The Bully (Kingmakers)

by Sophie Lark

  “I’d be glad to give you a lesson in my skills right now,” he barks, the veneer of civility between us completely rubbed away.

  “No need for that, boys,” Abram says in a bored tone. “We have other entertainment planned for the evening.”

  He claps his hands. The double doors at the end of the private suite swing open. Twenty elegant women swarm through, dressed in sparkling gowns and diamond jewelry. Every one is tall and slim, their shining hair piled high on their heads. These are no chorus dancers, but the prima ballerinas, expected to drink and dance and socialize with the Bratva. Like geishas, they offer the highest levels of cultured feminine charm. When the Bratva want to fuck, they visit their own brothels. When they want to be entertained, they bring in the ballerinas.

  The next hour is spent drinking and socializing. A table along the wall groans under the weight of a mountain of crab legs, caviar, boiled quail eggs, fern salad, sizzling sprats, and suckling pig.

  I make my way over to the food, intending to eat, until I see fresh strawberry pie with a shortbread crust. My mother used to make that. She tried to learn all the traditional Russian dishes because it made my father happy to come home to her cooking, even when it was awful, even when her borscht was shit.

  My father would laugh and try to gulp down her terrible food, and she would smack him with the dishtowel and say there was no need, we could visit the restaurant on the corner. He would grab her and kiss her and say that he’d prefer to order in, and they would send me to bed early so they could be alone. My mother would bring me up a piece of strawberry pie, which was the one thing she could actually make reasonably well.

  I look at the pie.

  I know it will taste like sawdust in my mouth.

  I grab a glass of chilled vodka instead and swallow it down, liking the way it burns.

  When everyone has had their fill of food and women, the ballerinas are dismissed. Isay Zolin calls the meeting to order. He controls the second-largest territory in Moscow. While his holdings are secondary to Nikolai Markov’s, Isay is the president’s cousin, and thus has been given chairmanship of the Bratva for the time being.

  Isay checks that all the Pakhans are in attendance, including those from St. Petersburg. When he calls the name of Ivan Petrov, a tall, fair-haired man with a scar down his left cheek says, “I’m here in my brother’s place.”

  That must be Dominik Petrov, flanked by his two black-haired sons. I’ve never met them, but the eldest son Adrik is a legend at Kingmakers.

  “This meeting is for all the Pakhans,” Isay says severely. “I expected Ivan.”

  “He sends his regrets,” Dominik says. “As you know, his business in America has been highly lucrative for all of us, but it demands no small attention. An emergency delayed him.”

  “Has he authorized you to vote on his behalf?” Isay demands.

  “He has,” Dominik says with a curt nod.

  “Then we will proceed,” Isay says.

  Now comes the tedious portion of the evening when the bosses vote on the minutia of shared Bratva business, including what percentage of the vast fund held in common should be given in disbursements, and where the remaining portion should be invested.

  Each Bratva boss runs his own operation, but a percentage of profits is pooled, some used to secure our mutual goals in government and business, and some allotted for administrative expenses, bribes, legal defense, and so forth.

  If the bosses don’t agree, then the lieutenants and derzhatel obschaka like my father are called upon to likewise cast their votes. It’s all very democratic, as far as democracy prevails when you know that the man above you might cut your throat if he doesn’t like your opinion.

  I check the gold watch on my wrist—a gift from my father on my eighteenth birthday. A traditional gift. Usually it would be engraved. Mine was not.

  It’s well past midnight.

  Once the votes conclude, my father takes me around the room, introducing me to anyone of importance that I haven’t already met. He doesn’t care to climb the ladder of the Bratva himself—he wants no additional leadership or responsibilities. But he understands the importance of alliances.

  The ballerinas have been permitted to return. Plenty of the bosses have pulled the girls onto their laps, preferring flirtation over further networking.

  Not Dominik Petrov—he stands stiffly against the wall with his arms folded over his broad chest, rebuffing the advances of the stunning women who would prefer to drape themselves against his muscular frame instead of the fat and sweating bodies of the older Bratva who have let themselves go to seed.

  Dominik is clearly uninterested, though his eldest son Adrik looks like he might have accepted the attention of one particularly lovely redhead had his father not shooed her away with a hiss.

  “Dominik,” my father says, holding out his good hand to shake. “Ever faithful to Lara, I see.”

  “A man does not drink from a toilet when he has fine wine at home,” Dominik replies dismissively.

  “Don’t let Isay hear you liken the feminine flowers of Moscow to a toilet,” my father chuckles.

  “I wouldn’t share a fork with Isay, let alone a woman,” Dominik says.

  I can’t help but admire his nerve in insulting Isay Zolin within earshot of a dozen Bratva bosses. There’s something likable in his insouciance, and his complete disregard for any woman who isn’t his wife. It shows respect for his sons.

  “This is your son Dmitry?” Dominik says, holding out one large, calloused hand to shake.

  “I go by Dean at school,” I tell him.

  My father shoots me a warning look. Russians look down on westernized names. He instructed me not to use Dean around Bratva. But that’s the name he agreed upon with my mother and I resent that he wants me to erase it.

  “I miss Kingmakers,” Adrik says, tossing back his mane of black hair. “Life was simpler at school.”

  Adrik doesn’t strike me as someone prone to nostalgia. He has a wild, ferocious look about him, like an animal chafing at the restrictions of his suit and tie.

  His younger brother is slimmer built, with an intelligent, watchful expression.

  “Kade will be attending in the fall,” Dominik says, placing his hand on his younger son’s shoulder.

  “Dmitry can keep an eye on him,” my father offers.

  “That would be kind,” Dominik says with an approving nod.

  “What division will you be in?” I ask Kade.

  “Enforcer. Like Adrik,” he says.

  “I’m an Heir. But I’m sure our paths will cross regardless.”

  “Has Danyl named you his successor?” Adrik asks, in a tone of confusion.

  “No,” I admit.

  “Interesting,” he says.

  I don’t think Adrik means to mock me, but I can feel my face coloring all the same. It’s true—I don’t really deserve my position in the Heirs division without a formal acknowledgment from Abram and Danyl. The Chancellor may have misunderstood the terms of Danyl’s letter of recommendation, or it may be that Danyl and Abram intended to formalize the arrangement, then hesitated. Perhaps because the Antonovs got in their ear.

  All it means is that I have to continue to perform to the highest standards at Kingmakers. I intend to place first in grades in my final two years. Nothing and nobody will stand in my way. Not Anna Wilk, and certainly not Vanya Antonov.

  2

  Cat

  After a long and achingly sweet summer in Chicago, I’m boarding the ship to Kingmakers once more.

  The reality of my situation is crashing down on my shoulders.

  It was easy to forget how much trouble I’m in when I was whiling away the hours sightseeing with Zoe and Miles, and Miles’s little brother Caleb.

  I never imagined I could be treated so well as a guest. The Griffins embraced me like one of their own, even though it’s Zoe who will marry into their family, not me.

  They took care of my every need, ferrying me around the city,
buying me delicacies and souvenirs, making sure I was never bored, lonely, or lacking for the smallest thing.

  I shut out the memory of what I had done at Kingmakers.

  I pretended to belong among the Griffins, like Chicago had always been my home.

  But now it’s all over.

  I returned to my father’s house in Barcelona for one dull week before packing my bags again.

  My father was in the best mood I’ve ever seen him. The deal he struck with Miles Griffin has surpassed all his wildest dreams in the sheer volume of money pouring into his account. That was the bargain: Miles’s dark web drug pipeline in exchange for Zoe. Miles has made my father and his associates into very rich men.

  As a small sweetener, Miles stipulated that my father refrain from coercing me into any unwanted marriage contracts. My father has upheld his end of the bargain: he left me alone my entire week in Spain, not even demanding that I accompany him and my stepmother Daniela to any of their tedious parties.

  Still, it was a long, lonely week after the warmth and bustle of the Griffin household.

  I miss Zoe already.

  I miss her horribly.

  She asked me again if I wanted to come to Los Angeles with her and Miles. I wanted to accept so badly. I feel safe with those two. Zoe is the only person on the planet who truly loves me, who would do anything to protect me.

  But I knew I’d only be a third wheel, an anchor dragging them down while they try to build a life together.

  I have to return to my own life at Kingmakers. Even if there’s something horrible waiting there for me.

  It’s ironic. My father is forbidden to force me into a marriage contract against my will. But I’ve already trapped myself in something far, far worse.

  The moment I step foot aboard the ship to Kingmakers, I’m looking around for Dean Yenin.

  I remember the last words we spoke to each other as though it were three minutes ago, instead of three months.

  “I know what you did . . .

  “I saw you . . .

  “I won’t tell. But understand this . . . I own you now. When we come back to school, you’re mine. My servant. My slave. For as long as I want you . . .”

  I almost spilled my secret to Zoe a hundred times. I almost told her what I did.

  But in the end, I stuffed the words down again, into the ball of frozen fear that’s been lodged deep in my guts all this time.

  This is my burden to bear, not hers.

  If I told Zoe the truth, she’d never feel free to go to L.A. with Miles.

  She’d be compelled to stay with me, to try to protect me from something she simply can’t prevent.

  Dean knows what I did. He could tell the Chancellor at any time. Nothing can stop him from doing that. My only chance is to stay on his good side. To trust in his mercy.

  The only problem is that I don’t think he has any goddamned mercy.

  I’m trying to please a man who can’t be pleased.

  Dean is spiteful. Vengeful. Full of rage.

  He could destroy me with a single word, just because I looked at him sideways.

  The train of his hatred is long and complicated.

  He hates Leo Gallo because of the feud between their families.

  He hates Miles and Zoe because Miles is Leo’s cousin.

  And he hates me because I’m Zoe’s sister.

  But that barely scratches the surface of his fury.

  I’ve thought about this long and hard over the summer, wondering how I truly attracted his ire.

  The real reason he hates me is that I saw him in a private, unguarded moment.

  I saw him sobbing after Ozzy’s mother was executed by the Chancellor. I saw him hunched over, tears streaming down his face, as he gave in to the storm of pain inside him.

  And he will never, never, never forgive me for that.

  I saw Dean weak and vulnerable. He’ll have me killed before he’ll chance me telling anybody else.

  Like a fool, I handed him the perfect leverage over me.

  I murdered Rocco Prince, my sister’s intended fiancé.

  And Dean knows it.

  The Rule of Recompense is the most iron-clad law of Kingmakers: an eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, life for a life.

  If Dean tells anyone what I did, I’ll be executed, just like Ozzy’s mother. I’ll be forced to kneel before the school so the Chancellor can slit my throat.

  This is the situation in which I find myself as I stand on the sunbaked deck of the ship. One wrong move, and Dean will throw me to the wolves. My only chance of survival is to hope and pray that somewhere, deep inside of Dean, there lives a spark of humanity.

  Or maybe he’ll just get bored of fucking with me and move on to something else.

  I can’t see any other way out.

  “Cat!” Perry Saunders cries, throwing her arms around me in a hug. “How was your summer?”

  Perry is blonde and bubbly, curly-haired and apple-cheeked. She dresses like an American Girl doll, already wearing the plaid skirt and jaunty academy jacket that forms our school uniform.

  My roommate Rakel was likewise crossing the deck to greet me, but as soon as she sees Perry, she makes an abrupt about-face to head in the opposite direction. I grab her by the arm and haul her back, deciding that this year Rakel is going to be social whether she likes it or not.

  “Perry, have you met my roommate?” I say, slinging my arm around Rakel’s slim shoulders so she can’t get away.

  “No!” Perry chirps. She holds out her hand to shake. “Periwinkle Madeline Saunders, nice to meet you.”

  Rakel forces a smile that looks more like a snarl and shakes Perry’s hand with two fingers in a pincher grip. “Just . . . Rakel,” she says.

  “I wish the Accountants roomed down in the Undercroft!” Perry says, enviously. “All the other divisions have such cool dorms, and ours is dull as dishwater. It might as well be cubicles in our tower—we don’t even have a view off the cliffs.”

  “We don’t have windows at all,” Rakel reminds her in a monotone.

  “I know, but at least that’s spooky!” Perry says.

  Rakel flashes her dark eyes at me in a way that clearly intimates that she will seek revenge on me later for involving her in this conversation. I smile back at her, knowing that nobody else wants to room with Rakel, so she’s stuck with me.

  “Who does your nails?” Perry says, looking at Rakel’s silver-ringed hands. “They look like claws!”

  “They grow that way naturally,” Rakel deadpans, while Perry’s eyes go big and round in total belief.

  Anna Wilk and Leo Gallo climb the gangplank hand in hand. Anna is one of Zoe’s best friends. She was exceptionally kind to me during my first year at school when I was drowning in terror at the arcane demands of Kingmakers.

  “Cat!” she cries, hugging me.

  I saw Anna in Chicago over the summer, but she squeezes me like we’ve spent months apart.

  “It makes me so sad to see you here without Zoe. Are you gonna come hang out with me and Chay all the time anyway? You have to fill your sister’s spot, or we’ll be miserable.”

  “I would love that,” I promise gratefully. I wasn’t sure if Anna and Chay would want me hanging around, now that Zoe decided not to return to school.

  “I miss Miles, too,” Leo says glumly. “Trust him to take off right when he was finally turning into a reasonable human.”

  Dean Yenin is next to board the ship, flanked by his best friends Bram Van Der Berg and Valon Hoxha. Instinctively, I shrink back behind Leo’s substantial bulk, but it’s pointless. Dean’s sharp eyes alight on me at once. For the first time in memory, I see his face break out into a smile.

  His smile is far worse than his scowl. The even white teeth don’t fool me for a second. That’s a grin of pure malice.

  Oh my god, I can’t fucking do this.

  “What’s he so happy about?” Leo says suspiciously.

  “Who knows!” Anna shrugs, careless and unc
oncerned. “Let’s go find somewhere to sit before the whole ship fills up.”

  We make our way toward the bow, where the air is fresher and the sea breeze blows directly into our faces. We’re departing from the port in Dubrovnik, sailing toward the isolated island of Visine Dvorca where Kingmakers’ castle fortress resides.

  Once the ship sets out, we won’t return to civilization until the spring.

  I’ll be trapped on that island with my tormenter.

  Perry peels off from our group to join her Accountant friends. To my pleasure, Rakel actually sticks around. Despite despising me at the beginning of last year, she and I are slowly becoming something like actual friends.

  With Zoe gone, I need all the friends I can get.

  Perhaps noting a kindred spirit in Anna’s heavy black makeup and torn-up tights, Rakel strikes up a conversation about the concerts she attended over the summer. Anna enthusiastically responds with her own tales of outdoor venues, raging mosh pits, and outrageous prices for shit beer.

  “How are you doing?” Leo asks me kindly.

  “I’m fine!” I lie instinctively.

  Has anyone in the history of the world actually been “fine” when they responded that way?

  I’m a people-pleaser. Like Zoe, I’ve never felt free to share my burdens with others. Especially not someone as handsome and intimidating as Leo Gallo.

  I sink down on a pile of coiled rope, joined by Ares Cirillo, who sits by me in companionable silence, watching the sailors work. I know he owns a little skiff that he sails around his tiny Greek island. He looks quite at home on the ocean, with his turquoise eyes and streaks of sun in his hair.

  As the ship pulls out of the harbor, the breeze picks up and a pleasant salt spray blows in our faces. However, the sun beats down on our heads, and soon students are shedding every possible article of clothing, including academy jackets, stockings, and even shirts.

  Dean Yenin leans against the ship’s railing, stripping off his white dress shirt. The skin beneath is barely darker than the shirt, rippled with muscle hard-won through countless hours in our school gym. As he turns to lay his shirt over the railing, I see the Siberian tiger crawling up his back. Dean reminds me of a white tiger himself—pale and vicious, composed of lean, hard muscle and the desire to rip flesh from bone.