Page 68 of The Savage

I was never worried that she’d fit in at the house. Her introduction was exactly what I expected—Sabrina can handle herself. Like a cat surrounded by dogs, she knows how to give Vlad a slap on the nose if he growls at her.

In time she’ll come to know them all and respect them as I do. I haven’t brought anyone into the Wolfpack without good reason—including Sabrina herself. They’ll see her talent, and she’ll see theirs.

My bigger concern is acclimating her to Russia in general. Moscow is a jungle with just as many hidden dangers as the Amazon.

“Are we gonna take the bikes?” Sabrina asks, looking eagerly out into the yard.

“Sure,” I say. “You can take Jasper’s old bike. Until we get you your own.”

Sabrina makes no argument about taking the smaller, older Gold Wing. She knows we won’t be racing through Moscow’s congested streets.

We mount the bikes beneath the stone archway partially covering the parking pad.

I toss her a helmet.

“I don’t need that.”

Sabrina sets it down on the seat of Chief’s bike.

“You don’t wear a helmet?”

“The point of riding a bike is being out in the open. Feeling the air. Seeing what’s around you.”

“Until you crack your skull open on a curb. Don’t you think that’s kind of a stupid risk?”

Sabrina shrugs. “Everything we do is reckless. Everything’s a risk.”

Sabrina reminds me of a gambler intent on putting their entire stack on the line, just for the thrill of it.

Still, I set my own helmet down. It seems ungentlemanly to protect myself more than her.

The Ducati fires up with a low purr. I see Sabrina’s eyes gleam. She remembers how that engine feels pressed up against her.

“Keep your mitts to yourself,” I warn her.

She grins. “I will if you keep your keys in your pocket.”

I pull out through the gates, leaning hard to take the corner. Sabrina follows after me, light, easy, relaxed. We swoop through the dark streets in tandem, two bats released into the night. I like riding with Sabrina close behind me, floating in and out of my peripheral with each curve in the road.

The night air feels cool and liquid, ruffling through my hair like fingers. Sabrina’s right that it feels good to ride like this, unprotected and unbound. It’s easy to call out to her at the lights, to point out Tagansky Park and the Novospassky Monastery as we pass by.

I take her to the Soho Rooms, one of the most exclusive nightclubs in Moscow, located right on the Moskva river so the purplish light pouring out from its windows wriggles across the dark water below.

A long line of guests wait outside the door. I don’t have to pass a bribe to the “face master” before he waves Sabrina inside. He glances at the Vacheron on my wrist and allows me to pass along with her.

“Did you know him?” Sabrina asks me.

“It’sfeyskontrol’—face control,” I tell her. “Beauty is everything here. If you look wealthy, cultured, and gorgeous, you get in the club. If you don’t, you won’t.”

The evidence is clear all around us—a mass of disproportionately stunning club-goers, decked out in glittering mini-dresses and tight button-ups and slacks. Those who aren’t young and beautiful are clearly wealthy, the older men in bespoke suits and enough gold chains, watches, and rings to attract their pick of the stunning young women flocking around them.

I brought Sabrina here because it’s where the models and celebrities go. I thought she’d enjoy the glitz and glamour.

Dozens of disco balls reflect a flurry of purple speckles over the throng of drunken dancers. Once we’ve ordered our drinks, I take her up to the Summer Terrace, where a girl in a transparent bodysuit performs an aerial silks show. She floats through the air, twisted up in a long white swath, heedless of the fifty-foot drop to the dance floor below.

We take a seat at a small table with a good view of the room. Sabrina looks around at the stylish crowd, unsmiling.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her.

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