The Heir

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, A

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 cha

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.