Page 5 of Kingmakers, Year Three

I check the gold watch on my wrist—a gift from my father on my eighteenth birthday. A traditional gift. Usually it would be engraved. Mine was not.

It’s well past midnight.

Once the votes conclude, my father takes me around the room, introducing me to anyone of importance that I haven’t already met. He doesn’t care to climb the ladder of the Bratva himself—he wants no additional leadership or responsibilities. But he understands the importance of alliances.

The ballerinas have been permitted to return. Plenty of the bosses have pulled the girls onto their laps, preferring flirtation over further networking.

Not Dominik Petrov—he stands stiffly against the wall with his arms folded over his broad chest, rebuffing the advances of the stunning women who would prefer to drape themselves against his muscular frame instead of the fat and sweating bodies of the older Bratva who have let themselves go to seed.

Dominik is clearly uninterested, though his eldest son Adrik looks like he might have accepted the attention of one particularly lovely redhead had his father not shooed her away with a hiss.

“Dominik.” My father holds out his good hand to shake. “Ever faithful to Lara, I see.”

“A man does not drink from a toilet when he has fine wine at home,” Dominik replies dismissively.

“Don’t let Isay hear you liken the feminine flowers of Moscow to a toilet,” my father chuckles.

“I wouldn’t share a fork with Isay, let alone a woman,” Dominik says.

I can’t help but admire his nerve in insulting Isay Zolin within earshot of a dozen Bratva bosses. There’s something likable in his insouciance, and his complete disregard for any woman who isn’t his wife. It shows respect for his sons.

“This is your son Dmitry?” Dominik holds out one large, calloused hand to shake.

“I go by Dean at school.”

My father shoots me a warning look. Russians look down on westernized names. He instructed me not to use Dean around Bratva. But that’s the name he agreed upon with my mother and I resent that he wants me to erase it.

“I miss Kingmakers.” Adrik tosses back his mane of black hair. “Life was simpler at school.”

Adrik doesn’t strike me as someone prone to nostalgia. He has a wild, ferocious look about him, like an animal chafing at the restrictions of his suit and tie.

His younger brother is slimmer built, with an intelligent, watchful expression.

“Kade will be attending in the fall.” Dominik places his hand on his younger son’s shoulder.

“Dmitry can keep an eye on him,” my father offers.

“That would be kind,” Dominik says with an approving nod.

“What division will you be in?” I ask Kade.

“Enforcer. Like Adrik.”

“I’m an Heir. But I’m sure our paths will crossregardless.”

“Has Danyl named you his successor?” Adrik asks in a tone of confusion.

“No,” I admit.

“Interesting.”

I don’t think Adrik means to mock me, but I can feel my face coloring all the same. It’s true—I don’t really deserve my position in the Heirs division without a formal acknowledgment from Abram and Danyl. The Chancellor may have misunderstood the terms of Danyl’s letter of recommendation, or it may be that Danyl and Abram intended to formalize the arrangement, then hesitated. Perhaps because the Antonovs got in their ear.

All it means is that I have to continue to perform to the highest standards at Kingmakers. I intend to place first in grades in my final two years. Nothing and nobody will stand in my way. Not Anna Wilk, and certainly not Vanya Antonov.

2

CAT

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