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“Pekais baked meat and vegetables,” the waiter says.
“Sounds great.” Leo nods.
“He mentioned beef stew,” I remind 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 hurries away to ring it all in.
To Leo, I say, “You picky motherfucker—what are you gonna do if they only have one option for dinner at Kingmakers?”
“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.
“Are they talking about the competition?” I ask.
He nods. “They all want to be Captain of the Freshmen team.”
Every year Kingmakers runs a competition called theQuartum 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. Because even after you’re appointed, you still have to convince your men to follow you.
To practice exactly that, we participate in theQuartum 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 boasting about their future exploits.
I can see Leo’s eyes getting bright. He’s dying to interject himself into their conversation.
Instead, the group turns their attention to the kid sitting alone at the next table.
He’s dark-haired, silent, hunched over his bowl of beef stew. His hair is shaggy, his skin deeply tanned, and his clothes are shabby. His sneakers look like he’s been wearing them about three years too long, the soles almost separating from the tops.
“Hey, Ares,” one of the guys calls. “What division are you in, anyway? Have they got one for chauffeurs and bag boys?”
Ares glances 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.
