None of them seem to belong to what I would call “polite society.” One is wearing a stained wifebeater and half a dozen gold chains. Another one has a diamond set in his front tooth that catches the light and a leer that makes Adrian’s cousin Salazar look like the Pope. The man sitting on Kolya’s right has only one arm, with the other cruelly severed at the elbow. The smells of this motley crew come fast and furious, too: m*******a, cigarette smoke, stale body odor, and cheap cologne.
I linger at the entrance of the room, regretting my decision to venture downstairs.
“June,” Kolya says. “Welcome. Come, take a seat.”
There’s only one seat left vacant, the one directly to his left. It’s the last place on earth I want to go, but I find myself walking meekly over to his side anyway.
He loo
