Page 32 of Kingmakers, Year Three

“Now we’re coming to the truth of it, aren’t we, Cat?” He releases my neck, but he doesn’t step back. He stands very close, looking down at me. “Are you planning to kill me, too, little kitten?”

“N-no,” I stammer, guiltily digging my fingernails into my opposite arm. “I didn’t mean that.”

“I think you did.”

“No! I just . . . you’re so fucking unreasonable!”

“And that’s what you meant, isn’t it, kitten? You spoke in anger, and it’s supposed to sound like a joke. But the implicit threat is there underneath. You’re reminding me that you did in fact kill Rocco Prince, and you’ll do it again if I make you mad enough. If I make things hard on you. If I scare you, if you think I’d spill your secret . . . I’ll become a threat that has to be eliminated, just like Rocco.”

There’s a difference between someone insulting you with lies, and someone peeling back the cover over an ugly truth. One is much more unpleasant than the other.

Dean has found my deepest, most painful place, and he’s driving a spike into the aching flesh.

My sister thinks I’m a good person. Anna and Chay do, too.

Dean knows the truth.

“No,” I say numbly. “That isn’t true.”

“We both know it is,” Dean says softly, his eyes fixed on mine.

“No!” I shake my head until my curls are a dark whirl in front of my eyes. “I wouldn’t do that. Ihadto kill Rocco. I had no choice!”

“You don’t have to defend it to me,” Dean says. “I agree with you. Zoe never would have done it. Miles might have, but he hesitated. He wanted to find the more humane way. Only you saw what had to be done. You murdered Rocco. I would have done the same.”

Dean believes we have something in common. He thinks I did something admirable.

It makes me want to vomit.

“No!” I cry, backing away from him. “I’m not like you.”

Dean laughs quietly.

“You think there’s a difference between you and me, because you did it for Zoe? There’s no fucking difference. All mafia crime is committed on that premise. We’re all doing what we think needs to be done for the good of the family. It’s the core ideology of our world. You can justify each individual action any way you like, but the difference between a civilian and mafiosi is that we put the good of our family above the law.”

Dean is advancing toward me again. I keep trying to retreat, until my back hits the wall.

My stomach is churning.

I hate what he’s saying.

I’m not like my father, or Dean’s father, or Dean himself. I’m not like the Chancellor or Professor Penmark. I may have come to enjoy Kingmakers, some of the time, but that doesn’t mean I belong here! It doesn’t mean I’m one of them.

Dean reaches out one of those deadly, pale hands. This time he draws the back of his fingers softly down my cheek, each point of contact an electric spark.

“What you did to Rocco proves that you’re as mafia as the rest of us. Maybe even more.”

“I’M NOT!” I cry, slapping his hand away. And then, when he won’t back up, when he keeps me trapped against the wall, I shove him again, raging against his immovable body.

“You want to hit me, Cat?” he growls, pinning me to the wall with his arms on either side of my face. “Go ahead and do it, then.”

I don’t understand this game.

I don’t understand any of his games.

All I know is that I’m trapped, and I’ve never liked small spaces. Never liked confinement.

“Hit me,” he hisses. “You think you have the balls to throw me off the wall? You can’t even raise one little paw to touch me.”

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