Page 27 of Kingmakers, Year Four

“I know what your father did,” Bram hisses.

His teeth are bared, his hands trembling like he’d like to wrap them around my throat.

Everyone else at the table is silent, staring at us like Bram is the judge and they’re the jury.

To my surprise, it’s Ares who intervenes.

“She’s not her father,” he says. “We all have violent histories. The point of Kingmakers is that you’re supposed to leave the grudges at the door.”

“Fuck that!” Bram spits, thrusting his tray away from him and standing up. “And fuckyou,”he snarls at me, before turning and stalking out of the dining hall.

Dean Yenin stands up as well. “I’ll go talk to him,” he says, resting his hand on Cat’s shoulder. “Stay and enjoy your dinner, my love.”

Cat’s cheeks flush pink, drowning out her freckles. She squeezes the hand on her shoulder before letting him go.

I can hardly stand the awkward silence that follows.

“I can leave, too,” I say, looking around at them all with a defiant pride I don’t really feel.

“Nix,” Leo says, the kindness of his voice almost unbearable to me—I’m afraid it’s going to make me crack. “You wouldn’t believe the shit that’s gone down just in our own families. Remember, I’ve been here three years already. Dean and I wanted to kill each other first year. Now we’re friends. Bram will come around . . . and so will everybody else.”

Anna looks less convinced, but she nods slowly.

“You’ll find your place here,” she says to me. “Everyone does.”

I don’t know if she intends that place to be at her table.

I eat my food silently, while everyone else tries to return to normal conversation.

Though Bram left the dining hall, I can still feel the angry glares and the barely-suppressed mutters of other students.

And I know, I just fucking know, if I look across the dining hall to the Odessa Mafia’s table, Estas Lomachenko will be smiling in delight.

Regardless of what Leo said, there doesn’t seem to be anything normal about how much everyone hates my family.

7

Ares

Because I’m dreading befriending Nix Moroz, I put it off during the first week of school. I tell myself I’ll watch her first and learn more about her.

That’s not exactly easy to do, because Freshmen and Seniors don’t have any classes together. The one shared class was boxing, but that’s over since Snow returned to New York.

Nix is restless and highly active. Any time I catch a glimpse of her outside of school hours, she’s heading off for a run in the fields around the castle or making use of the shooting range or the gym. From the dampness of her hair when she leaves the Armory, I’m guessing she also likes to swim.

That’s why I find myself rolling out of bed at an ungodly hour on Sunday morning, pulling on the tight black swim trunks provided by the school.

I walk down the wide staircase of the Octagon Tower, skirting the edge of the terraced herb garden, then crossing the deserted grounds toward the Armory. Thick fog blankets the lawn, the buildings looming up unexpectedly like ships moving through the mist. I can smell the salt of the ocean far below us, and I feel the first chill that always comes in the autumn—subtle at first, before tightening its grip on the castle.

Very few students get up early on the weekends. Even fewer of the professors—the mafia world is nocturnal, and old habits die hard. You’re more likely to see Professor Lyons or the Chancellor himself strolling the grounds at 2:00 in the morning than at 6:00 a.m.

The squat Armory looks like a hut with its rounded walls and pointed roof. I push my way inside, hearing the steadythwackof someone hitting the heavy bag over and over again.

I already know it’s Dean Yenin before I see him standing, shirtless and sweating, on the opposite side of the gym. His hands are wrapped. He drives his fists into the swinging bag in relentless rhythm. With his back to me, I can see the ugly scars from the whipping he took last year, all but obliterating the Siberian tiger that once crawled up his spine.

His back looks almost as bad as Hedeon’s.

My stomach squirms guiltily.

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