“I don’t want that to happen to you,” she told me, her green eyes clear and somber. “I don’t want you to be weak like I was. Confused and unprepared.”
My father trained me to defend myself. To understand the language, the negotiations, and the stratagems necessary to operate in the underworld.
In high school I may have looked like a normal girl. I ran the dance team, and I attended parties. But I was raised to be a mafiosa, not a ballerina.
I slip out from under the heavy covers and walk over to the window. I never bother to pull the drapes, so the moonlight is streaming in. I can look down to the overgrown garden with its stone statues and fountains, its cobblestone paths slippery with moss.
I see a tall, slim figure dressed in black, walking from the garden into the glass conservatory.
My father.
I leave my room, running down the wide, curving staircase, then across the dark and silent main floor of the house, to the conservatory.
The house is still, other than the usual creaks and groans of old wood settling. It’s chilly, even though it’s the end of summer. The thick stone walls and the heavy trees all around keep it cool no matter the time of year.
The conservatory is warmer, still trapping the last heat of the day. The heady smell of chlorophyll fills my lungs. It’s dark in here, only tiny pinpricks of starlight penetrating through the thickly-crowded leaves. It’s two o’clock in the morning.
I can hear my father, even though he’s almost silent. I know how to listen for the sound of human breath.
Likewise, he hears me coming no matter how quietly I walk.
“Can’t sleep, mała miłość?” he says.
“Won’t, not can’t.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t want to waste my last night at home.”
I’ve pushed my way through the trees and hanging vines to the bench where my father sits. He’s still wearing the cashmere sweater and slacks that are his usual work attire. With his sleeves pushed up, I can see the thickets of tattoos running down his arms, all the way across the backs of his hands and down his fingertips.
He’s told me what some of the tattoos mean.
And he’s added more, since I was born. Any remaining space on his body he filled with tattoos commemorating the dates of his children’s birth, tattoos for each ballet my mother choreographed, and tattoos that immortalize experiences between the two of them, unknown to me.
I have five tattoos myself: a swallow for my mother, a wolf for my father, a quote from my sister’s favorite book, a sprig of aconite for my brother. And a fifth that I’ve never shown to anyone.
“Are you nervous for tomorrow?” my father asks me.
“No,” I say honestly. “I am glad Leo’s going, though. I might be lonely without him.”
“I’m glad he’ll be there, too.” My father nods. “I know you don’t need anyone to protect you. But everyone needs allies. In your first week, be careful who you allow in your circle. Every bond you forge can open a door, or close another in your face.”
“I understand,” I say.
“Don’t let Leo drag you into anything. He’s not strategic.”
“He leads with his heart,” I say. “But his instincts are usually good.”
“He has a temper,” my father says, his pale blue eyes narrowed and honed in closely on my face.
“Dad. I know what Leo’s like.”
“I know you do.” My father puts his arm around me, pulling my head against his shoulder. “I love you, Anna. And I trust you.”
My heart beats hard against my ribs. There’s something I want to say to my father, but I’m afraid to say it. Something I saw in my acceptance letter that I hardly dared to believe.
I lick my lips, trying to find courage.
“Dad . . .”
“Yes?”
“In my Kingmakers letter . . . it said I was accepted to the Heirs division.”
“Of course,” he says, in his cool, clipped voice.
“Was that . . . did you . . . tell them to do that?”
He sits up, so we’re looking at each other once more. I resemble my father more than my mother. Same pale skin without a hint of freckles. Same blonde hair. Same glacial blue eyes.
Those eyes are terrifying when they’re fixed on you.
“You are my heir,” my father says firmly. “You’re my eldest. It’s your birthright.”
“But Whelan . . .” I say.
“It’s my choice to consider gender or birth order,” my father says. “Before you were even born, your mother and I agreed.”
My heart stopped for a moment. Now it beats twice as fast as normal, trying to catch up.
“Good,” I say, my voice trembling. “I’m glad.”
“It will all be yours if you want it,” my father says.
“I do,” I whisper. “I want it.”
My father nods. He puts his hand on the back of my neck, pulling me close so he can kiss me on the forehead.
“You will have everything you want in this world, Anna,” he says. “I knew it from when I first held you in my arms. I knew you would take it all, and hold it tight.”
We sit quietly, not speaking.
I love my mother. I love her intensely. It’s impossible not to—she has all the good qualities I lack. Endless kindness. A complete lack of selfishness. An internal joy that lights the room, that buoys up everyone around her.
I’m not like that. Sometimes I’m sad for no good reason. Sometimes I want to sit in silence, thinking about the passage of time, and how painful it is to remember the best and worst moments that have come and gone so swiftly.
Then I’d rather be with my father, because I know he feels the same way. He and I are alike inside as well as on the outside. For better or worse, I’m not sweet and I’m not always happy.
The only time I see that part of myself in my mother is when she choreographs her dances. Then I see that though she may not be dark herself, she understands sorrow and fear. She sees the beauty in damaged and disturbing things. That’s why she understands my father and loves him. It’s why she understands me.
Dance is how we bond. It’s how I’ve channeled my worst and most destructive impulses. I keep control of them, so they don’t destroy me.
But there won’t be a dance team at Kingmakers.
I’m not sure what I’m going to do with the feelings that build up inside of me. They mess with my head. They make me want to do things I know I’ll regret.
“You should go to bed,” my father tells me. “You don’t want to be tired as you travel.”
“I can sleep on the plane,” I say.
“Unlikely,” he says, “if you’re sitting next to Leo.”
I smile. Leo is always full of energy and excitement—particularly when doing anything new. He’ll probably talk all the way to Croatia.
“It will be difficult at the school,” my father says. “You can handle that. But if anything goes seriously wrong . . .”
“I’ll call you,” I say.
We fly from Chicago to Frankfurt at ten o’clock the following morning, from Frankfurt to Zagreb, and then Zagreb to Dubrovnik.