"Your parents were in the Mafia, Alexei," It takes a minute for Mr. Sergei's words to sink in. I want to pinch myself to see if this is reality. "Nice joke," I tell him, denying the obvious. "There's no way they did that. They said they worked at—" I pause, trying to remember. "at an…uhh…" Wait. Where did they work? Mr. Sergei gives me a sad smile. "Now do you understand? They hid this from you to protect you," He informs me. "Don't be mad. You'll have plenty of time to do that," Looking right at me, Mr. Sergei asks, "Alexei, I cannot keep you unless you promise me one thing," "What is it?" I ask, curious. "You will allow me to shape you into something that can exact the revenge you so desire," Mr. Sergei grins. "Here's a word of advice, Alexei. You can have anything you want in this world, as long as you know how to kill," "Anything I want?" My eyes widen. I'd never thought of it that way. "Yes, Alexei. Anything you want." I pause for a minute, contemplating the weight of this decision…I mean, killing? That's crazy—and illegal. But the possibility of revenge… that's something worth killing for. "I'll do it," I say. "Anything you want. Just—do everything you can. I need this."
"Get up, Alexei!" Mr. Sergei's voice pulls me out of sleep and I glare at him. "Pack your things. We're going home today," "But I thought this was home…?" I ask, perplexed at what he means. "I don't live in the city. We're going back to Florida, where I live. It's also a nicer climate," He runs a hand through his thick hair. "I never understood why your parents chose to live in the city. Anyway, be ready to leave in ten minutes. We have a long drive a head of us,"
In the car, Mr. Sergei turns on the radio. "Got any preferences for music?" He asks. I shake my head no. Soon, the car is filled with the sound of Michael Jackson. I close my eyes and take a minute to think for the first time in months, asking myself how I got myself into all this. Maybe it's a change for the better, in a way. Maybe Mr. Sergei will keep me. Maybe I'll never see the foster center again, never have to hear the other kids laugh at me, whisper things about me behind my back. I picture them dead, drowning in their own blood. The thought scares me at first, that I can think of such a thing. I shudder. Who the hell am I becoming? Am I okay?