He controls the second-largest territory in Moscow. When everyone has had their fill of food and women, the ballerinas are dismissed. I grab a glass of chilled vodka instead and swallow it down, liking the way it burns. I know it will taste like sawdust in my mouth. My mother would bring me up a piece of strawberry pie, which was the one thing she could actually make reasonably well. He would grab her and kiss her and say that he’d prefer to order in, and they would send me to bed early so they could be alone. My father would laugh and try to gulp down her terrible food, and she would smack him with the dishtowel and say there was no need, we could visit the restaurant on the corner. She tried to learn all the traditional Russian dishes because it made my father happy to come home to her cooking, even when it was awful, even when her borscht was shit. I make my way over to the food, intending to eat, until I see fresh strawberry pie with a shortbread crust. A table along the wall groans under the weight of a mountain of crab legs, caviar, boiled quail eggs, fern salad, sizzling sprats, and suckling pig. The next hour is spent drinking and socializing. When they want to be entertained, they bring in the ballerinas. When the Bratva want to fuck, they visit their own brothels. Like geishas, they offer the highest levels of cultured feminine charm. These are no chorus dancers, but the prima ballerinas, expected to drink and dance and socialize with the Bratva. Every one is tall and slim, their shining hair piled high on their heads. Twenty elegant women swarm through, dressed in sparkling gowns and diamond jewelry. The double doors at the end of the private suite swing open. “We have other entertainment planned for the evening.” “No need for that, boys,” Abram says in a bored tone. “I’d be glad to give you a lesson in my skills right now,” he barks, the veneer of civility between us completely rubbed away.

Sophie lark the bully