Page 41 of Pageant

Which one of our pretty jewels is crying herself to sleep? I picture her in the dark, huddled on her bed, with tears running down her cheeks. She doesn’t know suffering. These women got off lightly when you consider only one of them was beaten.

It’s not like we haven’t made our expectations crystal clear. They’ve heard the rules and we tell them what they have to do. There’s even a prize—a good one—waiting for the winner, and it won’t be so bad for the losers.

Some of them, anyway. The ones who do as they’re told. The others…

Who cares? They’re as good as dead.

Someone calls out angrily in the darkness, and the crying stops. I stay where I am for a long time, listening to the distant hum of cicadas as night falls. I picture the women drifting off to sleep, one by one, long eyelashes closing over tired eyes.

On silent feet, I creep down the stairs and feel the air change from crisp and dry to damp and cold. I count along the cages. Eight… Nine… Ten…

Eleven.

A pair of eyes shine in the darkness. Contestant Number Eleven is awake, and she’s gazing back at me.

I push my fingers through the bars of her cell and smile. “I was hoping you’d be asleep.”

“What do you want?” she asks.

“Just saying hello to the judges’ favorite.” My smile widens as she flings me a dirty look. “How long?”

Number Eleven’s eyes narrow. “How long what?”

“How long until Elyah strangles the life out of you? I can’t wait to watch.”

She rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling. “Kirill, wasn’t it?” she asks, as if she hasn’t committed my name to memory. “When I get out of this cage, I’m going to make your life a living hell.”

She’s still wearing the badly-fitting bikini and I can just make out the peaks of her nipples in the darkness. I bite my lip and tilt my head to one side, remembering what she looked like naked. “I love that you think you can.”

As I walk slowly along the row of cages, I see that some of our beauties are asleep, and others are just pretending. It’s easy to figure out the difference when you know what to look for, and I’ve had so much practice.

“All tucked in safe for the night,” I say in a singsong voice. Number Eleven is watching me, her eyes full of hatred.

I blow her a kiss and head upstairs.

When I head into the villa’s enormous kitchen, I find Kostya and Elyah sitting at one end of the long table. There’s a pan of something hot and savory sitting on the stove and both of them are eating pasta off plates.

“The little jewels are sleeping soundly,” I tell them, twisting the cap from a bottle of vodka and pouring some into a glass. I lift my drink and toast the others. “Well, some of them. To an excellent first day.Za zdrorov’ye.”

The other two stop eating and lift their glasses and tap them against mine.

“You think it was excellent?” Kostya asks me before swallowing down his vodka.

“Ihad fun,” I tell him with a grin. “Even if Elyah ruined it at the end.”

Elyah makes a dismissive noise and goes on eating. I serve myself from the pot on the stove. Someone has made an enormous quantity ofmakarony po flotski, pasta with ground beef, and not very well, either. It’s greasy and stuck to the pot, and the beef looks dry. I’m assuming it was Elyah or one of the guards because this is the epitome of cheap bachelor food.

“We are in the most beautiful part of Italy in an enormous villa and we are eating this shit,” I grumble, sitting down with my plate. “Where is theborschtand thepirozhki?” I could murder some fried pastry filled with potato and scallions. Better yet, we should be eating good Italian food.Pollo al vino bianco con funghi.Penne all’arrabbiata.

“You can haveborschtandpirozhkiwhen we are back in London,” Kostya says.

I pick at the greasy mess on my plate. “I hope your future wife can cook. Actually, why don’t we get one of our women to cook for us? Now.”

Kostya laughs. “You want models to cook you food? Do you enjoy tofu and celery?”

“Lilia Aranova cooks better than mybabushka,” Elyah mutters, chasing a piece of onion around his plate with his fork. He’s eating with enthusiasm, but then again, he endured prison food longer than I did.Makarony po flotskiwould seem like a czar’s feast to a prisoner.

I push my plate away. “You hear that, Kostya? Let’s get her up here!”

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