THE ART OF BEGGING
POV: Elena Rostova
The rain in Brighton Beach didn't wash things clean; it just made the grime slicker.
I ducked my chin into the collar of my coat, counting my steps. One, two, three, breathe. It was a rhythmic superstition I'd developed over the last six months, a mental metronome to keep the panic from seizing my lungs. The wind whipped off the Atlantic, carrying the brine of the ocean and the stench of frying oil from the boardwalk vendors, plastering my hair to my cheek.
My boots, cheap rubber knockoffs I'd bought at a thrift store, slapped against the wet pavement. There was a hole in the left sole. I could feel the icy seepage of a puddle soaking into my sock, numbing my toes.
Just make it to the subway. Just get underground.
The streetlights flickered, their sodium-orange glow struggling against the gray downpour. I clutched my bag tighter. It contained a laptop that was three years obsolete, a notebook filled with sentences that went nowhere, and a bank overdraft notice I had folded into a tiny square, as if making it smaller would decrease the debt.
I passed the darkened storefront of a laundromat. A figure detached itself from the shadows of the awning.
My heart didn't just skip; it hammered a violent, jarring thud against my ribs. I knew the silhouette. I knew the hunch of the shoulders and the way the cigarette smoke curled around his head like a halo of smog.
I tried to pivot, to cross the street, but a second figure stepped out from between two parked delivery trucks on the other side.
Trapped.
I stopped. The rain ran down the back of my neck, freezing against my spine.
"Elena," the voice rasped. It sounded like gravel crunching under tires. "You walk fast. Like you have somewhere to be."
Nikolai stepped into the light. He wasn't a tall man, but he was wide, built like a refrigerator packed with spoiled meat. He wore a leather jacket that creaked with every movement, stretched tight over a gut built on vodka and violence.
"I don't have it, Nikolai," I said. My voice surprised me. It was steady, though my hands were shaking so hard inside my pockets that my knuckles ached. "I told you. Tuesday. The check clears Tuesday."
He closed the distance between us. The air around him smelled of stale tobacco and heavy, cloying cologne—the kind used to mask the scent of sweat.
"Tuesday," he mocked, looking up at the gray sky. He took a drag of his cigarette, the ember glowing fiercely, then flicked the butt near my feet. It hissed as it died in the wet slush. "Tuesday is a concept, Elena. My boss… he prefers concrete things. Cash is concrete. Gold is concrete. Fingers? Those are concrete, too."
He crowded me. He didn't touch me, not yet, but he invaded my atmosphere. He sucked the oxygen out of the space between us. I stepped back, my spine hitting the rough brick of the deli wall behind me.
There was nowhere left to go.
"Please," I whispered. I hated the word. It tasted like ash. I was an investigative journalist once. I had exposed city council corruption; I had written prose that made editors weep. Now, I was reduced to a beggar in a damp alley. "I am working on a new contract. A big one. It will cover the interest. All of it."
Nikolai braced a hand against the wall beside my head, boxing me in. His eyes were small, watery blue, swimming in a face of broken capillaries.
"Interest isn't enough anymore, lenochka."
He used the diminutive term of endearment like a slur. His other hand moved, heavy and calloused, reaching for my face. I flinched, turning my head away, pressing my cheek against the scratchy brick.
His thumb hooked under my chin, forcing me to look at him. His skin was rough, oily. The contact made my stomach roil with bile. I wanted to scream, but the sound was stuck in my throat, a thick, terrified lump.
"Seventy-two hours," he said softly.
He squeezed my jaw. Pain shot up through my molars. I whimpered, a humiliating sound that vanished into the rain.
"Your father borrowed from men who don't have patience," Nikolai murmured, his face inches from mine. I could see the yellow stains on his teeth. "You inherited his blood. Now you inherit his burden. You bring us fifty thousand by Friday night, or we stop asking for money."
"And start what?" I managed to choke out.
"Collection of assets." His gaze dropped down my body, lingering on the curve of my chest hidden beneath the oversized coat, then lower. It was a look of appraisal, like I was a used car he was deciding whether to scrap for parts. "You're a pretty girl, Elena. Smart girl. You could work it off. We know places."
Ice flooded my veins. The implication was clear, terrified and absolute.
"No," I said.
He released my jaw with a shove that banged my head against the brick. "Seventy-two hours. Or we take it out of your skin."
He stepped back, wiping his hand on his jacket as if I were the one who was unclean. He signaled to the shadow across the street, and they melted away into the gloom, leaving me shivering against the wall.
I slid down until I was crouching in the puddle, gasping for air. My jaw ached where he'd touched me. I rubbed the spot violently, trying to scour the sensation of his oily skin from my pores, but the phantom pressure remained.
Seventy-two hours.
Fifty thousand dollars.
I had forty-three dollars in my checking account.
My apartment was a fourth-floor walk-up that smelled of boiled cabbage and mold. I locked the door behind me, engaging all three deadbolts—one of which I had installed myself with trembling hands the week after my father died.
It was freezing inside. I didn't turn the heat on; the utility bill was already pink-slipped. I kept my coat on and moved to the small, scratched table by the window.
The linoleum floor was peeling in the corners, revealing the rotted subfloor beneath. My laptop sat open on the table, the screen casting a pale, bluish light on the walls. It was the only source of light I allowed myself.
I sat down, staring at the cursor blinking on the blank white document.
Top 10 Celebrity Meltdowns of 2024.
That was my assignment. Fifty dollars per article. I needed a thousand articles to pay Nikolai. I laughed, a dry, cracking sound that echoed in the empty room. It was impossible. The math was a coffin, and the lid was already nailed shut.
I pulled my knees to my chest, resting my chin on them, watching the rain streak the windowpane. I should run. Pack a bag, get on a bus, go to Ohio or Wyoming. Somewhere landlocked and flat.
But they would find me. My father had tried to run. They found him in a motel in Jersey, broke his legs, and dragged him back. The stroke had killed him, but the fear had killed him long before that.
The phone on the table buzzed.
The sound made me jump, my knee knocking the table leg. The screen lit up. Unknown Number.
I stared at it. It could be Nikolai calling to taunt me. It could be another creditor. Or maybe the landlord, asking why the rent check was two weeks late.
I shouldn't answer.
But the silence in the room was deafening. I reached out, my fingers trembling, and swiped the green icon.
"Hello?" My voice was thin.
"Ms. Rostova?"
The voice on the other end was male, crisp, and utterly devoid of warmth. It wasn't Nikolai. It wasn't the landlord. It sounded… expensive. It sounded like filtered water and pressed linen.
"Yes," I said, clearing my throat, trying to summon a shred of professionalism. "This is Elena Rostova."
"This is Marcus Hale. Executive Assistant to Silas Vane."
The name hit me like a physical blow.
Silas Vane. The architect. The man who was currently redrawing the skyline of New York with lines so sharp they looked like they could cut the clouds. He was a myth, a recluse, a genius, and—according to every rumor in the city—a tyrant.
I had rejected his inquiry two days ago. I had told his headhunter that I was a serious journalist, not a corporate stenographer for a narcissist with a god complex.
"I… yes. Mr. Hale."
"Mr. Vane has reviewed your file," Marcus said. His tone was brisk, checking boxes. "He is willing to overlook your initial… rudeness. He is still interested in commissioning the biography. However, the timeline has accelerated."
"I told your people I'm not interested in writing a vanity project," I said automatically. The pride was a reflex, a phantom limb of the woman I used to be.
"Mr. Vane is aware of your financial situation," Marcus cut in.
The room went still.
"What?"
"The Volkov debt," Marcus said, the name sounding jarringly foreign in his posh accent. "Brighton Beach. Two hundred thousand, roughly? With the vig piling up daily."
I couldn't breathe. My hand gripped the phone so hard the plastic creaked. "How do you know that?"
"Mr. Vane is a thorough man. He does not build on un-surveyed land. He knows everything about the structures he intends to acquire."
Acquire. Not hire. Acquire.
"This is blackmail," I whispered.
"This is a lifeline, Ms. Rostova," Marcus corrected, his voice dropping an octave. "You are drowning. Mr. Vane is offering you a boat. The contract includes a signing bonus. Fifty thousand dollars. Available immediately upon signature. The remainder of the debt paid upon completion of the manuscript."
Fifty thousand.
The number echoed in my head, bouncing off the peeling wallpaper. Exactly what Nikolai wanted. It wasn't a coincidence. It was a calculation. Silas Vane knew exactly how desperate I was.
"I have conditions," I said, trying to claw back some agency.
"You are not in a position to negotiate conditions, Ms. Rostova. You have seventy-two hours, do you not? According to the gentleman in the leather jacket?"
I squeezed my eyes shut. They had been watching. Of course they had been watching.
"What does he want?" I asked.
"He wants you at Vane Tower. Tonight. Within the hour. Bring your things. If you take the job, the residency begins immediately."
"Tonight? I can't just—"
"One hour, Ms. Rostova. Or the offer expires, and you can explain your journalistic integrity to the Volkovs."
The line clicked. Then, silence.
I lowered the phone. I looked at the door with its three locks. They weren't enough. They were never going to be enough.
I stood up. I didn't pack clothes. I didn't pack books. I packed my laptop and my spiraling sense of doom. I put on the oversized coat.
I walked out of the apartment, leaving the lights off.
Midtown Manhattan felt like a different planet.
The rain here didn't pool in greasy puddles; it was swept away by invisible drains. The air smelled of exhaust and ambition. I stood on the sidewalk, looking up.
Vane Tower—or The Spire, as the glossy architectural digests called it—was an insult to the laws of physics. It was a shard of black glass that pierced the sky, tapering to a needle-point that disappeared into the low-hanging clouds. It didn't have corners; it had edges. It looked less like a building and more like a tear in the fabric of reality.
I clutched my bag to my chest and pushed through the revolving doors.
The transition was instant. The noise of the city—the taxis, the rain, the distant shouting—was severed.
The lobby was cavernous. The ceilings were forty feet high, lost in shadow. The floor was black marble, polished to a mirror shine so perfect that looking down gave me a sense of vertigo. I could see the reflection of my scuffed boots, my wet hem, my frizzing hair.
It was freezing. Not the damp cold of my apartment, but a dry, preserved chill. It felt like walking into a mausoleum or a server room.
"Ms. Rostova."
I jumped. A man stood behind a reception desk that looked like a slab of meteorite. He was young, pale, and looked exhausted. He wore a gray suit that fit too well.
"Marcus?" I guessed.
"Mr. Vane is expecting you." He didn't smile. He didn't offer a hand. He slid a key card across the black stone. It was heavy, made of metal, not plastic. "Private elevator. Far wall. Penthouse level. Do not stop on the intermediate floors."
"Is he… is he up there?"
"Mr. Vane is always up there," Marcus said, and for a second, I saw a flicker of pity in his eyes. "Leave your wet coat here. You cannot bring the rain into the penthouse. The climate control is precise."
I hesitated. The coat was my armor. It hid my body; it hid the frayed seams of my sweater. But the look Marcus gave me—impatient, weary—made me comply. I shucked the heavy wool. The cold air bit through my thin sweater instantly.
I took the key card. My fingers left a moist print on the metal. I wiped it on my jeans nervously.
The walk to the elevator felt like a march to the gallows. My footsteps echoed, sharp clicks on the stone. Click. Clack. Click. Clack. Every sound I made felt like a violation of the silence.
I reached the elevator banks. There was no button. I scanned the card. The doors hissed open instantly, revealing a box of mirrored steel.
I stepped inside.
The doors slid shut, sealing with a pneumatic thump. The lift began to move. It was fast. I felt my stomach drop, the G-force pressing me into the floor. My ears popped. Once. Twice.
I watched the digital display count up. 50… 60… 70… 80…
I was rising above the city. Above the debt. Above the threats.
But as the numbers climbed, a new fear settled in the pit of my stomach. Down there, the danger was messy and loud and bloody. Up here, it felt sterilized. It felt like I was being delivered to something ancient and hungry that lived in the sky.
The elevator slowed. 90.
The doors opened.
There was no hallway. The elevator opened directly into the room.
It was vast. The walls were floor-to-ceiling glass. The city lay spread out below like a carpet of glittering jewels, but inside, it was dark. The only light came from the glow of the skyline filtering in.
The silence was total.
"Hello?" I called out.
My voice didn't echo. The room swallowed the sound.
"Remove your shoes."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. It was deep, calm, and terrifyingly clear.
I froze. I scanned the shadows.
"Who's there?"
"You are tracking grit onto the limestone," the voice said. "Remove your shoes, Elena. Or turn around and leave."
I looked down at my boots. A small smear of Brighton Beach mud marred the pristine white stone floor.
My heart thudded in my ears. I reached down, my hands shaking, and unlaced my boots. I kicked them off. I stood in my socks—one of them had a hole in the toe, my skin showing through.
I felt small. I felt exposed.
"Walk forward," the voice commanded.
I stepped onto the cold stone. I walked into the glass cage, toward the wall of windows where a figure stood in the darkness, facing away from me. A silhouette cut from the night itself.
I had entered the dragon's lair, and I had already broken a rule.
The 72-hour clock had stopped. A new clock had begun.
"I'm here," I said, my voice barely a whisper.
Silas Vane didn't turn around.
"Yes," he said. "You are."