through so much. Yet I’m becoming faster and stronger by the day, and that’s a fire that fuels itself. I’m greedy. I want more.
Everyone in the class seems motivated by the same desire to take advantage of Snow’s coaching for the single year he’ll be at the school. Leo and Ares work with feverish focus. Ares surprised me last year, when I fought him in Combat class. He almost seemed to be holding back deliberately. Then when he finally lost his temper, he was a far more imposing opponent than I’d guessed.
I hate to admit it, but Leo is likewise talented. It infuriates me that his skill comes without discipline. Still, I’d be lying to myself if I tried to deny his athleticism.
Leo Gallo has been the thorn in my side for as long as I can remember. The tormenting vision of what my life should have been. He has everything I should have had—parents that love him. A safe and happy childhood in Chicago. A network of uncles, aunts, and cousins, and now a baby sister too. And Anna, the only girl I ever admired, wildly in love with him.
I’ve hated him for so long.
Our fathers tried to kill each other. How different things would have been if mine had triumphed.
It’s not the sins of the father that are visited on the head of the son. It’s his failures.
My son will never feel that shame.
I’ll secure an empire for my son, or I’ll have no son at all.
Snow is late to class today, unusual for him. He’s strictly punctual, as a rule.
Ilsa Markov is warming up on the speed bag, muscle standing out on her arms and shoulders. Corbin Castro jumps rope, while Jasper re-wraps his tattooed hands.
Kade Petrov and Tristan Turgenev shadow box against the far wall where all the medieval weapons hang—swords and axes, maces and crossbows, notched and dented on their edges from the battles of centuries past.
“We’ve got weapons like this in the monastery,” Kade says, nodding toward an ornate broadsword. “All sorts of antiques, furniture and rugs, chandeliers and wine barrels . . . it’s a lot like Kingmakers, actually.”
“That’s in St. Petersburg?” Tristan says, puffing as he jabs toward his own shadow on the wall.
“Yup,” Kade says. “I’ve lived there all my life. It’s a huge old place. My brother lives with us, and my father’s men, in their quarters . . .”
“You mean your uncle’s men,” Vanya Antonov says.
He’s sitting cross-legged on a stack of mats with Bodashka and Silas, not warming up, just watching Kade and Tristan.
Kade frowns, tossing back his dark hair.
“It’s the same thing,” he says.
“No it isn’t,” Vanya says, sliding off the mats and standing up. His hands are tucked in the pockets of his gray gym shorts, but the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his jaw is anything but casual. “Ivan Petrov is Pakhan, not your father. Ivan owns that monastery, and all those soldiers. Your father’s just a lieutenant.”
“I never said otherwise,” Kade retorts, patches of color coming into his cheeks. “They’re brothers.”
“But Ivan’s the eldest,” Vanya says, taking another step toward Kade and dropping his hands to his sides.
“What’s your point?” Tristan says quietly, no longer shadow-boxing.
“My point is that Dominik Petrov came to the meeting in Moscow as if he were boss. He’s been doing a lot of things as if he were boss. Giving orders. Making changes.”
“What the fuck do you know about it?” Kade demands.
“I know your father has been taking money out of the Gazprombank,” Bodashka says to Kade, likewise rising. “A lot of money.”
Bodashka’s father is derzhatel obshchaka in St. Petersburg, head accountant just like my father. He has connections at all the major banks, so Bodashka’s assertion rings with truth.
“Are you making an accusation?” Kade says.
The three older boys have all stood up from the mats now and formed a half-circle around him.
“I’m not the one saying it,” Vanya informs Kade, his voice low and insinuating. “It’s everyone in Moscow. They say your father is overstepping. Doesn’t know his place. Just like Adrik when he was at school, thinking he was an Heir when he’s only an Enforcer.”
“Don’t talk about my brother,” Kade hisses, tendons standing out in his neck. “Or my father, either.”
“I’ll say whatever I like about them,” Vanya scoffs.
“Leave him alone,” Ares says sharply.
He’s crossed the gym to intervene, which is strange because he generally avoids conflict at all costs, unless Leo Gallo drags him into it. This is the first time I’ve