Page 20 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

The refrain thrumming through me takes over again, booming louder than ever in my head:Run-run-run-as fast as you can, don’t stop, don’t even think of stopping.

So I take a deep breath, put my head down, and do exactly that.

I run away from my home.

The dark streets of the city open their jaws to welcome me. I can already see the rats, smell the sewage, hear someone yelling, “Helloooo there, darlin’…”

Happy birthday, Joy. You just lost everything you know and love.

Gavril

Six Months Later

The office teems with scrambling, blubbering aides and workers, so many that Ludmil and I have to keep to the royal blue and black wall to navigate our way through. By the time our presence is noticed—“Mr. Vaknin?” someone yelps—we’re down a pleasingly empty hallway.

“Rudy must be in your office already.” Ludmil looks about as pleased to be here as I am, as he grips the doorknob.

Inside is a small room, with a rickety desk crammed in and three chairs. I would have thought that they’d make my office a little more luxurious, seeing as how I am the candidate, but space is at a premium. I suppose this will have to do.

Rudy is not here. I frown and sink into a seat. I am not a man who enjoys waiting. But Rudy is a necessary evil. He knows business. Politics. Negotiation. As Ludmil likes to say, “That bastard could talk Pamela Anderson out of her tits.”

Rudy was supposed to prevent this fucking disaster from happening.

As I survey the room and brood, another scent hits my nostrils, underneath the lemony disinfectant the cleaners spray liberally: the musk of disuse.

This is my campaign office, yet how many times have I been here in the last six months since my campaign began? Three, if that?

My hands clench into a fist. No, this isn’t Rudy’s fault. It’s mine.

“Want me to call him?” Ludmil settles into one of the other chairs.

I wave a hand dismissively. “He knows. He will be here soon.”

On reflection, some time to think would be useful. Even if I dislike waiting. Ludmil doesn’t say it, doesn’t say anything, but I can feel it in the air between us. The disaster. The reason for this war summit.

Fifteen point four percent.

No, not twenty, not even a full sixteen, no. A paltry, pitiful 15.4%. This is the approval rating that half a year of pissing my money and time into this mayoral campaign have netted.

Ludmil is seated calmly enough, but his foot is tapping impatiently as he tells me, “It’s still early days. Plenty of time for things to turn around.”

I don’t need to glance his way to know his smile is dripping with put-on bravado. “You know it’s not good, Ludmil.”

He can smile and make optimistic quips all he wants, but at the end of the day, facts are facts: I am losing to Richard fucking Walsh in the mayoral race—and I’m losing bad.

No need to wonder where that other eighty-four percent went. Polls say that the other options are receiving 0.4 percent, collectively. Richard Walsh ate the lion’s share for breakfast.

My gaze strays to the bookshelf tucked in one corner. It’s my sole contribution to the room. It’s all there, the books that can help me.

Caesar: Life of a Colossus. Washington: A Life. FDR. Napoleon: A Life. Sun Tzu’s The Art of War

Right now, the last thing I feel like is reading, even if I know that scanning how those great leaders overcame great odds would be the best thing for me.

No, I feel like getting up and smashing something. This shitty fucking desk. This shitty fucking room. Anything. Everything.

Instead, I root my heels into the ground. I ask myself: right here, right now, if Julius Caesar faced what I faced, what would he do?

My chin sets.

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