Page 2 of Pray for Scars
Lucifer Malikov.
A perfect name for a boy who, right underneath my brother, is the cause of most of my more frequent nightmares.
Ria nods at the woman who spoke up and everyone puts their hands down. She continues pacing, slowly, confidently. I assume she’s in here teaching this class because she wants to be a teacher. I realize I never asked her much about herself on Unsaint’s Night one year ago.
But I cut myself some slack. That was the night I was going to kill myself. The nights afterward didn’t get too much better and I didn’t get any nicer or less self-absorbed, but still. I get a free pass for that night.
Ria stops pacing and stands just off to the side of the podium, hands still clasped behind her back. Professor Tweed is now drumming his hands on the table in front of him. Loudly. Maybe he’s not too into the Malikovs. If a fraction of what I know about them is true, I’m not either.
But I need to know.
“The Malikovs are one of the oldest families in Alexandria. They immigrated from Russia, taking their wealth with them. Their wealth,” Ria pauses and glances at me, as if she wants to be sure I’m listening, “and their organized crime.Bratva,” she says, surveying the class again. She smiles. “Now, they turned away from their life of crime and found success in legitimate businesses.” She holds up her hand, ticking some of these so-called legitimate businesses off on her fingers. “Banking, security, vodka,” the class laughs at this, “and weapons manufacturing for the private sector.”
No surprises there. Tweed has stopped drumming his fingers.
“Our very own science building,” she gestures vaguely to the windows on the side of the room, “is named after the Malikovs, thanks to a generous donation from Lazar Malikov.” She smiles again, looking toward me. “Father of one of our alumni, Lucifer Malikov.”
My heart stutters in my chest but outwardly, I don’t react.
Professor Tweed clears his throat. Ria doesn’t look away from me. A few people whisper among themselves at Lucifer’s name, but I don’t catch what they’re saying.
“Lucifer graduated summa cum laude from Alexandria’s business school, and now…” She shrugs, still pinning me with a stare. “He’s generously offered to rebuild the beautiful, private hotel that recently burned down atop Alexandria’s highest peak.”
Someone raises their hand. A girl probably not much older than me, with pink-framed glasses. Ria nods at her. The girl puts her hand down and adjusts her glasses. “Who owned that hotel?”
I swear I couldn’t have asked for a better day to actually go to a class. I flunked out of high school, scribbled bullshit poems in my journals most of my time there while I was supposed to be doingrealwork. Whatever the fuck that means. As if studying old ass white men and their supposed words of greatness is more legitimate than a teenage girl bleeding her pain into a notebook.
Ria arches a brow to the girl’s question, as if thinking. “I believe it was a man with the last name of Rain.” Another glare toward me. Which means she knows. Somehow, she knows I’m Jeremiah’s sister, even though that night, she didn’t know.
A guy across the row from me snorts. “Shouldn’t this Rain dude have enough money to rebuild his hotel, if he owned the damn thing?” He slouches down in his seat. “I tried to sneak in there once. Dude hadarmed guardsoutside of the gate.”
My gaze snaps back to Ria. Professor Tweed is shifting in his chair.
Ria nods. “You would think. As it is, thisdudehasn’t been found.”
The guy rolls his eyes. “Maybe he set it on fire himself. Taxes or something.” He laughs to himself.
The hotel is no longer in my name. I made sure Nicolas at least did that one thing for me, even though he screwed up everything else. It’s listed back under Jeremiah’s name. But apparently, Jeremiah has gone MIA. Which is fine with me.
“Maybe,” Ria says unconvincingly. “Back to the Malikovs…” She starts pacing again, looking down at her heels. “Whose heard the rumors?” She glances up. Hands raise. She grins. “Throw ’em at me.”
I look around, waiting.
“Devil worshipers,” someone calls out. A few people laugh.
“I mean, dude named his sonLuciferafter all,” the guy in the back of the class says, voice full of practicality. I know this isn’t true. It wasn’t his father who named him Lucifer. It was his mother. But I say nothing.
Ria nods. “Anything else?” she asks.
“Billionaires.”
“Probably true,” Ria confirms.
“Unsaints!” someone calls out, loud and clear.
I freeze.
It was the same older woman who had asked who hadn’t heard of the Malikovs.
