by Sophie Lark
It’s a strange love story, but everything about my family is strange.
When you grow up as a mafia daughter, you learn the history of your people the way the Roman emperors must have done. You learn the triumphs and failures of your ancestors, their bloody struggles and their revenge.
My parents have never shielded me from the truth.
For that reason, I always planned to attend Kingmakers.
My mother told me that when she was kidnapped, she was an innocent. Deliberately sheltered from the reality of the criminal underworld. Her father was the head of the Irish Mafia, but she went to a normal school with normal kids. She was completely unprepared to be abducted, held captive, and offered as bait in a trap intended to murder every last member of her family.
“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.
My family and Leo’s both come to the airport to see us off.
>
Aunt Yelena looks pale and strained. I know she doesn’t want Leo to go to Kingmakers. She thinks it’s dangerous.
She would know—after all, she was Bratva. They send more children to Kingmakers than anyone.
It’s supposed to be a kind of sanctuary. A temporary detente between the grudges and rivalries of the various families. But for the children of criminals, rules are made to be broken. Even the school’s motto Necessitas Non Habet Legem means Necessity Has No Law.
Besides that, our acceptance letters came with a list of strict school rules along with their accompanying punishments. Our parents had to sign the contract for the Rule of Recompense, and so did Leo and I. We had to press our print in blood to the bottom of the page. It means that we submit to the authority of the school.
If we get ourselves in trouble, we’ll be disciplined by the Chancellor. He is—quite literally—judge, jury, and executioner. Our parents can’t intervene or retaliate.
As usual, Leo seems completely unconcerned by any of that. He hugs both his parents, lifting his mother off her feet and kissing her hard on both cheeks.
Aunt Yelena blinks like she’s forcing her eyes not to tear up.
“Be careful, Leo,” she says.
He shrugs that off, not even bothering to pretend like he’ll try.
“Love you, Mom,” he says.
Cara puts her arms around my shoulders and squeezes me tight, while Whelan does the same with his arms around my waist.
I feel the worst about leaving Cara. She doesn’t let many people in. I know she’ll be lonely without me, even if she never complains.
“Why can’t I go?” Whelan demands.
“Because you’re six,” my father says calmly.
“That’s not fair!”
“It’s the epitome of fair. You can go at eighteen, exactly like your sister.”
“It’s not fair that I’m not eighteen,” Whelan mutters under his breath, knowing not to push our father too far.
Whelan is the only one of us who got my mother’s freckles and green eyes. They look much wilder on him because he’s a little demon in human form. His copper-colored hair is always sticking up, and you can’t tell what’s freckles and what’s dirt on his face. Even though he’s stocky, he’s fast as hell and surprisingly strong.
Cara is slim like me, medium height, with pale blue eyes. She’s got darker hair than the rest of us, so brown it’s almost black. She didn’t speak until she was four, and even now you might be forgiven for thinking she still hasn’t learned to do it.
“Can you call me on the weekends?” she asks me quietly.
“I think so,” I say.
“Just write if you can’t,” she says.
“I will,” I promise.
My mother hugs me, too. She always smells clean and fresh, like the inside of a flower blossom.
“I’m starting to regret this already,” she says. “Because I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll try to find somewhere to practice on campus,” I say.
“I never had to worry about you practicing,” my mother says, shaking her head. “Sleeping, on the other hand . . .”
“I’ll try to find time for that, too,” I smile.
Leo and I board the plane, sitting next to each other in the second row of First Class. Nobody else our age is flying from Chicago to Frankfurt. We’re the only mafia children from our city going to Kingmakers this year.
We do know one person who’s already there: our cousin Miles.
He’s a year older than us and left last September. He came back home over the summer, but we’re not on the same flight going back out, because Freshmen start a week later than everybody else.
Technically Leo and I are cousins, though not by blood.
His father’s sister is married to my mother’s brother.
It’s complicated, and nobody at school could ever understand it when we tried to explain. They all just accepted that we were family, which was fine, because that’s how our own family views us. I’ve always called his parents Uncle Seb and Aunt Yelena, and he’s always called mine Uncle Miko and Aunt Nessa. He loves my little siblings and is the same toward them as he is to me: teasing, friendly, and occasionally exasperating.
Like right now on the plane. Leo seizes my packet of pretzels—having already eaten his own—and tears them open with his teeth.
“In your dreams,” I say, snatching them back. “I’m hungry, too.”
“Then why haven’t you eaten them yet?” He grins.
“Because I’m not a rabid animal that inhales food in five seconds.”
“You would if you were as big as me,” he says, trying to steal them back again.
He’s fast as fuck, but so am I. I manage to keep the torn packet away from his grasping fingers, just barely.
“Paws off,” I say. “And don’t be thinking you’re going to put your elbow over that armrest, either. I don’t care how big you are, you’re not using any of my precious personal space on this flight.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding. Look at these legs!” Leo cries, sprawling out his massive thighs, each the size of a small tree trunk. His leg presses up against the outside of mine, and I can feel the warmth of his flesh through my jeans. I shove him back, my face getting hot.
“Should have bought two seats, then,” I say.
“My dad’s too cheap,” Leo replies sourly. Then, grinning at me again, “Bet Papa Miko would have gotten you two seats if you asked him nicely . . .”
“Probably,” I say, “but I wouldn’t ask him, because I’m not a spoiled baby like you.”
I lift a pretzel to my lips and Leo manages to snitch it out of my hand, tossing it into his mouth. He crunches it up deliberately loud, just to annoy me.
“I’m going to flick you every time you try to fall asleep,” I tell him.
“No fucking way am I falling asleep!” Leo says. “I’m too excited.”
Ten minutes later he’s snoring with his heavy head flopped over on my shoulder.
Leo and I switch planes in Frankfurt with a six-hour layover. Refreshed from his nap, Leo convinces me to pop out of the airport so we can find a proper Biergarten, where he orders us two massive foaming pints and a sizzling platter of sausages served with thick black bread.
Once we’re up in the air again, the beer seems to hit me much harder than normal. My head feels pleasantly light on my shoulders, and I’m warm and relaxed.
I’ve got the window seat. The airplane seems like a ship floating over a sea of clouds with peaks tinged pink from the setting sun.
“Look . . . I say to Leo.
He leans across me so he can peer out the window. His shoulder presses against my chest, and his soft, dark curls brush my cheek. His hair smells nice, like sandalwood. Below that, I smell the richer and more dangerous scent of his skin. It has the same effect on me as other scents that are both stimulating and upsetting: smoke from a fire, iron and blood, spilled gasoline. It makes my heart rate jump.
“Beautiful,” Leo says, glancing back at me with his face right next to mine. The sun hits his irises, illuminating every fleck of gold in the brown. His eyes are lighter than his deeply tanned skin. He’s burned darker than toast after a long summer of boating and shirtless basketball games on the lakeshore courts.
I notice details. Things that make one person different from anyone else. Leo has a lot of things like that. More than anyone. There’s nobody who looks quite like him.
I push him off so he’s not so close to me.
“Alright,” I say. “Back to your own side.”
Leo brought a pack of cards. We play some ridiculous game that involves betting on a hidden card that your opponent can’t see. Leo’s good at trying to convince me of what he’s got, but I have a better poker face. It’s hard to keep from laughing too loud when the cabin lights dim and everyone else tries to get some sleep.
We have to switch planes again in Zagreb at some ungodly hour, and we both fall asleep on top of our duffel
bags, barely waking up in time to sprint down the concourse to our last flight.
Sweaty and grumpy, we finally fly into Dubrovnik. It’s a port city on the edge of the Adriatic Sea, right at the very southernmost tip of Croatia.
The plan is to stay the night here, then take a boat to Visine Dvorca the following morning.
Dvorca is a tiny rocky island in the Adriatic Sea. There’s one small town on the island, with a few hundred locals scratching a living on the hillsides, raising sheep and goats, cultivating little farms and vineyards. Most of their produce is sold to the school.
My father told me that. He didn’t attend Kingmakers himself—he’s not from a legacy family. But his adoptive father Tymon Zajac was. My father visited Kingmakers twice with Zajac, to meet with the Chancellor. He said that he had never been to a place with such a sense of history. The school has stood on that spot for seven hundred years. The most brilliant and ruthless criminal minds of the last several centuries passed through those halls.
In fact, Kingmakers influenced my father to buy our house in Chicago. Both buildings are ancient, remote, and castle-like. And both are stuffed with secrets.
Because of the high rocky cliffs and the currents that dash against the island, you can only approach from one side. There’s only one place where a boat can make harbor. And that’s what makes Kingmakers so defensible. You can’t sneak up on the island unannounced. You can’t approach the school without warning. You have to take the single wide-open road up to the front gates, just as we’ll do tomorrow.
For now, Leo and I will be spending the night in a hotel in the Old Town part of Dubrovnik. The Grand Villa Argentina is perched on the cliffs above the blue ocean. The red roofs of the Old Town are spread out below, leading down to the medieval-looking Ploce Gate with its squat stone towers.
“I wonder if they’ll let us come into Dubrovnik often?” I ask Leo. “There’s not much on the island. What if we need new clothes or something . . .”
We were only permitted to bring one suitcase each.
“You won’t need clothes,” Leo says grimly. “We’re supposed to wear those stupid uniforms.”
“It’s to prevent us wearing gang colors or whatever the fuck, I guess,” I say.
