“Until I met Elia Rostov.” He smiles, remembering it all fondly. “Elia had a gun pointed at his head when I met him. I still don’t know why I intervened. I suppose you could call it fate, though a more cynical soul might say I was just a desperate boy snooping where I didn’t belong. But I killed the mudak who was about to shoot Elia in the back of the head. Ripped his throat clean out with my bare hands, funny enough. And Elia… oh, he liked that. He liked that a lot.”
Nikolai licks his lips, as if the memory tastes good. His voice simmers.
“It was the first time in my life someone had looked at me and seen the potential there. The boy I once was died that day, and Nikolai Rostov was born. I took Elia’s name—his mark.” He touches the black tattoo on his left forearm. At first glance, I th
