The Enemy’s Playbook

Saint Petersburg, Russia

The boy across from him stared at the floor like it might crack open and swallow him.

“Look up,” Matteo said.

The other boy didn’t. His hands tightened around the edge of the plastic table instead, knuckles pale against brown skin.

Matteo leaned back in his chair, metal legs scraping softly across the concrete. The visiting hall smelled like disinfectant and boiled cabbage. A hundred voices layered over each other, families pretending they weren’t in a cage with their loved ones, laughter that tried too hard to be real and crying that was swallowed by the noise.

“Do you always ignore people,” Matteo went on, bored and sharp, “or is that just for strangers in prison?”

The boy finally lifted his head.

He had dark lashes, the kind that made people think you were gentle even when you weren’t. A thin scar cut through one eyebrow, still pink. His glasses slid down his nose, and he pushed them back with a nervous tap.

“I’m not ignoring you,” he said. “I just… I didn’t know you were talking to me.”

Matteo snorted. “There are two tables left in this row. One has a man built like a refrigerator and the other has you. Guess which one I meant.”

The boy hesitated, then gave a small, crooked smile. “Fair.”

That smile irritated Matteo more than silence would have.

He shifted, stretching his long legs under the table. The correctional officer at the end of the hall shot him a warning glance. Matteo met it coolly, daring him to say something. The guard looked away.

“Who are you here for?” Matteo asked.

The boy glanced over his shoulder, toward the glass-partitioned cubicles lining the far wall. “My dad. Nickolai Roman.”

Matteo’s pulse hitched, just slightly.

He kept his face blank. “Criminal?”

The boy’s jaw tightened. “He’s not a criminal, he was framed.”

Everyone said that.

Matteo tilted his head. “For what?”

“Embezzlement. They seized everything. Our apartment, his accounts, even my college fund.” The boy laughed, breathless. “Like I had one.”

“You going to cry?” Matteo asked flatly.

“No.” The boy met his eyes this time. There was steel under the softness, “I’m going to get a scholarship.”

“For what?”

“Basketball.”

Matteo glanced at him again, this time properly. The boy was lean, long-limbed, shoulders too narrow now, but not for long. Calloused hands.

“You play?”

“I captain my school team,” he said, a little proudly. Then he winced, “Not that that means anything here.”

“Means you think you’re in charge,” Matteo replied.

The boy blinked. “Is that… bad?”

Matteo shrugged. “Depends how hard the world hits you.”

They fell into a strange silence that was neither awkward nor comfortable.

“What about you?” the boy asked. “Who are you here for?”

“My father.”

“Name?”

“Sergei Antonov.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Antonov?”

Matteo watched him carefully. “You’ve heard of him.”

“Everyone has,” the boy said, then flushed. “I mean, not like… I don’t mean he’s a criminal. I just mean—”

“That he’s mafia?” Matteo said. “It’s true… Don of the Antonov Bratva.”

The boy swallowed and Matteo enjoyed his nervousness a little.

“Are you scared?” he asked.

The boy thought about it. “No. Just… surprised?.”

“Good,” Matteo said. “Fear is boring.”

The loudspeaker crackled overhead.

Visiting period ends in ten minutes.

The boy winced. “Already?”

Matteo stood, “My father hates lateness.”

“Mine too,” the boy said softly.

They lingered for a moment, uncertain.

“I’m Ezra,” the boy offered.

Matteo considered lying. Names were leverage, they could be used.

“Matteo.”

Ezra smiled again, that same quiet curve of mouth. “Good luck, Matteo.”

Luck was for people who needed it.

Matteo turned away.

—

Don Sergei Antonov sat behind thick glass, posture straight despite the weight of chains. His hair had gone silver at the temples, but his eyes were still sharp.

“You’re late,” he said.

“Two minutes,” Matteo replied.

“Two minutes gets men killed.”

Matteo sat, jaw tight, “It won’t happen again.”

Sergei studied him. “You’ve been fighting.”

Matteo didn’t answer.

“You were sent to that facility so you’d learn control,” Sergei continued. “Not so you could collect bruises like trophies.”

“They started it.”

“They always do.”

Matteo’s gaze drifted, just slightly, toward the neighboring cubicle.

Ezra sat across from a gaunt man with hollow eyes. Nickolai Roman looked older than he should. He looked tired and spoke in low, careful tones, one hand pressed to the glass like he could reach through it.

“He seems kind,” Matteo said before he could stop himself.

Sergei followed his gaze. “Who?”

“The boy. With Roman.”

“Kind boys don’t survive here.”

“He’s not here.”

“He will be,” Sergei said quietly. “The world doesn’t spare softness.”

Matteo clenched his fists, “He’s not soft.”

Sergei raised a brow. “You know him?”

“No.”

“Then don’t pretend.”

Matteo leaned back. “You’re the one always saying people aren’t what they seem.”

Sergei studied him for a long moment. “What did he tell you?”

“Nothing important.”

“Everything is important,” Sergei said. “Especially the things that feel small.”

Across the room, Ezra laughed at something his father said. It was a bright sound in a dim place.

Matteo didn’t look away.

—

They kept meeting.

Not because either planned it. Just because their routines collided. Same visiting hours, same row, and the same empty seat.

Ezra talked.

About school, basketball drills and about Aurora, his best friend who wanted to be a journalist and “expose the world, one idiot at a time.” About the math teacher who hated him and about how the scouts were finally coming to watch him play.

Matteo listened.

He never volunteered much. He didn’t talk about the fights he had, the blood or the way rage coiled in him like a second spine.

But he asked questions.

“How many points do you average?”

“Why basketball?”

“What will you do if you fail?”

Ezra always answered.

“I won’t.”

“Because it’s the only time my head shuts up.”

“Because my dad needs something to believe in.”

One day, Ezra slid a folded paper across the table.

“What’s this?” Matteo asked.

“A schedule. My games. In case you ever want to see one.”

Matteo stared at it. “Why would I?”

Ezra shrugged. “Because I’m going to be great.”

The confidence he spoke with wasn’t pride, it was borne from determination, simple and stubborn.

Matteo took the paper.