Page 40 of Kingmakers, Year Three

“I liked your father,” I tell him. “He was faithful to your mother.”

“He’s always been faithful to her,” Kade says proudly. “And he’s loyal to Ivan. Vanya doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.”

“He never does.” I nod. “If you could capture half the shit that comes out of his mouth, you could fertilize Siberia.”

Kade laughs. “He wouldn’t dare talk that way if Adrik was here.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” I agree. “You remember he didn’t say fuck-all at the Bolshoi Theater.”

Kade snickers. “He and his father were much too busy with their lips pressed firmly against Abram Balakin’s ass.”

Now I’m the one laughing. “I brought you one of those cigars you like so much . . .god they suck.”

We’re not talking loudly enough for Vanya to hear, but he sees us laughing. His scowl darkens until he looks like a petulant toddler. A petulant toddler that drew his own eyebrows on with a pen.

A question strikes me that Kade could probably answer.

“Why isn’t Ivan Petrov’s son at Kingmakers?”

Kade shrugs awkwardly. I regret asking—I hadn’t meant to pry into family business.

“He didn’t want to come,” Kade says. “He’s very popular in America. Very . . . you know . . . occupied with his life there.”

“Of course,” I say, nodding.

A common problem when Bratva allow their children to grow up in the wealth and glamor of the states. They get into the playboy lifestyle, fucking and partying, and they don’t want to learn the business.

Kade and I swap positions, Kade donning the pads so I can take my turn with the drill. I hit the targets harder and faster each round, until Kade is wincing and has to remove the pads to shake out his hands.

“Fuck, you’ve got a hammer for an arm,” he says.

I usually feel annoyed by compliments, because my skill is obvious. Today, however, I simply say, “Thanks.”

“My father says your dad is a brilliant bookkeeper,” Kade says.

“He likes to organize,” I say.

On the page. Not in our fucking house, unfortunately.

I wait, expecting Kade to follow that up with some comment on my father’s appearance. It never fails. People can’t help themselves.

But Kade says nothing at all. He just holds up the pads again, waiting for me to take my next turn.

That blessed silence is the best part of our conversation.

After class,as the students file out, Snow calls, “Dean. Wait a moment.”

I wait, sweat drying on my skin. It was an intense session.

Snow stands silent with arms folded, until everyone else is gone. Then he says, “You worked hard today.”

I smother the impulse to tell him that I work hard every day.

“Thank you,” I say again.

Look at me, becoming humble and well-mannered. At least for a day.

“You’ve taken Kade Petrov under your wing.”

---