Page 55 of Kingmakers, Graduation

My father is waiting.

16

ADRIK

Sabrina’s voice is tight as she orders, “Pull over here.”

It only takes a glance for me to understand what’s happening. In the glare of our headlights I see a spare figure dressed all in black, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the boot of a Hellcat.

We pull up behind him. He stands and ambles toward us, moving slowly, gingerly—old scars, old injuries. His body is as battered as the boots on his feet, his face much the same. Still, you can see the traces of a powerful beauty. Like an aged rockstar, he retains a dark glamour that time can’t erase.

Sabrina steps from the car, her sneakers crunching across gravel. I exit as well, unwilling to lurk in the driver’s seat.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hello, Sabrina.”

I would give a great deal to be able to smooth down Sabrina’s hair without him noticing, or re-button her shirt the right way.

His eyes pass over the evidence of what I’ve done to his daughter, then fix on my face.

It seems feeble to introduce myself—if Nero is here, he already knows who I am.

Instead, I nod my head toward the Hellcat, its engine long cooled, its black body gleaming in the night.

“Nice car.”

Nero says, “Would you like a drive in it?”

I can feel Sabrina’s tension. If I look at her, she might shake her head.

Nothing will prevent me from accepting the invitation. I’m no coward.

“Sure.”

“Wait in the Mustang,” Nero orders his daughter.

He wants to keep this confrontation out here on the road, away from Ivan’s property.

Sabrina opens her mouth to give a fiery retort. It’s me who shoots her a look, asking her for once in her life not to argue.

“We’ll be back in a minute,” I say.

I hope that’s true.

I slip in the passenger seat of Nero’s car, leaving the seatbelt unbuckled. I don’t want to be restrained, not on this ride.

Nero climbs in behind the wheel—slower, stiffer. His face gives no hint of pain but he must feel it, every day.

He pulls away from the curb smoothly, one hand on the wheel. He drives like a professional, with a precision that can only be obtained by years of focused practice.

In the dark and silent car, I ponder how to begin this conversation. Nero’s presence means he already knows some of what is passing between me and Sabrina. Maybe all of it. I don’t know what she’s told him, or what he’s discovered.

Nero suffers no such hesitation. He’s as quick as his daughter.

He says, “Why do they call you the Legend?”

Sabrina told me the Gallos love to play chess. I suppose we could call this the King’s Gambit—Nero offers a benign, even generous opening. If I take it, he’s sure to spring a trap.

---