He sends four men, this time armed with shanks made from sharpened scrap smuggled out of the metal processing shop.
They come for Marko in the showers.
The guards retreat first, and as soon as they do, the most observant prisoners likewise melt away, having no interest in being present for the bloodbath.
I see Yamerin, Bolski, Alenin, and Dubov striding into the shower room, fully dressed. Yamerin, Bolski, and Alenin clutch their gunmetal gray, wickedly-edged blades, and Dubov a sock with a padlock in the toe that he can swing like a mace.
I’m naked myself, save for a towel. I have no weapon on me. I ought to leave with the others.
And yet, when I see Marko standing under the shower spray, his vast body thick with muscle, I think to myself it would be a waste for him to bleed out on these filthy tiles, stabbed a hundred times by these scavenging rats who could never hope to best him on their own.
They circle around Marko.
He turns off the water, the steam still thick in the air like a poisonous mist. I notice he hasn’t rinsed the soap from his skin, and I think I know the reason why.
He takes his towel from the hook. Instead of wrapping it around his waist, he twists the rough material in his hands, forming a rope.
As Yamerin slashes at him with his blade, Marko deftly wraps the towel around the shank and twists hard, jerking it out of Yamerin’s grip. Bolski and Dubov lunge at Marko, Bolski slashing him down the arm from shoulder to elbow, Dubov swinging his cosh.
I seize the nearest towel rack and wrench it out of the tile, the metal coming free from the wall with a screeching groan. Before Alenin can even turn, I hit him in the back of the head with the steel bar. He goes down like a felled tree, blood leaking out from under his head onto the wet tiles.
Meanwhile, Marko is wrestling Bolski, his soapy body so slippery that Bolski can’t get purchase. Marko flings Bolski against the wall, skull hitting tile with a sound like a dropped melon.
Dubov swings his cosh at me, howling threats for my interference. Marko dives at him from behind, taking out his knees. I bring the metal bar down on Dubov’s head.
The fight is over in a matter of minutes. The water running down the drain is as bloody as a biblical plague. And yet, Marko’s only injury is the slash on his arm.
He stands, turning the shower head on once more. He has to duck his head to stand beneath the spray, rinsing the last of the soap off his back.
Once he’s clean, I throw him a new towel.
“Thank you, my friend,” he says.
“Are you in a hurry to go back to Kyiv?” I ask him.
He rubs the towel across the short, coppery stubble on his head.
“Not particularly,” he says. “Why?”
“I have plans in St. Petersburg. I could use a man like you,” I say.
Marko wraps the towel around his waist, unable to tuck the end in because it barely goes around him.
“I’m no lieutenant,” he says. “I mean to become a boss myself.” He glances at the men on the floor. “But I do owe you a favor.”
“Work with me, then,” I say. “As partners. We split the profit. When the time comes, we part as friends. You go back home with the seeds to grow any fruit you like.”
There’s no need for me to wait until I’m free to begin amassing my army. I can do it right here, inside this prison.
With the exception of my brother, who is still young and learning, my family is weak and scattered. Marko’s is non-existent. Neither of us has a network of ready-made soldiers.
We’re the two biggest men in this prison. We can protect each other, and I can tighten my hold on the prisoners who already fear and respect me. They’d prefer my leadership to the petty dictatorship of Molotok and his ilk.
I’ll train my soldiers here. Once I’m free, St. Petersburg will be mine for the taking.
Marko holds out a hand to me, his fingers gory from the blood dripping down his arm.
“Brothers, then,” he says.
I already have a brother. But who says I can’t have another?
I take his hand and shake.
“Brothers,” I agree.
9
Nix
Ares Cirillo is a mystery to me.
When he looks at me, I feel like his stare could burn the flesh off my bones. His restrained, buttoned-up exterior doesn’t fool me. I see the intensity behind the facade, an actual living person peering through the eyes of a painting.
Sometimes he seems to be seeking me out.
Other times, I think he hates me.
My first thought, of course, is that there’s some dark history between our families. But from what I’ve heard, his father and grandfather left the mafia life. He has no grudge against me.
We part ways at the door of the Armory, each of us heading off to our respective dorms to shower.
I watch his tall frame loping off across the grass, moving with a fluidity not dissimilar to Leo Gallo.
I was surprised when I saw Ares in his swim trunks. Divested of his baggy school uniform, he’s more muscular than I would have guessed — with a much more interesting collection of tattoos.
Everything about him is subtle and understated. This interests me because I’m the opposite: too blunt, too loud, too obvious. Ares is a deep pool . . . I’m curious what’s under the water.
I wish it weren’t Sunday. As difficult as our classes can be, I’m not looking forward to long hours at loose ends. I could walk down to the village, but on such a mild and sunny day, it’s as likely to be stuffed with students as the castle grounds.
I need to call my father.
Sunday is the only day we’re allowed to call home. We have to use the banks of phones on the ground floor of the Keep, which offers little privacy.
I wait until lunch hour, when I know there will be fewer students around.
He picks up at once, as if he was waiting.
“There you are,” he says. “Having too much fun to remember your dad?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Something like that.”
“So . . . how has it been?”
I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but I think I hear an edge of nerves in his question. He’s wary of what I might say but doesn’t want me to know it, in case I’m still blissfully ignorant.
“It’s been eye-opening,” I say flatly.
A long pause on the other end of the line.
“What does that mean?” my father says.
“What do you think it means, Dad?”
Another silence.
“I have no idea,” he says.
That pisses me off.
“You had no idea that half the people here seem to hate you, and me by extension?”
My father scoffs. “Come on,” he says. “You think Kingmakers is a congeniality contest?”
“That’s the real reason you didn’t want me to come here, isn’t it? You didn’t want me to know that we’re pariahs.”
“Bullshit,” he snorts. “You’re no pampered mafia princess, thinking her daddy owns a chain of hotels. You know how the sausage is made, my girl.”
Do I?
I’m not so certain anymore.
“If anyone there has shit to say about me, it’s because I don’t rub the right elbows or kiss the right rings,” he continues. “The Malina are independent—my men are loyal to me, and me alone. I don’t bend to some Don like the Italians, or share my money like some Bratva Pakhan. The Malina are the lone wolves of the mafia world. And that’s how I like it.”