shouting before we get close. Two are playingCall of Duty, sprawled out on bean bags on the floor. A thick-shouldered giant sits in an easy chair that groans beneath his weight, fucking around on his phone. The last wolf lays across the length of the couch, reading a paperback.

They’re all much bigger than me, muscular and full of restless energy. As soon as we enter the room their attention shifts, and silence falls.

The two video game players set down their controllers, swiftly shutting off the TV. No one jumps to their feet, but the sense of alertness is palpable. The reader lets his book fall to his lap, sitting up and grinning at Adrik. “Welcome back, boss. And you brought … a friend.”

Five pairs of eyes fix on me—six, if you count Jasper who followed us into the house. I can feel his stare on my back.

“This is Sabrina Gallo,” Adrik says, calm and pleasant, with no acknowledgment that this might be poorly received. “She’s agreed to join us.”

He points to each of the Wolfpack in turn, naming them: “That’s Andrei, Hakim, Chief, and Vlad.”

Andrei and Hakim are the gamers. Andrei is as blond and Slavic as one might expect, Hakim his direct opposite. Hakim might be Arabic, his close-cropped hair dark and curly, his five o’clock shadow black as paint.

Chief eyes me with interest as if we’ve already met, though I’m quite sure we haven’t. He’s not Russian either as far as I can tell — maybe southeast asian, with light brown hair and a golden cast to his skin. I’m not surprised to see him reading, since he was the one Adrik described as particularly intelligent.

Vlad, by contrast, is the biggest, the beefiest, and certainly the surliest. His close-shaved head with its grayish stubble resembles a rock sitting directly atop his hulking shoulders, and his small, dark eyes glitter like malachite as he glares at me with instant dislike. He’s testing the structural integrity of the Affliction t-shirt stretched across pecs the size of dinner plates. I wonder if the shirt is ironic, or if Affliction only just made its way to Russia.

Though the group’s manner is casual, I’m cognizant of the ways in which they resemble a military unit. It’s not just the matching tattoos on each of their arms—it’s their deference to Adrik and the way communication passes between them in glances and inflections. I can imagine them storming a building with only a few gestures needed to coordinate an attack.

These are men who have bonded already. Worked together. Learned to trust each other.

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