Page 15 of Savage Princess

Levin sits silently next to me as the cab winds through traffic, and I want to say something to break the silence, but I don’t know what. It feels impossible to me that we can be as physically close and intimate as we were this morning, and then only hours later feel as if there’s an ocean of space between us.

Is this how relationships always are? Is this how it always feels?

But of course, it isn’t, because we’re not actuallyina relationship.

Levin directs the cab to pull off at the corner of a street, and he gets out, holding the door open for me. “It’s a few streets down,” he says as we start to walk. “Not a good idea to have the cab drop us off too close to where we’re actually going.”

I can see that he’s looking around with every step we take, acutely aware of what’s around us, ready for anything. It makes me feel safer, knowing that he’s keeping an eye out, and I stick close to him—maybe closer than he wants me to be.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur when I realize he’s slowed his stride to match mine, made slower by my limping. “I’m trying to keep up.”

“You’re fine,” he says calmly, glancing around again. “It won’t help anything if you strain it. We’ll try to keep you off of it as much as possible.”

I don’t really know where it is that we’re going. We pass ramshackle buildings and others that look to only be in mild disrepair, none of them looking as if they’re particularly in use. Levin seems to know what he’s looking for, though, and he finally comes to a stop in front of a wooden and partial brick facade with a door covered in graffiti. He knocks once, twice, and then three times in quick succession, before taking a step back and nudging me so that I’m more behind him than in clear view.

I move without thinking—I’m starting to get used to Levin putting himself between me and other people. I stand there, my pulse quickening as I wait for whoever it is to open the door—and then a few moments later, it cracks open, and I see an older man with sparse dark hair and a slight stoop to his posture peek out.

“El lobo mira,” Levin says simply, and the man stiffens, his eyes narrowing, before a smile twitches at the corners of his wrinkling lips.

“Volkov! I haven’t seen you in years. I figured you died, the way your type so often does. What can I do for you?”

“Well, to start, we can talk about our business off of the street,” Levin says wryly, and the man’s eyes widen as he starts to laugh.

“Of course, of course.” He opens the door wider so we can walk in, and I see his gaze land on me with interest as we step inside. It’s a curious look, but not a lewd one, and that makes me relax a fraction.

The interior of the building is strange. It’s shabby—it doesn’t really look like a home, but at the same time, it feels like one in a way, with possessions scattered around and the smell of food and spices filling the air. I can’t figure out if this man actually lives here or not, and nothing, as he leads us down a darkened, wood-paneled hallway, gives me any more clues.

We stop at a peeling door, and he fumbles with the knob, opening it and letting us inside first.

It’s dark inside, and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. The room smells heavily of cigarette smoke and the same cooking spices as outside. It’s very small, barely large enough to fit the desk that’s wedged vertically against one wall with a shabby chair behind it and three more scattered in front of it.

“Sit down, sit down,” the man says, waving at the chairs, and I do so instantly, eager for the pressure to be off of my ankle. Levin seems to prefer to stand, stepping closer to my chair but remaining on his feet.

“What do you need, Volkov?” the man asks, peering at him as he reaches for a pair of glasses on the desk. “What can I help you with?”

“Are you still making identification?” Levin asks the question directly, without any lead-in, and the man chuckles.

“Still a man who gets right to the point, I see.” He sinks into the chair behind his desk, shuffling some papers absently, as if it’s more for something to do with his hands than because he actually needs to look at them. “I am, for a price. Rates have gone up since the old days, though. It’s expensive to live out there. Expensive to have protection, too.”

“I understand.” Levin holds the man’s gaze coolly. “I have cash now, but if it’s not enough, I work for a man named Viktor Andreyev. Does that name mean anything to you?”

The man squints. “I’ve heard it. Not in a good way. Does he still traffick girls?”

Levin shakes his head. “Not any longer. He’s in a different business these days. Some of them are—adjacent. But not buying and selling any longer.”

The man nods, making a low humming noise under his breath. “Well, that’s good, that’s good. So you need identification? Passports for you and the girl, I’m guessing?” He nods at me, and I have a sudden urge to sink deeper into the chair.

“Yes,” Levin says flatly. “And I need to arrange a private flight out of Rio, for the two of us, with a pilot that I know can be trusted. Someone who can’t be bought.” He emphasizes everything aftertrusted, and I feel a cold shiver creep its way down my spine at the idea of getting on a plane again. Once upon a time, the idea of flying somewhere had been thrilling, but now I think I’d be perfectly fine if I never had to get on board one again. The thought of getting on a plane flown by a private pilot paid to take us to Boston is even more terrifying. After all, that’s what we’d done the first time, and it had ended in us nearly dying, stranded on a beach.

“Son, everyone can be bought. If they couldn’t,wewouldn’t be able to buy them,” the man says dryly, and Levin chuckles.

“A man who can’t be bought once someone else has paid them,” he clarifies. “Someone who will keep his word. There’s got to be a few left like that, at least.”

“You’d be surprised,” the man says grimly, shuffling through his papers again. “But I might be able to track down someone. Half the payment up front.”

He names a figure, and I see the twitch on Levin’s face, but he digs in his pocket. “Youhaveraised your prices,” he says calmly. “A little more than inflation warrants, I’d say. I’ll give you seventy-five percent of that figure. Half up front, the rest in cash when we come to collect. No more.”

The man’s eyes narrow. “I heard you don’t work for the Syndicate no more,” he says archly, a hint of suspicion in his voice. “Which means you shouldn’t be using those words, Volkov. The wolf won’t hunt for you if you don’t hunt for him.”

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