The Freshman (Kingmakers)

by Sophie Lark

  “That wouldn’t matter for you,” Leo says, “since all you wear is black. How are you gonna adjust to having to wear green sometimes? And gray and silver?”

  The school uniforms are mostly black, with a few pieces in shades of charcoal, silver, sage, and olive. It’s all fairly muted, but of course Leo can’t resist an opportunity to give me shit.

  “I don’t only wear black,” I inform him.

  “Midnight and onyx are also shades of black . . .” he says.

  “Did you look those up ahead of time for that joke?” I say. “Admit it, you didn’t know the word ‘onyx’ . . .”

  Leo snorts. He loves trying to wind me up, but what he really wants is for me to hit back at him. He wouldn’t respect me if I didn’t. Everything is a competition to him.

  “There’s probably some other kids from the school here by now, don’t you think?” he says.

  I wish we could have flown out with Miles. He would have been our guide the whole way. He could tell us where to eat dinner right now—he always knows the best place to get anything.

  Of course Leo and I grilled him about what Kingmakers is like, but it’s hard to get a straight answer out of Miles. He’s sarcastic as fuck and not one to show emotion. He wouldn’t admit if something was seriously scary or difficult. He acts like nothing affects him.

  “Probably,” I say. “We can’t be the only ones who got in today.”

  After stowing our bags in our adjoining rooms, we head down to Old Town to look for someplace to eat.

  Old Town sits within high stone walls, preserving the city in its original medieval state—or as close to it as you’re likely to find. It’s stuffed with Baroque churches and monasteries, and stone palaces with two-foot-thick walls. The streets are roughly cobbled, and the squares are paved with flat slabs of marble. The air smells of salt, thyme, wild orange trees, and the spray of dozens of fountains that keep the greenery lush.

  We find a little restaurant with outdoor dining and sit down at the wobbly table shaded by a bay leaf tree. The waiter brings us hot tea and a warm basket of flatbread without us even asking.

  Leo tears into the bread like he hasn’t eaten in weeks.

  “What should I get?” I ask the waiter.

  Enough tourists come here that he speaks English quite well.

  “We’re famous for our seafood,” he says. “We have fresh-caught oysters, mussels, squid, and cuttlefish risotto. Fish stew—we call it brudet. Also beef stew—that’s pašticada.”

  “I’ll have oysters, please,” I say.

  “Anything that isn’t fish?” Leo says. He doesn’t like seafood.

  “Peka is baked meat and vegetables,” the waiter says.

  “Sounds great.” Leo nods.

  “He said beef stew before that,” I tell Leo.

  “I don’t like stew, either.”

  “Can you bring us some sides as well?” I ask the waiter. “Whatever you think we’ll like.”

  “Of course.” He nods, hurrying away to ring it all in.

  “You’re picky,” I say to Leo. “What are you gonna do if they only have one option for dinner at Kingmakers?”

  “Fucking starve, I guess.” Leo grins, without a hint of concern.

  As we wait for our food, Leo leans back in his chair, long legs stretched out, arms crossed over his broad chest, surveying everything around us.

  I like to look at the sky and the water, the orange trees and the stone facades of the buildings. Leo is primarily interested in people.

  There’s a table of boys off to the left of us, laughing and joking. Some of them are speaking a language I’ve never heard in my life, while the others are Russian. I can understand a little of the latter—Russian is close enough to Polish to get the gist. Leo, I’m sure, is catching every word.

  “They’re talking about the competition?” I ask Leo.

  “Yeah.” He nods. “They want to be Captain of the Freshmen team, obviously.”

  Every year Kingmakers runs a competition called the Quartum Bellum—the War of Four. All four years of students participate, even the Freshmen. Of course the Seniors usually win, but not always.

  Kingmakers is divided by year and also by specialty. Leo and I are in the Heirs division. There’s also the Accountants, the Enforcers, and the Spies. The Accountants handle the finance and investment arms of the business, the Enforcers do most of the day-to-day operations and security, and the Spies are for subterfuge and subverting law-enforcement. The Heirs, of course, are meant to be the bosses. But there’s no guarantee that you can become boss or stay boss even within your own family. The primary purpose of our training will be leadership. Even after you’re appointed, you still have to convince your men to follow you.

  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 bo
ys 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.

  “Of course not,” Leo says. “We didn’t come over to save you. Just the absolute level of doucheyness caught our attention.”

  Ares chuckles. “I was on the same flight over with them,” he says. “Can’t say I was enjoying my first introduction to Kingmakers students.”

  “Do you know anyone else coming?” I ask him curiously.

  “No.” He shakes his head. “I barely know anybody. What Bram said is true—my family’s tiny and poor. Syros is tiny and poor. We’re mafia in name only. My father works as a tour guide. I only got accepted because the Cirillos have been going to Kingmakers since it was founded.”

  “You’re one of the first ten families,” I say with interest.

  “Yeah.” Ares shrugs. “The smallest and least impressive, though.”

  “Who gives a fuck!” I say. “That’s still cool!”

  “Anna loves history,” Leo tells him. “She probably knows more about Kingmakers than the rest of us combined.”

  “No, I don’t,” I correct him. “I’ve never even seen it, and I’m sure some of the other kids have.”

  “Anyway, tell us more about Syros,” Leo says.

  “It really isn’t very interesting,” Ares says, taking an enormous bite out of a spinach pastry. “Just a little Greek island. Not as pretty as Mykonos or Santorini. You said you two were from Chicago?”

  “Yeah.” Leo nods proudly. He loves Chicago more than any place on earth.

  “Have you ever been there?” I ask Ares.

  “I hadn’t even been on a plane before today,” he admits.

  I can’t help laughing at that. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah,” he says, smiling a little. He has a nice smile—slow and warm. I think Ares is a gentle giant. I like him immediately, though I don’t know how gentleness will fare where we’re about to go.

  “There must be something cool in Syros,” Leo says, spearing a huge chunk of beef and stuffing it in his mouth.

  “Well, I really do have a whole farm full of goats,” Ares says. “But not for what Bram said. They’re fainting goats. If you startle them, they stiffen up like a board and keel over. It’s kind of adorable.”

  “Do you have siblings?” I ask him.

  “Two brothers and a sister. I’m the oldest. I feel bad for leaving them . . .”

  “Me too,” I say.

  We talk about our siblings for a few minutes, and I can see Leo looking mildly jealous. He always says he wishes he had a brother, but I don’t know how he’d actually handle that, since Leo loves to be the center of attention at all times.

  The waiter carries away our rapidly emptying plates, then brings out chilled dishes of rožata, which is some sort of custard pudding. Bram and his buddies got bored and left, so there’s no one throwing unpleasant sneers in our direction anymore. We drink several cups of sweet, fruity brandy, the sky darkening and the ancient stone walls glowing from the row of lanterns all along the sea wall. The night air is fragrant with orange blossoms and sea salt.

  Leo and I get a bit tipsy, pleased to finally be in a country with a reasonable drinking age. Ares relaxes too, though he’s not drinking as much as we are. It’s funny that he’s named after the god of war. There’s nothing aggressive about him. In fact, without the candlelight brightening his face, I think he’d look sad and anxious. He’s probably nervous about sailing off to Kingmakers tomorrow, as we all are.

  “Let’s get another round!” Leo says, finishing his brandy.

  “The boat comes at seven in the morning,” I remind him.

  “All the more reason to stay up all night,” Leo says. “I hate getting up early.”

  “Your logic is impeccable,” I say drily.

  “Come on,” Leo coaxes me.

  I look over at Ares, who doesn’t seem to mind the idea of another drink.

  “Alright,” I say. “Just one more . . .”

  4

  Leo

&n
bsp; “LEO!” Anna shouts, yanking off my blanket and dragging me out of the bed so my ass bumps on the floor.

  The impact makes my skull throb. I don’t know what the fuck was in that brandy last night, but I’m experiencing a hell of a hangover. The bright Mediterranean sunshine streaming in through the window is about ten times more cheerful than I want to experience at the moment. I’d much rather plunge back into the lovely dark silence of a huge pile of blankets over my head.

  “What are you doing?” I groan, shaking the hair out of my eyes.

  “We’re supposed to be boarding in ten minutes! Didn’t you hear me banging on your door?”

  “Anna,” I grumble. “Can you do me a favor? Can you please just . . . shush? You’re so loud . . .”

  “GET UP!” she hollers, making my head ring like a bell. “WE’RE GONNA MISS THE BOAT!”

  “Okay, Jesus,” I say, picking myself up off the floor.

  Anna thrusts a glass of lukewarm tap water into my hand, and I chug it down. It tastes weird, as water always does in a foreign place. My stomach churns.

  “How come you’re not hungover?” I ask her.

  “Because I didn’t drink as much as you,” she says.

  “But I’m twice as big as you. I should be able to drink twice as much.”

  “Good hypothesis—how’s the field test working out for you?”

  “Not great,” I admit.

  I fell asleep in my clothes. I pull my dirty t-shirt over my head, and then unbutton my jeans and drop them down. Anna turns around quickly, facing the door.

  “You’ve seen me naked before,” I tease her. “And I’ve seen you . . .”

  “Not in a long time,” Anna says coolly.

  We used to go skinny dipping together in Carlyle Lake, Anna skinny and pale no matter how late it was in the summer, and me brown as a nut. But it’s true, we were only kids at the time. I haven’t actually seen Anna nude since she . . . well . . . filled out . . .

  “How’d you get in here anyway?” I ask her. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t drunk enough to forget to bolt the door.

  “I picked the lock,” she says. “It’s hardly Fort Knox.”