The Heir

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 go

“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 ta

“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.