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.