Page 36 of Kingmakers, Year Four

He interrupts me, going into a rage as I knew he would.

“They’re JEALOUS!” he roars. “They want to cut me down any way that they can. They hate what I did on my own, without any of them! They’ll lie and slander and say whatever they can to try to hide their own weakness, their own failure . . .”

I grip the receiver, frustrated and confused.

I knew he’d react like this. He always does.

When my father is happy, there’s no one more charming, more engaging. But when he’s angry . . . the switch flips, and there’s no talking to him.

It’s why we fight so often.

Everything is black and white to him. You’re with him, or you’re against him.

And if you’re against him, you’re his enemy.

“You don’t believe any of it. Do you?” he demands. “You don’t believe their lies?”

“Of course not, Dad,” I say.

But I want to know. I want to know what happened with the Odessa Mafia.

“Do you know the Lomachenkos?” I ask him.

He’s quiet. I can still hear his heavy breathing from his rant. He’s put on weight the last few years—he’s not as fast as he once was, though I still wouldn’t get too close when he’s angry.

“Kyrylo Lomachenko was my cousin,” he replies at last.

“Was?”

“Someone cut his throat six years ago.”

“But it wasn’t you. You had nothing to do with it.”

“I won’t be questioned by you, girl,” my father snarls, his temper flaring up again like a fire hit by a blast from the bellows.

“Please, Dad,” I say desperately. “Just tell me what happened.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” he says. “I was sending him old Soviet guns in shipping crates. He was smuggling them in past the port authority. I was perfectly happy with our arrangement. Obviously, someone else was not.”

There’s no hint of a lie in my father’s voice. He sounds as honest and certain as ever.

I let out a sigh of relief. “Alright, Dad,” I say. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“What are you letting them give you shit for, anyway?” my father demands, recovering his cheerful bluster. “I thought you were made of stronger stuff, Nix.”

Well . . . he’s right about that.

I’ve never been one to roll over in a fight.

“Don’t worry about me,” I tell him. “I know how to take care of myself.”

“That’s my girl,” he says.

I can almost see his grin, half-hidden by his red beard.

The second weekof school is better than the first. For one thing, the pace of our classes is only increasing, which means nobody has much time for hassling me.

Also, anytime anybody gives me a dirty look, I tell them to fuck off with enough vigor that it seems to dissuade the others.

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