Kingmakers, Year Two

20. Miles

20

MILES

I had a long time to think in the Prison Tower.

Even longer in the weeks that followed, when Ozzy was gone and I was alone in the dorm room.

What I realized is this:

If not for Zoe, it would have been my mother who was executed.

I was in a rage that night.

I wanted to kill Wade, Jasper, Dax, and most of all Rocco.

They pushed us and pushed us, crossing every fucking line. In that fight—with Zoe in danger, and Chay and Ozzy hurt—I lost control. I could have killed any one of them.

It was Zoe who screamed for me to stop.

She was the one who dragged me back. The only person who could have brought me to my senses in that moment.

Ozzy struck the killing blow.

But it could just as easily have been me.

Then it would have been my mother who traded her life, who took the punishment, who paid the debt. I know she would have done it, unhesitatingly. Just like Ozzy’s mom.

It would have killed me. It would have poisoned my soul.

For all the guilt and horror I feel at what happened to Mrs. Duncan, still one thing is certain: I need Zoe. I fucking need her. I’m no good without her.

Zoe brings out the best in me. She makes me smarter, stronger, more determined. And most of all, she holds back that dark and reckless part of me.

She’s my rudder, my guide.

I can’t fly without her, or I’ll crash and burn, I know it.

And I fucking love her. That’s the most important part of all. I like her, I love her, I admire her, I adore her. I’m not abandoning her to Rocco’s torment. She doesn’t deserve that. I don’t care what it costs to save her, or what I have to risk.

It wasn’t a mistake to oppose Rocco. My mistake was letting this go on too long .

I need to end it. Now.

So when Zoe leaves my room, I wait less than a minute before getting to work.

No more planning. It’s time to act.

The first thing I do is call Ozzy.

I don’t expect him to pick up first try, but to my surprise, he answers almost immediately.

“If it’s another apology, I don’t want to hear it,” he says. “I’m fucking drowning in guilt, I can’t handle you wallowing in it, too.”

“How are you?” I ask him. “How’s your dad?”

“He’s a fuckin’ mess. Wants to kill the Chancellor. My uncles had to tie him down. Literally.”

“He didn’t know . . .”

“No. My mom got the letter from the school. Hid it from him. He didn’t even know she had left Tasmania until . . . well. We don’t need to talk about that. Suffice it to say we’re in a fuckin’ state. But surviving.”

“I am so, so sorry, Ozzy.”

He takes a long breath with a catch in the middle .

“I know, mate. I know you are. I’m sorry, you’re sorry. We got ourselves in a mess together, but it was me that grabbed the knife. So just fuckin’ save it. I can’t think about should’ves and would’ves or I’m gonna drive myself insane. She didn’t want that.”

His voice is fully cracking now.

I never met Mrs. Duncan. Ozzy came to visit me in Chicago, and we’d planned that I’d come out to Tasmania this summer or next. But that won’t happen now.

I never even spoke to her. Yet I feel I knew her all the same, because Ozzy talked about his parents all the time.

I knew that Mr. Duncan ran an illegal mining operation, as well as trafficking black market metals and stones. He was from criminal stock tracing back to the days when Tasmania was Van Diemen’s Land, and before that, to the professional cracksmen of London.

Mrs. Duncan was the governor’s daughter. She sang in the church choir. She wasn’t supposed to walk down the same hallway as Mr. Duncan, when they were teenagers attending the same secondary school.

They fell in love anyway.

Ozzy was the result .

They married young and stayed together, happily by all Ozzy’s accounts.

He said his mom was funny and playful. That she dragged Ozzy and his dad along to church, but she also loved dice games and shooting. She was shit with technology but she bought Ozzy his first gaming rig.

I know all these things, so I know this was a good woman who died. I know what Ozzy and his father have lost.

I watched how she took Ozzy’s face in her hands with tenderness, without a second’s hesitation as she offered her life in place of his.

“What did she say to you?”

I have no right to ask, but I want to know all the same.

“She said, ‘I love you, bub. No more violence from this. Go on happy and strong.’ ” Ozzy pauses to swallow. “She didn’t want me to try to get revenge. But I don’t know if I can do that. In five years, ten . . . when it seems unrelated, when nobody remembers but me . . . I want to kill them. Rocco, Jasper, Dax.”

“If you want that, I’ll help you,” I promise him. “Whatever you feel is just . . . I’m there.”

“I hoped you’d say that,” Ozzy says, quietly.

“I’d like a measure of revenge right now—on Rocco. Though I’ll admit, this is self-s erving . . .”

“You want to take Zoe from him. You want to go through with the plan.”

Ozzy already knows. He’s been expecting this.

“Yes. I want to do it immediately. Is the server ready?”

“I finished it yesterday.”

“You haven’t been working on it still . . .”

“I knew you’d call. Sooner rather than later. And I needed the distraction.”

“You’re okay with me going forward?”

“ ‘Course I am. If you don’t, he gets what he wants.”

Now it’s my turn to feel my throat swollen too tight to speak. I can barely manage, “Thank you, man. Seriously. I can’t tell you?—”

“Nah, you can’t, so don’t even try. It’s beautiful work. Best yet from yours truly.”

I end the call, then unearth my list of highly hard-to-come-by contacts. Men whose personal cellphone numbers are only known by five or six people in the world—sometimes not even their wives.

When you call a number like that, you always get an answer .

I call two such men. And I set up two meetings, for the same time tomorrow night.

Both parties don’t want to attend. I have to use all my powers of persuasion. I have to make aggressive promises, with catastrophic consequences if I fail to deliver.

Finally, they agree.

Now, I have two more problems to solve, and I think that one single person might just be able to help me.

I’ve gotta find my new best friend, Ares Cirillo.

No surprise, I track him down on the second level of the Library Tower. Even better luck, Zoe isn’t with him. He’s all alone at a large table that looks small with his rangy frame wrapped around it. He hasn’t cut his hair all year—it hangs shaggy around his face as he hunches over his paper. Writing everything by hand is a fucking nightmare at Kingmakers, especially when you’ve got a hand the size of an oven mitt like Ares. I can barely see the pencil eraser poking out the top.

“I knew I’d find you here,” I say, sliding into the seat directly beside him.

Ares looks up, startled and wary .

Ares has always seemed a little jumpy around me. I don’t think he’s ever entirely trusted me. Which shows that he really is intelligent.

“Hello, Miles,” he says, in his deep voice. “I’m really sorry about your friend. I liked Ozzy.”

“Me too. He’s not the one who’s dead though, he just went home, so you can use current tense.”

“Sorry,” Ares says again, wincing. “I just meant . . . well, you know.”

Now he’s even more off balance, which I think is good for me. I want him feeling guilty.

“Ozzy and I were working on a project. Something we want to sell to the Princes and the Romeros. Something to help Zoe. You want that, don’t you Ares? You want to help Zoe? You’re good friends, aren’t you?”

Ares shifts in his seat, glancing at me in a guilty way.

“We’re just friends,” he says. “I hope that’s clear. We never?—”

“Of course not,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder a little too hard. “You’re just buddies.”

“Right. ”

“ Definitely. Anyway, you agree that Zoe is a fucking treasure, one that Rocco Prince does not deserve. So I’m sure you’ll do anything you can to help her.”

Ares narrows those baby blues at me. He’s kind of a Boy Scout, so I don’t think he’s gonna like this next part,

“What exactly do you want me to do?”

“Nothing too onerous. First, I need you to get me the contact information for the Malina.”

Ares’ head gives a convulsive jerk. That’s about the reaction I expected when I mentioned the Ukrainian Mafia.

“Why would you think that I’d have?—”

“I know your family has Bratva connections in St. Petersburg.”

“What are you?—”

“Ares. You know I know everything. So cut the shit. Your dad’s inactive but not unconnected. I know he can get me that number, I’ve got a phone right here so you can call him. You don’t even have to wait for Sunday.”

Ares stares at me, his lips tightly pressed together.

After a moment, he says, “I could ask him. But I think you’re making a mistake.”

“Why is that? ”

“You don’t want to do business with the Malina.”

“I know what they are.”

“You don’t know. Whatever you think, they’re ten times worse. They have no honor, none at all. The schemes they’ll use are several sewer-levels below what you could possibly imagine.”

“They’re only gonna form a limited part in the plan. I’ve considered the risks. Thank you for your concern,” I tell Ares, firmly.

I have to use the Malina, there’s no other choice. So there’s no point arguing about it. They’re the only ones perfectly situated for everything I need.

“What’s the second thing?” Ares’ arms are folded across his broad chest now, and I can tell he’s even less excited for the second request.

“This one’s even easier…I just need you to drive a boat.”

“What boat?” Ares frowns.

“One to get off this island.”

Now his expression is past a frown—it’s all the way to absolute negation.

“No,” Ares says. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not? I know you know h ow.”

“I’m not leaving. We could get expelled.”

“What do you care? You’re not even going into criminal enterprise.”

“I don’t care. I want to graduate. It matters to my family.”

“You won’t get expelled. Because we aren’t getting caught. We’ll be out and back one night, no one will miss us.”

“You can’t possibly guarantee that. And besides, what boat are you going to use that . . .“ he breaks off, realizing. “No,” he shakes his head even harder, “Absolutely not. How do you even know about that?”

“How do YOU know?” I demand, even more curious. Ares does not seem the type to have discovered the Chancellor’s secret ultra-fast, ultra-fuckin-fancy speedboat.

“One of the teachers told me,” Ares mutters.

“Well, the Chancellor won’t like that. But he’ll like a big old scratch down the side of his boat even less, so you better drive me. I already know where he keeps the keys. I just need my chauffeur . . .”

I know Ares doesn’t want to do it. Not at all.

In fact, he’s terrified. Because Ares is a good boy who follows the rules. Like Zoe used to be.

Unfortunately for Ares, I’m a very corrupting influence .

I rest my hand on his shoulder again, squeezing tight. I lean forward to look Ares dead in the eye.

“I’m on a very tight schedule, and I don’t have time to barter. So here is an unprecedented opportunity for generosity. A level of largess I may never match again in my life. Tell me what it is, Ares. Name your price.”

Ares looks at me steadily, making some silent calculation I can only begin to guess.

I wait and wait, knowing better than to stomp on a blossoming answer.

Finally he replies.

“A favor.”

“What favor?”

“That’s the rub. A favor of my choosing, to be determined at a time of my choosing. In the future. But the promise comes now.”

“Is there any limit on this favor? You’re not gonna ask for my firstborn with Zoe?”

Ares allows a very small smile.

“No,” he says. “Nothing that would upset Zoe.”

“Then I agree. Any fucking favor at any time, I promise you. ”

“Alright then…” He holds out his hands to shake, to seal the deal now and forever. “I’ll do it.”

It’s so hard not to release the sigh of relief locked up in my chest.

“Perfect. Now let’s make that call to your dad.”

Ares and I will have to steal the Chancellor’s boat.

He keeps it locked up in a private berth in the caves directly below Kingmakers. You can’t access it from the land side—you have to go down under the school itself.

Kingmakers extends for several levels underground.

Everybody knows about the Undercroft and the swimming pool beneath the Armory. They know about the archives below the library, though only Miss Robin and her aides are allowed access.

But that’s less than half the space under the school.

I discovered the tunnels in my Freshman year. It took months for me to get access to one of the skeleton keys, and months more to make a copy. Apart from the Chancellor, only two professors and one of the grounds crew have access. Now me as well .

I break into the Chancellor’s office to get the keys to his boat. Picking the lock on his door is easy—it’s having the balls to enter his personal space that’s difficult. The second I set foot over the threshold, I’m hit with the scent of his cigar smoke and expensive aftershave, the smell of metal and leather, and I’ll admit, I want to turn and run.

For all the rule breaking I do at school, Luther Hugo is not somebody I want to fuck with. I’ve always steered clear of him, intentionally. Wade Dyer’s death was the first occasion that forced us to speak face to face.

On that particular day, I had already been dragged up the steps of the prison tower and chucked in a cell, so I’ve never actually visited this office before.

I’m on the top floor of the Keep. Rich, dark wood with inlaid panels cover the walls and ceiling. A bank of windows on the far wall overlooks the castle grounds. I’m discomfited to see how wide the view is, how much the Chancellor can observe from up here. The opposite windows look directly over the cliffs to the sea below.

Waves smash against the rocks. You would think there would be no exit on that side—after all, the barquentine has to come around to the lee side of the island to enter the sheltered harbor. But the Chancellor’s vessel is no sailing ship—it’s a sport yacht, shaped like a bullet, that can cut through almost any swell .

I’m quite sure he keeps his keys in here because the one time I observed him leaving the island late at night, he made a quick stop at his office first.

I should have been in the Spy division, like Cat. I’ve watched the Chancellor from afar plenty of times. He’s a curious figure to me. Fabulously wealthy, as all the Hugos are. And yet he chooses to stay at the school the majority of the time, never marrying, never fathering children, running his business interests from afar.

Maybe he likes the power of controlling the school, shaping the minds of the next generation of mafia. Still, it’s an unusual vocation for a man once known as the Widowmaker.

He might fear retribution from all those widows. The island is a good place for semi-retirement—quiet, and difficult to attack.

He still has all his luxuries around him. The office is stuffed with books, newspapers, cigars, cognac, a bearskin throw, and a box of unopened truffles. The Chancellor’s acquaintances likewise keep him company in the form of framed photographs on every wall.

I look them over in a glance, curious but knowing I don’t have time to snoop around as I’d like to. I recognize politicians and celebrities, as well as famous mafiosi. In the civilian world, the Hugos are known for their philanthropy and patronage of the arts. Most of these photographs were taken at charity events .

Other locales I recognize from the island. The photograph hanging to the left of the Chancellor’s desk shows Luther himself standing next to four students—three boys and one girl. Luther shakes the hand of the girl, who looks flushed and pleased, while the three boys, all significantly taller than her, range in expression from disappointed to bitter.

I’m guessing these are the Captains of some round of the Quartum Bellum . In which case the girl likely captained the winning team. She’s pretty, dark-haired, blue-eyed. Too young to be a Senior. I could probably find her name on the wall of winners down in the Armory.

Luther himself looks much younger—his hair is fully black, thick and wild-looking. His face is still lined, but only around his eyes and forehead. His cheeks are smooth and beardless. Usually that makes a man look shorn or weakened, but in his case, it shows that he was handsome once, in an aggressive, wicked sort of way.

I wonder if the girl became famous later, and that’s why he kept this picture. Everyone else on his walls is someone important.

I’m more interested in the set of keys hanging on a small hook directly next to the photograph. I snatch them up, stilling their jingling with my fingers .

I slip back out of the office, making sure to re-lock the door behind me. I even check that I haven’t left footprints on the plush rug.

From there, it’s an easy jog down the staircase to meet Ares on the ground floor. He’s holding my laptop under one arm, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.

“What took you so long?” he hisses.

“That was less than five minutes.” I hold out my hand for the laptop. I want to keep it with me, as it’s a fairly crucial part of the plan.

“Let’s just go,” Ares says. “The sooner we leave . . .”

“I know, I know. The sooner you can get back in your cozy bed and pretend that none of this ever happened. Come on, follow me.”

“I thought we were going out?” Ares looks confusedly toward the front doors of the Keep as I lead him further inside instead.

“Not out . . . down.”

I take him to a recessed door next to a musty old tapestry. The door is narrow and might well be a closet. If you didn’t know what you were looking for.

The lock turns with a screech. Ares winces, but I ignore it. There’s no one around to hear.

This staircase is darker and damper than the ones above ground, the stone smooth and slick in places. I use my phone to light the way. The roof hangs so low in places that Ares has to stoop to avoid banging his head. I try to give him a warning every time I duck under some new outcropping of raw rock.

The path winds and spirals. Sometimes we traverse an almost flat tunnel, and other times we descend stairs so steep that my quads burn.

“How far down does this go?” Ares sounds somewhat nauseated. I understand: picturing the hundreds of tons of rock and castle on top of us is not particularly pleasant. Especially when you remember that limestone is porous, and can degrade as water seeps through. Still, I like to think that any castle that stood for seven hundred years is unlikely to fall on my head tonight.

“Almost there,” I tell him, with slight exaggeration.

Ten minutes later, we do indeed arrive at the Chancellor’s own private sea cave. The boat bobs on the water, its pointed nose rising up and down like a horse tossing its head, anxious to be free to run. It’s at least sixty feet long, sleek and shining, painted graphite black with darkly tinted windows.

“You could be ten feet away from this thing and not see it on a night like this,” I say to Ares.

Ares stares, shaking his head slowly .

“I’ve never piloted anything like this…”

“I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it.”

I toss him the keys. Ares catches them easily, left-handed.

“See. Those are the kind of reflexes I’m counting on to get us through the currents.”

Taking a deep breath, Ares starts to cast off. I can tell he knows what he’s doing, just by the way he handles the ropes. I’ve already jumped on deck, impatient to be on our way.

Ares joins me a moment later, throwing one last nervous glance back toward the doorway.

“Relax,” I tell him. “You’ve never noticed the Chancellor leaving any other night. Why should anybody see us?”

“I wasn’t paying attention,” Ares grumbles. “I was sleeping in my bed, like I should be right now.”

“Come on,” I grin. “Do it for Zoe. And for the fantastic leverage you’ll have over me. I can’t wait to see what you’ll make me do. Streak the Super Bowl? Assassinate the president?”

Ares ignores me, refusing to have fun while we’re risking our necks.

He starts the engine and carefully steers us out .

I thought this would be the tricky part, navigating the narrow stone passageway.

But once we’re in open water, it’s much worse. The waves batter us from all sides, without rhythm or reason, as if intent upon lifting us up and smashing us against the rocks like the boat is a pi?ata and the ocean a gang of rowdy partygoers.

Ares has to gun the engine hard, then pull back, steering us in and out, timing the gaps to shoot us forward again, always maneuvering the boat so we aren’t hit broadside and flipped.

It doesn’t help that it’s a black, moonless night. Several times rocks seem to rear up out of the water like sea monsters. Ares misses them by mere feet.

My heart is in my throat. All I can do is call out warnings, while Ares strains against the wheel, every muscle standing out on his forearms.

At last we’ve made it through the worst of it, and we’re out in open ocean, heading in a swift and regular course toward the unseen shore. Ares stands pale and silent, not wanting to celebrate with me.

“That was fucking insane!” I shout, clapping him on the back.

“We have to do the same thing on the way back,” Ares reminds me, “with the waves pushing us forward instead of holding us back, which might be even worse. ”

“Don’t worry. If the Malina kill us, we won’t have to come back at all.”

Ares turns to glare at me. “Don’t joke. Don’t even think about trying to be fucking funny with these people. The only thing that would make them laugh is cutting your throat.”

“Hey…” I’m serious now. “You don’t have to worry about that. I’m not going to let Zoe down.”

Ares looks at me, reading the truth in my face.

“I know,” he says. “That’s why I agreed to this.”

The Chancellor’s boat is infinitely faster than the barquentine, but it’s still going to take us an hour or two to get to shore. I can only spend so much time looking out over endless black waves before Ares seems relatively intriguing by comparison.

“I know I was giving you shit about Zoe,” I say, “But how come you never dated her, or Chay, or any of the other many, many girls who like the strong, silent type?”

Ares shrugs. “I’m not interested in dating.”

“Girls, specifically, or . . .”

“I like girls,” he says, flatly.

“Just not the ones at our school.”

He takes his eyes off the water for a moment to scowl at me. “Why are you so cur ious?”

“It’s my nature. I like to figure people out. I have a hard time with you—you don’t make sense to me.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“You like cultivating that air of mystique?”

Realizing that I’m not going to drop it, Ares lets out an irritated sigh and turns to face me.

“There’s no point, is there? Any girl like Chay who thinks she might like to date me for a minute . . . she’d change her mind quick enough if she ever came to Syros. I may be at Kingmakers, but I’m not like the rest of you.”

“Why come here, then?” I demand. “Why not go to a normal school?”

“I wish I had, sometimes,” Ares says, and now his face is dark, full of some anger he’s barely holding back. “You do whatever you want, Miles. You don’t understand what it’s like to owe something to your family. They demand it from you, and you try to give it, even when it’s impossible.”

I suppose the Cirillos want him to carry on their name and legacy at the school, even if they’re barely mafia at all in real life. They were a founding family, after all. One of only seven still surviving. They must look at the wealth and status of the Hugos and think that’s where they could have been . . . perhaps where they should be . . .

“I understand family demands,” I tell him. “I’m an Heir, remember? I’m supposed to take over for my father in Chicago. But I’m not doing it. Let my brother take his place, or my sister. I’m making my own way. You can do that, you know. You don’t have to do what they ask.”

“Maybe not in your case,” Ares replies. “My family isn’t yours.”

I try to draw him out again as the boat speeds on, but apparently Ares has decided that’s enough conversation.

We pull up to the marina in Dubrovnik. Ares throws the ropes down, planning to disembark with me, but I tell him, “Stay here with the boat.”

“Don’t you want me to come in with you?” he asks, glancing in the direction of the Oasis hotel.

“Nah,” I shake my head. “They’ll either take the deal or they won’t.”

“You should have someone there backing you up,” Ares says, gripping the rope tightly in his hands.

“I appreciate it man, but I’m outnumbered either way. Stay here, and if I’m not back in three hours, go back to Kingmakers on your own. Can’t have you getting expelled on my account. ”

Ares frowns, but stays onboard.

I walk up the dimly-lit streets of Old Town on my own, laptop tucked under my arm. Golden lamps burn all along the sea wall. The red-roofed buildings glow as if each one is a burning furnace.

I booked the presidential suite in the Oasis, which encompasses the entire top floor and includes its own private concierge. That alone cost me $20,000 of my bankroll, but it’s a drop in the ocean compared to what I’ve spent. I’ve cleaned out the whole fund, and I don’t regret a penny of it, not for a minute. I only hope it works.

The concierge greets me, looking surprised when I give him my name. It’s the school uniform—I’m sure he expected someone older.

“Right this way, Sir,” he says. “I have your suit ready.”

He takes me up to the top floor, to the four-room suite. I survey the private boardroom, the full bar, and wide-open glass doors leading out to the rooftop deck. The sea breeze blows in. I could probably see Ares from here, if the boat wasn’t stealth-painted.

My clothes are indeed laid out on the bed as the concierge promised.

I ordered a midnight blue Brioni, along with calfskin loafers, a crisp white dress shirt, and opal cufflinks. The concierge also provid ed an array of toiletries on the marble countertop of the sumptuous bathroom.

I rinse the sea salt from my skin, shave, dress, and then style my hair, tucking a silk pocket square into my jacket.

The man looking back at me in the mirror seems ten years older, infinitely confident, anticipating the night to come. The small part of me still squirming inside tries to voice an objection, and I crush it down ruthlessly. There’s no room for fear or nervousness. One thing I know for certain: no man on this planet ever accomplished a goddamn thing without believing he could.

I check my watch. 12:50. Ten minutes to go.

I seat myself at the opulent boardroom table, the laptop closed and quiet, the only item on the table. I take the head seat, which may offend some of my visitors, but will set the appropriate tone for the evening.

Three minutes later, the concierge buzzes:

“Your first guest is here.”

“Send him up,” I say.

The door to the suite is unlocked so Alvaro Romero can walk right in. He strides in, shoulders stiff, jaw already tight, eyes bright with fury. He chooses the seat at the other end of the table, directly opposite me, and I suppress a smile because that ’s exactly where I want him. He’s refusing to cede the position of power—I prefer to have him at the end where his objections will be distant.

“You have a lot of nerve summoning me here, boy,” he snarls, by way of a greeting.

And yet, I notice that he dressed just as carefully as I did. Which means he’s not uninterested in what I have to say. He just wants to vent a little spleen first.

His thick gray hair is freshly combed, and he’s as neatly attired as Zoe herself. Other than that, I don’t see much of his daughter in him. He’s coarse-featured and weak-chinned, whereas Zoe radiates beauty and confidence.

“Thank you for making the journey,” I say. “As you know, I’m a little restricted in how far I can travel at the moment.”

“Yes . . . I wonder how your Chancellor would like to hear that you’ve taken a field trip to Dubrovnik. I could solve my problem with one phone call.”

“I’m sure I’d be expelled,” I say, calmly. “I don’t think that would solve your problem, however.”

Romero leans across the broad expanse of shining table, his dark eyes blazing. “I don’t know where you get the gall to speak two words to me, when you’ve been defiling my daughter in defiance of your own school contract and her marriage agreement. I ought to have you castrated, boy. ”

That’s the second time he’s called me “boy.” I’d like to shove the pejorative back down his throat, but I tuck it away in a mental file of grievances, so I can stick it to him later if I want to. For now, I need to focus.

“Mr. Romero,” I say, politely, “Though we haven’t met in person, I feel that I have some sense of you all the same. Your daughter Zoe is brilliant, disciplined, deeply loyal. I know those characteristics must have come from her parents.”

He narrows his eyes at me, not liking my familiarity with his daughter, but influenced by the compliment all the same.

“I think you’re a man of honor. A man who wants to uphold his agreements. Also a man intelligent enough to recognize an opportunity when it presents itself.”

“I have an opportunity in place,” he says, coldly.

“Yes, but it comes at a cost. The cost is your daughter. I don’t expect you to bend to sentiment . . . but you cannot be unaware of Rocco Prince’s nature.”

Romero’s heavy brows sink so low that his eyes become mere slits underneath.

“This younger generation,” he hisses. “You’re soft. Romantic .” He utters it like a curse. “Daughters are not sons. Your parents may allow you to play these games. My daughters will obey. ”

I hear the venom in his voice. This is a touchy point for him. His pride is hung here, and his anger at Zoe for the sin of being born a girl.

Dieter and Gisela Prince walk into the room.

Romero startles, because I didn’t inform him that his intended in-laws would be attending this meeting.

I’m likewise surprised. I was only expecting Mr. Prince, not his wife.

They seat themselves on my left side, a little closer to me than to Romero, which I think is a good sign.

Dieter Prince is in a little better mood than Romero. He examines me with cold blue eyes not unlike Rocco’s. His black mustache conceals the expression of his lips.

“My helicopter is waiting,” he says, briskly. “I only intend to stay an hour. So please explain to me why I shouldn’t gut you here and now for trying to steal my son’s bride.”

“Because you don’t care about the bride,” I reply. “Neither do the Romeros. This is a business deal—Zoe is simply the wax seal. Can we all dispense with the fiction that the marriage is an integral part of the arrangement?”

“You show your inexperience,” Prince says, sternly. “Contracts fall apart. Agreements change. Marriages last. Only a marria ge ensures that the future of both families is entwined. It’s the only way to assure that our interests align over time.”

“What is that worth to you?” I say. “Ten million? A hundred?”

“You don’t have that kind of money,” Romero snaps from the bottom of the table.

“No,” I say. “But you could.”

Prince and Romero exchange glances. Romero snorts, stubbornly dismissive. I see a spark of interest in Dieter Prince’s eye. The money matters to him. The number matters, I can see it.

“What are you talking about?” Prince demands.

“You’re building a distribution route,” I say. “From Barcelona to Hamburg. It’s a good route, undoubtedly. Alvaro Romero’s product and your men. But what if it was five times larger? What if it spanned out to Kyiv, and down to Turkey? What if you could take orders from every city in Northern Europe, all at the same time? Untraceable and undetectable.”

Prince’s dark mustache twitches. “Explain.”

“The choke point in contraband sales is the ordering system. You need a network of low-level dealers to sell the product in person. Have you ever heard of Amazon? ”

“Of course,” Romero says, still irritated.

“You’d be the Amazon of drugs.”

“How do you figure that?” Prince inquires.

“Online ordering via the dark web, funneled through a private server. You send the product along your distribution channel. You don’t have to accept the money in person and deal with all the pesky inconveniences of exchange rates and transport and laundering. You take payment in Bitcoin, utterly untraceable. Then we exchange it for American dollars.”

“How?” Prince says. “Who exchanges it?”

I check my watch. “That’s the last piece of the puzzle. They should be arriving as we speak.”

“This is fantasy,” Romero spits. “All talk. You can’t do any of this.”

“I already have,” I say. “It’s already done.”

I flip open the lid of the laptop and turn the screen to show him. He leans forward, squinting to see. A stream of numbers pours down the screen like running water, right before his eyes.

“Those are orders. In real time. People ordering your product as we sit here.”

Prince and Romero stare, the numbers reflected in their irises. Numbers representing a river of cash running directly into their pockets.

In that poignant silence, the Malina walk through the door.

Marko Moroz is a beast of a man—near seven feet tall, broad, with a mane of reddish-brown hair the color of fox fur. His eyes have a yellowish cast, and his lips are thick and fleshy. His hands are so large and scarred that the fingers permanently curl. He wears a military-style jacket and boots, his four soldiers likewise attired in combat gear.

These soldiers have been chosen for size and brutality. I told Moroz we would be meeting without arms, without bodyguards. Yet he brought his four largest, as a show of strength.

They’re marked with the tattoos of their accomplishments. Ukrainian tattoos are similar to Russian—a burning woman chained to a stake, showing vengeance wreaked on one who has betrayed. A hand holding a tulip, to indicate that the bearer turned 16 years of age inside a prison camp. A snake-wrapped dagger proclaiming the wearer a master-thief.

These men make Dieter Prince and Alvaro Romero look like bankers by comparison. They don’t try to blend in. They wear the evidence of their violence proudly.

Discomfort grips the room. Dieter and Gisela Prince sit poker straight in their chairs, and Romero is wide-eyed as a schoolboy. He lic ks his lips, his eyes darting toward the open door as if he’s considering fleeing right now.

“I hope we’re not late,” Moroz says, in his deeply-accented voice.

“Right on time,” I say. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

I gesture to the open side of the table. Moroz sits while his men remain standing, fanning out in the room.

I have to move fast, because the Princes and Alvaro Romero will want to get out of here as quickly as possible. They won’t want to do business with the Malina, nobody does. Not unless their greed is powerful enough to overcome their reservations.

“Marko Moroz has American dollars,” I say. “A large quantity from his operations out of Brighton Beach. He’s looking for an investment opportunity. The Malina can expand our distribution network from Germany all the way through Poland, Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia, down through Belarus to the Ukraine, then across the Black Sea to Turkey. They can take the Bitcoin and use it to purchase property in Dubai. They’ll provide you with clean American dollars in return. For that service, they ask only a thirty percent cut of the profits, and an additional five percent for the exchange.”

“Ten,” Moroz cuts across at once. He smiles, showing several gold teeth. “Ten percent for the currency exchange, and forty percent of the profit. It seems fair, for all I’ll be providing. ”

This is not what we discussed, though I anticipated Moroz trying to strong-arm me at the first opportunity.

I smother my irritation, and the rising sense of panic that Prince and Romero won’t accept that deal. It has to be sweet, or they won’t work with Moroz.

“A ten percent exchange fee is reasonable,” I agree. “The profit should be split evenly three ways—33.3% each. Let’s keep it simple for the accountants, shall we?”

Dieter Prince watches closely to see if Moroz can be reasoned with.

Moroz takes a long time considering, then he gives a slow nod.

“Yes,” he chuckles. “Let’s not confuse the accountants.”

“It’s agreed, then,” I say, glancing around at the Princes and Romero to confirm. “Equal profit share. Ten percent to the Malina for the exchange to American dollars. And an additional one percent fee to the bitcoin wallet. A bargain for clean washed money.”

It’s a beautiful bargain, and everyone at this table knows it.

Prince and Romero exchange glances. I kept the laptop screen turned toward them both, so they could watch the orders piling up even as we spoke. Several million dollars have already accrued in the short time the program has been running .

They don’t want to work with the Malina. They know the money is sitting in an open bear trap that could snap on their hands at any moment. But they also don’t want to refuse Marko Moroz while he sits directly across from them. I was counting on his intimidation factor to work both ways.

“What do you get out of this?” Mrs. Prince says, suddenly, surprising us all. She hadn’t spoken all throughout the meeting, sitting like a pale, silent shadow at her husband’s elbow.

“I get Zoe Romero,” I say, simply. “No money, no drugs, no cut. I only want her. In return, I hand over the platform, the server, the bitcoin wallet—all of it.”

“You can’t be serious,” Dieter Prince snorts.

“That must be gold-plated pussy,” Moroz laughs, slapping his ham-sized hands on his thighs.

Romero scowls at the slight to his daughter, then immediately wipes his face smooth when Moroz glances in his direction.

“That’s what I want,” I say, quietly. And then, realizing that Zoe will require one other thing to be happy, I add, “Catalina, as well. No marriage contract for her. She marries whoever she likes, after she graduates.”

Romero is freshly outraged, sputtering down at the end of the table. He’s required to sacrifice the most of anyone present—the girls are his only two children. His only pawns. But after all, pawns aren’t worth much in the eyes of chess masters. With a ll the trouble Zoe has given him, he may be sick of marriage contracts.

The silence stretches out. No one wants to speak first.

Moroz has the least patience.

“What, then?” he demands, banging his massive fist on the table, making all of us jump. “I have a pile of cash and no time to waste. Do we all agree?”

“Yes!” Romero yelps, more out of nerves than anything else.

Dieter Prince looks at his wife. He seems to be searching for a way to extricate himself from this deal without getting in trouble.

Mrs. Prince has a different perspective.

“This way is better,” she says, softly. “More money. More allies. No marriage contract.”

Her blue eyes meet mine for one swift second.

She doesn’t say anything else, but I’m certain that deep inside of her, there’s some measure of sympathy for Zoe. And very little love for her son.

“So be it,” Mr. Prince says. “Rocco is young. Plenty of time for him to find someone else.”

He sniffs, dismissing Zoe in a breath as he stares at that laptop screen again .

I’d like to smash it over his fucking head. But I’m too elated by what I just managed to pull off. The biggest fucking deal of my life. For the greatest prize imaginable.

“Let’s toast,” I say, “While I draw up the contract.”

By the time we’ve all signed and shared three rounds of drinks, I know I’m barely going to make it back to the dock in time. Moroz has been pouring shots that fill his tumbler, and he’s starting to get a crazed gleam in his eye. I want to get the fuck out of here before he gives me a backslap that knocks my fucking head off my shoulders.

We bid our farewells and part ways in the lobby, all of us waiting for the Malina to leave first before we feel comfortable heading out in the dark on our own.

I sprint down to the docks, still wearing my suit, having forgotten my uniform back at the hotel.

I’m ten minutes past the three hours Ares and I agreed upon.

Yet the sleek black boat waits at the end of its berth.

“You were supposed to leave without me,” I remind Ares.

“I know,” he sighs. “I kinda need you to get back through those rocks.”

“And you were mildly concerned that I might be dead.”

“Concerned, or hopeful? ”

“Definitely concerned.”

“Only ‘cause I thought I might miss out on my cut of this super important deal.”

I laugh. “There is no cut. I’m broke as fuck now. Spent it all.”

Ares shakes his head at me. “That doesn’t sound like a very good deal.”

I picture Zoe’s face when I tell her what I’ve done. The way her disbelief will melt into a smile brighter than the dawn.

“It’s a fucking fantastic deal,” I tell him. “The best I’ll ever make.”