To practice exactly that, we participate in the Quartum Bellum.
All you win is bragging rights. And maybe a plaque on the wall. There’s no real-world advantage.
But we all want it.
I know I do.
I can guarantee that Leo wants it worse than anyone.
The boys at the table seem to be bragging about how they’re sure to head the Freshmen team.
I can see Leo’s eyes getting bright. He’s dying to interject himself into their conversation.
Instead, they turn their attention to the boy sitting alone at the table next to them.
He’s dark-haired, silent, hunched over his bowl of beef stew. His hair is shaggy, his skin deeply tanned, and his clothes are shabby. His sneakers look like he’s been wearing them about three years too long, the soles almost separating from the tops.
“Hey, Ares,” one of the boys says. “What division are you in, anyway? Have they got one for chauffeurs and bag boys?”
The solitary boy looks over at them, eyes narrowed.
“I’m not going to be a chauffeur,” he says quietly.
They asked the question in Russian, but he answers them in English, his voice slightly accented.
“I’m surprised your parents could afford the tuition,” another kid says. “How many goats did they have to sell? Hopefully not the one you use for a girlfriend?”
Ares stands up, pushing his chair back roughly.
The other table of boys stands up as well, full of malicious energy and spoiling for a fight.
They might not have realized quite how tall Ares is—I see a couple of nervous glances as they realize he’s bigger than any of them. But it’s still six against one.
Until Leo says, in perfect Russian, “V chem problema?”
The boys look over at him, startled. They probably thought Leo and I were just some American couple on vacation.
“Bratva?” a black-haired boy mutters to his friend.
The second boy shakes his head. “Amerikantsy,” he says. Americans.
“Didn’t you read the list of rules?” I say to them sharply, in English. “No fighting allowed.”
“We’re not at school yet,” the first boy says, smiling at me wolfishly. He’s not one of the Russians—he was speaking the other language, the one I’ve never heard before. I can’t tell who he is or where he’s from. He’s got jet-black hair and a scar that bisects his right eye. He’d be good-looking if his expression weren’t so arrogant.
“Well, we will be soon enough,” Leo says. “So we should try to get along.”
Leo’s been in plenty of fights, but for all his cockiness, he doesn’t like bullies. He never has. He punches up, not down—it’s one of my favorite things about him.
“Who are you?” the black-haired boy demands.
“Leo Gallo. My father is Sebastian Gallo, the head Don in Chicago.”
“If you’re Italian, then how come you speak Russian?” one of the other boys says, looking him up and down.
“My mother’s Russian,” Leo says.
The boys exchange looks. One of them mutters, “Dvornyaga,” which I think means something like “mongrel” or “half-breed.” I see a spark of fury in Leo’s eyes, and I have to dart between him and the other boys to prevent him rushing forward.
The black-haired boy scoffs. “Is that your girlfriend?” he sneers.
“We’re cousins,” I say, before Leo can respond. “Who the fuck are you . . . Sagat?”
The boy scowls, not understanding the reference, but one of his minions snorts. The black-haired boy silences the laugh with a look, then turns his glare on me.
“I’m Bram Van Der Berg, son of Bas Van Der Berg,” he says, haughty and proud.
Oh, Dutch. That’s why I couldn’t understand him—the Penose Mafia in Amsterdam is home-grown, and they speak their own bizarre cryptolect called Bargoens.
No wonder Bram is so high on himself. The Penose are known for being smart and vicious, and for holding a grudge until the end of time. That’s why nobody fucks with them—they’ll track you down and put a knife in your back ten years after you forgot you offended them.
I don’t want to give Bram the satisfaction of knowing that his family is just as famous as he thinks. But on the other hand, I can’t pretend to be that ignorant.
“Oh yeah,” I say slowly. “I’ve heard of your dad. Doesn’t he make waffles or something?”
Like most mafia families, the Van Der Bergs run an up-front business to help launder the money that pours in from less-savory sources. In Bram’s case, it’s a chain restaurant so successful that I’ve even seen them in America. The mascot is a chubby little Dutch boy proudly holding up a plate of syrup-drenched waffles.
“Were you the model for the sign when you were little, baby Bram?” I say mockingly.
Bram’s face flushes, and now it’s his friends who have to hold him back from taking a swing at me. I wouldn’t give a fuck if he did—I know I’m not as strong as these boys, but I’ve never met anyone with faster reflexes than me. Not even Leo can catch hold of me when I don’t want him to.
Leo knows that. He doesn’t jump to intervene. In fact, out of the corner of my eye, I can see him grinning.
If I was going to guess, Leo’s favorite thing about me is probably that I don’t take shit from anybody. It feeds his desire for playful chaos. Plus, Leo’s a steamroller. He can’t be friends with anybody who gives in to him too easy—they’d be chewed up and spit out in his wake in a matter of days.
Bram is not nearly as amused as Leo. His top lip is curled up, practically snarling at me. I can tell he wants to push this further. The odds aren’t quite as good anymore, though—Leo, me, and Ares against Bram and his five buddies.
It’s Leo who speaks up first, cutting the tension.
“Why don’t you come sit with us?” he says to Ares. “I’ve never heard of—where did you say you were from?”
“Syros,” the boy says softly.
“Come educate me,” Leo says, his bright smile flashing in his lean, tanned face.
“Yeah,” Bram scoffs. “Go sit with the Americans. Maybe they’ll pay for your dinner.”
“You don’t have to pay for my dinner,” Ares says as he follows us back to our table. Glancing over where he was sitting, I can see that he only ordered a small plate of stew, and that he already ate all of it, not a bit left in the bowl. There’s no way that was enough food for a guy his size.
“We’re not gonna pay for your dinner,” I say, wanting to spare his dignity, “but you should eat some of our food. We ordered way too much.”
Sure enough, before we’ve even sat down, the waiter carries out a heavy tray full of the mussels, Leo’s beef, and a half-dozen side plates of what looks like spinach pastry, marinated salad, pickled vegetables, and fragrant rice stuffed full of nuts and raisins. It smells phenomenal.
Ares sits across from me, looking awkward and embarrassed. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, lean and rangy. His skin has an olive tone, but when he looks directly at me, I see that his eyes are a surprising shade of blue-green, like a turquoise sea.
“I’m not afraid of them,” he says, giving a little jerk of his head back toward Bram and his friends, who are sitting down at their table once more, laughing and talking with obvious jeers in our direction.