Kingmakers, Year Four

Epilogue

Nix Moroz

Cannon Beach, Oregon

September

R afe and I collect the real Ares Cirillo from the Portland airport.

I wait in the pickup lane while Rafe runs in to get hi m.

The two young men walk out together—both tall, tan, blue-eyed and dark-haired. My heart gives a lurch at the bizarre mirror effect: as if I’m looking at the old Ares and the new one simultaneously. One dressed in worn blue jeans and a plain wool sweater, a gentle expression on his face. The other in a new leather jacket and a fresh haircut, grinning happily at the sight of his friend.

I jump out of the car to greet them.

Ares shakes my hand, giving me a lopsided smile.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” he says.

“Likewise,” I reply, and I can’t help laughing. Ares laughs with me, understanding at once what I mean.

Rafe looks chagrined. “Wondering which one of us you actually fell in love with?” he says to me.

I slip my hand in his and kiss him on the corner of his mouth, where his stubble rasps against my lips.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “You were yourself all along.”

We climb back in the car. I try to let Ares sit up front with Rafe, but he absolutely refuses, holding the door open for me until I return to the front seat.

“I could never take shotgun from a lady,” he says.

His voice is softer than Rafe’s, his manners unassuming. It makes me realize how much Rafe was acting at Kingmakers. How much he inhabited a character. Since we’ve come home to Oregon togeth er, I’ve seen the full extent of his confidence, his boisterousness. How he throws himself into the Petrov business. How much energy he has when he’s not weighed down by stress and sorrow.

My happiness blooms with his.

I love living with the Petrovs.

You would think so many big personalities in one house would be overwhelming, but in fact, it’s invigorating. I love the noise and the energy. The sprawling mansion currently houses Ivan, Sloane, Freya, Rafe, me, Timo, Zima, and now Ares, as well as four overgrown Ovcharkas and two pups.

Dominik, Lara, Kade, and Adrik were here up until last week, and Sabrina Gallo came to visit on her way back to school, though neither she nor Adrik would admit that they purposefully came at the same time to see each other. This despite the evidence of disappearing for long periods of time, then returning in a distinctly rumpled state.

Leo visited us earlier in the summer. He left before the other Petrovs arrived, probably intimating that Adrik still hasn’t forgiven him for knocking him off the pedestal of Quartum Bellum champions. Sabrina and Kade may not have forgiven him, either.

I haven’t been lonely for a minute in America, even when Rafe is working. Freya and I go for long walks along the beach early in the morning. She’s incredibly well-read, and likes to make Mount Rushmore lists for the best fictional villains of all time, the be st surprise endings, and the best science-fiction predictions.

Ivan has been teaching me how to train the Ovcharkas. We kept horses in Kyiv, but no dogs or cats, because my father was allergic. As soon as Kira birthed her two puppies, Ivan gave me the pick of the pair. I chose the rowdiest of the two, the one who wouldn’t stop chewing on his brother’s ear, and named him Okeanu. Ivan teases me that I’ll have to perfect my Russian because that’s the only language the dogs understand.

Much as I love Rafe’s father and sister, to my surprise it’s Sloane I bond with most.

We go shooting together. I’ve never seen a more terrifying marksman.

“My father taught me,” Sloane told me, carefully cleaning her Beretta before packing it away in its case. “He was CIA. Special Activities Division—covert ops, paramilitary operations, that sort of thing. Brilliant. Incredibly talented. Until he lost his fucking mind.”

“Really?” I asked, instantly curious.

“Yes. He ruthlessly trained me from a young age. Took me all over the world, constantly on the run from the countless enemies trying to hunt us down. It took me much longer than it should have to realize that most of those enemies existed only in his head.”

“Oh . . .” I said, my stomach sinking like an elevator .

Sloane looked at me, her eyes very like Freya’s for a moment.

“When I met Marko, he reminded me of my father. And when I met you . . . you reminded me of me. Determined. Tenacious.”

My cheeks flushed.

“I couldn’t ask for a better compliment,” I said.

“Our fathers shape us,” Sloane said, zipping her case. “But it’s our husbands who determine what we truly become. And us them. A couple is the sum of both of you together—as strong as you are together. As happy as you are together.”

“I’ve never seen a couple as powerful as you and Ivan,” I said.

“I hope you and Rafe will surpass us,” Sloane said. “In your own way and your own time.”

I think of that now, as Rafe drives Ares and me the ninety minutes back to Cannon Beach, to the mansion on the cliff that I’ve already come to know and love so well.

I look at Rafe’s profile, the set of his jaw and the stormy green-blue of his eyes, and I think I could never choose a better partner, even if I had a thousand years to search.

When we pull up to the house, Freya is sitting on the porch swing reading a book. Her straight, dark hair is brushed to a glossy sheen, and I notice that she’s wearing a particularly lovely summer dress with puffed sleeves and a peasant bodice, her bare feet tucked up under her on the padded swing.

Ares Cirillo falls silent in the back seat .

As we unload his suitcase from the trunk, Freya sets down her book, watching us.

Ares climbs the steps, setting down his case and holding out his hand to shake.

“Good to see you again, Freya,” he says.

“Are we back to handshakes, then?” she says. “Has it been that long?”

Though I’m standing at the bottom of the steps, I’m almost certain Ares is blushing.

“No,” he says. “That was stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” she says. “Too slow to visit, maybe. But never stupid.”

She steps forward and Ares puts his arms around her, pulling her against his chest.

The hug is so long that Rafe and I exchange a look, and then a second look. We’re both grinning like idiots. I try to wipe the smile off my face before Freya catches me.

Timo has made dinner for us all. He’s an even better cook than he is a soldier. His homemade gnocchi and grilled peach salad beats anything I’ve had, even in the nicest restaurants down by the beach.

The only person who eats more than me is Zima, Ivan’s technology expert. He spends most of his days in front of his computer rig munching things that came wrapped in cellop hane, yet he still remains skinny as a bean. I’ve long since decided that the laws of thermogenesis must not apply to him.

Sloane and Ivan are just as pleased to see Ares as the rest of us. They ask after his family, the bittersweet recounting of his sisters’ dance recitals and his mother’s new job tinged by the absence of Galen Cirillo.

“What’s your plan now?” Ivan asks Ares. “I miss you working for me. Rafe has to go to Las Vegas once a week to keep an eye on the new manager.”

Ares casts a quick look at Freya, then down at his peach salad.

“I was thinking I’d go to school for real. Maybe Cambridge.”

Ivan likewise glances at Freya, raising an eyebrow as he comes to understand.

“Ah,” he says. “Well, I’d be happy to pay your tuition. It’s the least I could do.”

“Thank you, but I have a scholarship,” Ares smiles. “And you did pay me very well for running the dispensaries—even from Kazakhstan.”

Freya hasn’t looked up from her own peach salad, but her cheeks are pink and she seems extraordinarily pleased with the view of her plate.

After dinner, Rafe pulls me into the hall.

“Come for a ride with me,” he says.

“I’d love to,” I say .

I climb on the back of his Indian FTR, that even Sabrina had to admit was pretty fucking boss, despite the stigma of being built within our lifetimes.

Rafe revs the engine, the bike coming to life beneath us, the vibration thrumming through my bones. We speed away from the house, my arms wrapped tight around his waist, our bodies leaning together as one.

We roar down the coastal road.

I love the wild, rocky beaches of Oregon. I love how much it rains, and how deeply, richly green it is everyplace you look.

I press my face against Rafe’s back, smelling the salt in the air, the rich leather of his jacket, and the intoxicating scent of his cologne.

We’ve only been driving a few minutes when he pulls into a small neighborhood along the cliffs. It’s not as fancy as where his parents live—the yards are overgrown with untamed gardens and untrimmed trees, the roofs covered in moss. The houses are small, cedar-plank sided with ramshackle decks. We’ve stopped in front of a cabin so covered in honeysuckle vines that I can hardly see the house at all.

“What do you think?” Rafe asks.

“I love it!” I tell him, honestly. “It looks like we’re in the middle of nowhere. But we’re five minutes from Shake Shack.”

Rafe laughs. My growing obsession with American burgers has toured us through every grill in a fifty-mile radius .

“I want to buy this house for you,” he says. “I thought we could live here when we get married in the spring. If you really do like it.”

I can’t speak. My heart is beating too hard.

The cabin is right on the edge of the cliff. From the back deck, we’ll be able to watch the sun set over the ocean. A set of rotting wooden steps leads down the cliff to the beach.

“We’ll fix those,” Rafe says, nodding in the direction of the top step clinging to the rock face by a single nail. “We’ll fix up the whole house. I’ll make it exactly how you want it.”

“If you’re in it,” I say. “That’s the only thing I care about.”

Dean Yeni n

Visine Dvorca

December

Cat comes to visit me in the professor’s quarters in the old buttery.

I’m not actually a professor—I’m just the boxing instructor. Taking Snow’s old job for one year while Cat finishes her schooling.

I want to stay close to her.

She comes to see me every evening, and spends most nights curled up on my chest on the narrow single bed. Her roommate Rakel doesn’t mind—she’s having a torrid affair with Jacob Weiss, so she enjoys having the dorm room in the Undercroft to herself.

Cat gasps when I open the door.

“What happened to your face?”

“Oh,” I touch the tender bruise under my right eye. “It’s that little shithead from Coney Island. He just keeps trying his luck.”

Cat tries to hide her smile. “Looks like it worked today. He got you pretty good.”

“I knocked him on his ass,” I assure her. “But I’m sure he’ll try again tomorrow.”

“He’s persistent. ”

“He’s a lazy, arrogant asshole,” I say. “If his head were any bigger, it wouldn’t fit in the ring.”

“Hm,” Cat says, not bothering to hide her grin at all anymore. “Reminds me of someone. I can’t think who . . .”

“I was never lazy!” I protest.

“I doubt he is, either, if he’s survived four months in your class,” Cat says, reaching up on tiptoe to kiss me.

“You think I’m too hard on them,” I growl.

“All I’m saying,” Cat murmurs, starting to unbutton her blouse, “is that if you want to take out some of that frustration . . . I’m right here . . .”

An hour later, we’re both laying on the floor, naked and sweating. Cat sprawls across my lap, her bottom as pink as her cheeks.

She’s right . . . I do feel much better now.

I’m stroking her hair in that soothing, petting motion she loves so much.

I can see her ribs expanding with slow, steady breaths. I think she’s falling asleep, until she surprises me by rolling over, looking up into my face.

“Do you like teaching?” she asks me.

I think about my boxing classes—about the thrill I get when one of the students does something right for a change. Even that kid from Coney Island .

“Yeah,” I say. “I like it.”

“Would you be disappointed if you couldn’t finish the year?”

I frown at her, confused.

“I’m only here because I thought you wanted to finish.”

“I did. But now I’m worried it might not be safe,” Cat takes a deep breath. “For the baby.”

I stare at her for a moment, not quite understanding. Then the racing of my heart jolts my brain.

“Are you serious?” I whisper.

“Very serious,” she says. “And very sure.”

I scoop Cat up in my arms, holding her tight against me, squeezing her hard but not too hard. My eyes are burning, my heart pounding, my throat too tight to speak.

“We’re gonna have a baby?” I croak.

“Yes,” she says, “Sometime in June.”

I can’t stop hugging her. I can’t let go, even for a second.

“You should have told me!” I cry. “I wouldn’t have spanked you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cat snorts. “I made sure you weren’t too rough.”

“What about the?—”

“That’s fine, too. It won’t hurt him. ”

“Him? You think it’s a boy?”

She laughs. “I don’t know. I mean . . . I have a feeling. An inclination. But it’s just a guess.”

I nuzzle my face against her hair, breathing in the clean scent of her scalp. I need to smell her to calm myself down, because I’m experiencing a mixture of joy, excitement, and terror so acute that I feel like my heart might explode.

“I’m so, so glad,” I tell her. “I wish it were June right now.”

“Me too,” Cat murmurs. “But I’m sure it will come soon enough.”

She is getting tired now, I can hear it in her voice.

I lift her up in my arms and take her to the bed. She may be carrying my child, but it’s still easy for me to carry her petite little frame and set her down gently on the mattress. I cover her with the blanket, sitting on the edge of the bed and stroking her hair until she’s fast asleep.

I’m as awake as I’ve ever been.

I can’t stop imaging this child—what he’ll look like, what he’ll sound like, what he’ll think and feel. What will he want, and will I be able to give it to him?

I’ve barely learned how to love Cat the way she deserves. I still make mistakes.

What if I fuck up with my child? What if I damage him forever?

I stand up from the bed, my stomach churning. I snatch up my phone, taking it into the other room so I don’t wake Cat .

Then I call Snow.

He picks up on the third ring. It’s 5:00 p.m. in New York, six hours earlier than here.

“Dean,” he says, in that deep, gravelly voice—rough on the surface, but warm underneath.

“Snow. It’s good to hear your voice.”

“Likewise, my friend. Are you and Cat coming to see us soon?”

“Well . . .” I say. “If we do, there will be three of us coming . . .”

Snow catches on quicker than me. He chuckles.

“Congratulations, Dean. There’s nothing like having a child. You’ll see.”

My skin feels hot and cold at the same time. I grip the phone tight against my ear.

“How do I do it?” I ask. “I don’t know how to be a father.”

“In some ways it’s like being a coach or a mentor,” Snow says. “But in some ways it isn’t. A coach is there if you want them. If you don’t want the goal anymore, then they don’t coach you. A father does whatever it takes for his son to achieve his goals. A coach praises when the goal is met. A father always shows that he’s proud of his son. You build your child up, and never tear him down, because you love him. And that makes it harder—because you’re not controlling where they go. You don’t control their goals. Be the kind of father that accepts your son’s decisions. ”

I nod slowly, though Snow can’t see me.

“That’s how I want to be,” I say.

“Most of all,” Snow says, “a father never gives up on his son. Your child may struggle at times. He may scream at you, hate you, push you away. But you will always be there to help him when he needs you most.”

“Yes, I will be,” I say, fervently.

The baby in Cat’s belly may barely be formed. But I already love it. I already know I’ll protect it with my life.

“Snow,” I say. “You were more than a coach to me.”

I can picture his rough-hewn face as if he were standing across the room from me.

“And I’ll always help you, Dean,” he says. “However I can.”