Page 108 of Kingmakers, Year Three

Rakel keeps Ozzy’s old laptop hidden under her mattress. It looks like it’s been through a war but performs like a race car.

Though I’ve gotten pretty decent at my Code-breaking and Security Systems classes, Rakel is still the master at old-school hacking techniques. I hope she can put her skills to use on my behalf.

Rakel rolls off her bed so she can dig out the laptop, scattering orange peels everywhere.

Then she reseats herself, holding her fingers over the keyboard like a pianist about to play a concerto.

“Alright . . . what do you know about this person?” she says.

19

DEAN

Cat and I are openly dating now. We spend most of our time together, outside of class time.

I need to be with her, because when I’m not, I’m plagued with a sense of revulsion toward my own future.

I always knew the plan: graduate from Kingmakers, take a position under Danyl Kuznetsov, pay off my two years’ service, then work my way up in the Moscow Bratva until I’mPakhan.

But now when I picture going back to Moscow, battling with Vanya Antonov for ascendency, forcing the rest of the Bratva to respect and support me, I just feel . . . blank.

I never liked Moscow. I always hated living there.

I ask Snow, “Did you like St. Petersburg?”

He shrugs. “Well enough.”

“But you wanted to go to America.”

“I wanted to fight at Madison Square Gardens. To me, that represented the ultimate achievement in boxing.”

“And you stayed in New York after.”

“That’s right.”

He’s taking me through a heavy bag workout with intense three-minute rounds. I can only question him during the brief rest period, because otherwise I’m panting too hard to speak.

I pound the bag with all my might until Snow clicks his stopwatch, letting me know I can rest again.

“What’s New York like?” I puff.

“Loud. All the time. Horns, sirens, subway trains, people shouting when they think they’re just talking. It’s constant stimulation—the color and diversity and the scent of the food. You could eat a different kind of food every day and never have the same thing twice. It’s safe, too—surprisingly safe. You can walk around any time, day or night. It’s always busy, always people around.”

He clicks his watch again, prompting me to launch myself at the bag once more, punching, ducking, circling, hitting again, until my three minutes are up.

I flop down on the mats, taking a hefty swig of water. I’m pouring sweat and I’ve got four more rounds to go.

“My mother was from Chicago,” I tell Snow.

“I’ve been there,” he says. “Great city.”

“I was born there. But I haven’t seen it since I was little.”

“Maybe you should visit,” Snow says, clicking his watch once more.

I always thought of Chicago as the place from which we’d been exiled. Forced out by the Gallos.

But it is my heritage just as much as Moscow.

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