The divorce papers felt unusually thick in his hand.
Lyudmila saw Viktor stuff his own copy into the inside pocket of his expensive jacket.
Seven years of his life fit into one dry click as the leather folder closed.
“Here, take it,” he said, placing the silver bank card on the table.
“Your PIN is your birthday.”
“So you don’t have to beg in rented holes.”
Lyudmila felt a warm bitterness in her throat.
He remembered Viktor in his faded T-shirt, counting the payback for his first serious assignment on the construction site.
And now, sitting in front of him, sat the “lord of the city,” who believed that the hole in his soul could be patched with plastic.
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