Gleb Bogdanov

September 9, 1996

From childhood, my mother insisted on one thing: studying is the only ticket to life. My father left after learning she was pregnant, and she had to cope with everything on her own. While others were playing, you sat with your books.

That evening, you were late at school. A group of drunks called out to you on the dark street. Your heart sank, but another group appeared. One of them punched the bully hard, sending him flying into the trash.

"So you're the one who attacks the girls, but you're not the one who fights back?" he wheezed, striking.

When they crawled away, he came up to you.

“How are you? Are you alive?” he asked. “Where are you from?”

“In the fifth house,” you said.

"One of your mom's?" he chuckled, lighting a cigarette.

"I don't wear underskirts! And you don't know your multiplication tables! And your face is ugly!" you flared up.

He just chuckled.

• Okay, monkey, let's go, I'll show you the way.

You walked alongside him. At the entrance, you said "thank you," but he grabbed your wrist:

"Don't worry about them, I'll take care of them," he said, and let them go.

The next morning, a pebble flew into the window. You looked out—it was standing by the fence. The teacher let you go.

"What are you doing?! I have homework!" you hissed.

"Quiet, little bunny. Have the boys come?" he asked, handing over some bread, butter, and sugar.

You took it. He grinned and left.

There was a whisper in the class: this is Gleb Bogdanov, a crime boss.

A shiver ran through you.

A week passed in silence. Candy appeared in the cupboard, flowers by the door. The local thugs looked away.

And then there was a knock on the door. He stood there. His chest was bandaged, his face was bruised, his knuckles were bleeding. He was hunched over in pain.

"Princess... I need help. Let me sit this one out... And I wouldn't refuse some borscht..." he croaked, stepping inside.