Page 34 of Kingmakers, Year Four

Once he’s clean, I throw him a new towel.

“Thank you, my friend,” he says.

“Are you in a hurry to go back to Kyiv?” I ask him.

He rubs the towel across the short, coppery stubble on his head.

“Not particularly,” he says. “Why?”

“I have plans in St. Petersburg. I could use a man like you,” I say.

Marko wraps the towel around his waist, unable to tuck the end in because it barely goes around him.

“I’m no lieutenant,” he says. “I mean to become a boss myself.” He glances at the men on the floor. “But I do owe you a favor.”

“Work with me, then,” I say. “As partners. We split the profit. When the time comes, we part as friends. You go back home with the seeds to grow any fruit you like.”

There’s no need for me to wait until I’m free to begin amassing my army. I can do it right here, inside this prison.

With the exception of my brother, who is still young and learning, my family is weak and scattered. Marko’s is non-existent. Neither of us has a network of ready-made soldiers.

We’re the two biggest men in this prison. We can protect each other, and I can tighten my hold on the prisoners who already fear and respect me. They’d prefer my leadership to the petty dictatorship of Molotok and his ilk.

I’ll train my soldiers here. Once I’m free, St. Petersburg will be mine for the taking.

Marko holds out a hand to me, his fingers gory from the blood dripping down his arm.

“Brothers, then,” he says.

I already have a brother. But who says I can’t have another?

I take his hand and shake.

“Brothers,” I agree.

9

Nix

Ares Cirillo is a mystery to me.

When he looks at me, I feel like his stare could burn the flesh off my bones. His restrained, buttoned-up exterior doesn’t fool me. I see the intensity behind the facade, an actual living person peering through the eyes of a painting.

Sometimes he seems to be seeking me out.

Other times, I think he hates me.

My first thought, of course, is that there’s some dark history between our families. But from what I’ve heard, his father and grandfather left the mafia life. He has no grudge against me.

We part ways at the door of the Armory, each of us heading off to our respective dorms to shower.

I watch his tall frame loping off across the grass, moving with a fluidity not dissimilar to Leo Gallo.

I was surprised when I saw Ares in his swim trunks. Divested of his baggy school uniform, he’s more muscular than I would have guessed — with a much more interesting collection of tattoos.

Everything about him is subtle and understated. This interests me because I’m the opposite: too blunt, too loud, too obvious. Ares is a deep pool . . . I’m curious what’s under the water.

I wish it weren’t Sunday. As difficult as our classes can be, I’m not looking forward to long hours at loose ends. I could walk down to the village, but on such a mild and sunny day, it’s as likely to be stuffed with students as the castle grounds.

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