Page 57 of Kingmakers, Year One

“Not me.” Ares shakes his head. “I’m not interested in any of that.”

I don’t know if that’s actually true, or if Ares just thinks nobody would want to take orders from someone who’s not exactly at the top of the social order here.

“I want it,” I say firmly. “Because I want to win the whole damn thing.”

Miles scoffs. “Freshmen never win.”

“I will.”

Miles just shakes his head at me, laughing silently. “Never change, cuz.”

That night,something happens to me that has never happened before.

I’m lying in bed in my dorm room, with Ares fast asleep on the other side of the room. He seems to have gone unconsciousthe second his head touched the pillow, but I’m still way too hyped up by the fact that I’m actually at Kingmakers, on an island in the middle of the Adriatic Sea.

My brain is swimming with the sights and sounds of the day, plus the wild fantasies I have for the upcoming year.

Fantasies are so much more than dreams—they’re a vision of the path you need to take to get what you want.

Professional athletes know this. The visualization in your mind is as important as the physical practice in the gym.

So when I’m laying here like this, I’m not just reveling in pleasant dreams. I’m picturing my future.

I see myself becoming Captain. I see myself becoming the first Freshman to ever win theQuartum Bellum.And then I see myself taking over as Don of Chicago. Becoming the most powerful mafia boss on the east coast. And then in all of America.

The fantasy builds and builds as I watch my future self achieve success after success.

But because I’m exhausted, after a time I lose control of my brain and it starts to drift and float, spinning visions without conscious control. What I see becomes richer in detail, more real than the room around me, or the sound of the ocean hitting the cliffs below.

I see the mansion I’ll live in someday, even larger and grander than my parents’ house. I see a yacht, a private jet, a bank account with an impossible number of zeroes.

And then I see something I’ve never seen before: two small children running around my house. Twins, of exactly the same height. They’re turned away from me, so I can’t see their faces, but I hear their little voices babbling, and I see their dark curls, just like mine at that age. I hear their little feet padding as they run away from me across a thick Persian rug.

I’ve never pictured having children before. I guess I always assumed I would, but I’m only eighteen—it’s nothing I’m anxious to experience right now.

Still, it makes sense that a vision of my future would include the children who will continue the Gallo line. Why build an empire if there’s nobody to receive it?

In that dreamlike state, I feel myself turn, looking for my wife.

Anna stands behind me, wearing an elegant black gown, her long sheaf of silver-blonde hair laying over her shoulder.

I feel an immediate pang of guilt because I’m not supposed to look at Anna like this.

Any idiot can see that she’s beautiful, but I’m not supposed to notice that she’ssexy.

I’m not supposed to imagine wrapping my hands around her tiny waist, or pressing my lips against the silky smooth skin on the side of her swanlike neck.

I’m not supposed to imagine pulling the thin straps of that gown down her shoulders, baring those perfect breasts, and covering them with my hands . . .

I’ve been told that Anna is family all my life. I was raised to treat her like a sibling or a cousin.

Any time I noticed how good her hair smelled, or how full her lips had become, I smothered that thought, if for no other reason than to keep Uncle Miko from murdering me. I told myself there were other beautiful girls, and I should pay attention to them.

I tried . . . I went on so many dates. But too often when I had the chance to take a girl out for a second or third time, something came up with Anna—she asked me to see a movie or come with her to some party. I always chose to spend time with her instead.

Now, in this dream-state, Anna stands in front of me at her most stunning, her most sensual. Every line on her body as flawless and mobile as a calligraphy stroke.

Her ice-blue eyes fix on mine, her pouting lips quirked up in that mocking smile I’ve never been able to resist . . . the smile that makes me want to do the most dangerous things, if only to impress her…

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