Page 1 of Ruling Scar
CHAPTER 1
Lennie
JANUARY
It sounds seemingly simple—going to a book club.
But my feet won’t move and I remain on the street, staring into the indie bookstore.
I’ve scoped it out several times, coming in person and double checking both their social media and website for this month’s book and meeting time.
I read the book, placed it in my bag. I even put on my comfy bookish crewneck, excited to wear the item where it will be appreciated.
Going to a book club is easy for most people.
But anxious old me?
Hard, very hard. But I promised my therapist I’d do this and, at my core, I’m a people pleaser.
I can do this. I can go to book club.
But stalking the bookstore’s social media pages is nothing like standing in front of the storefront.
I cannot do this.
There are people. And they’ve already picked out their seats. They clearly all know one another. I can’t go inside and try to insert myself into their club.
So I do what I always do. I run away.
My feet move on their own accord. I leave the bookstore behind, cursing myself for being weak. My sisters would’ve gone in and claimed book club as their own.
I’m walking around New York City like a loser.
There’s nothing like being lonely in a city full of millions.
“You are Leonora Akatov,” I whisper to myself. It suspiciously sounds like my mother but with none of her confidence.
I grew up surrounded by confident, smart people. Admittedly, most of them are killers. My father is Boris Akatov, an important man in the bratva. And my mother, Gia, grew up as a princess of the Italian mafia.
But the killer confidence of my people skipped a generation. Or at least me. Awkward, lonely Lennie.
The thought of joining a book club makes me want to puke.
My anxiety isn’t just a light flutter of butterflies. It’s burning shame crawling over my skin. My stomach is in knots. Don’t get me started on my head.
Just go in, I tell myself. And do what, look like an idiot?
That’s your inner critic, my therapist explained.
After several months of working with her, I can now sort of identify it, but trying to get it to shut up? Impossible.
So here I am, walking the streets of New York City, scared to go to a book club. It’s a complete travesty considering reading is the only thing I’m good at.
I wander aimlessly for several blocks when I spot it.
Fujimori’s.
Most take it as a family-owned restaurant serving Japanese food. The outside’s cute, with blue trim and a bright red door. Wide windows give a snapshot of booths and lush leafy, green plants inside.
