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“I’m surprised your parents could afford the tuition,” another kid says. “How many goats did they have to sell? Hopefully not the one you use for a girlfriend?”
Ares stands up, pushing his chair back roughly.
The table of boys stands up as well, full of malicious energy and spoiling for a fight.
They might not have realized quite how tall Ares is—I see a couple of nervous glances as they realize he’s bigger than any of them. But it’s still six against one.
Until Leo says, in perfect Russian, “V chem problema?”
The boys turn, startled. They probably thought Leo and I were just some American couple on vacation.
“Bratva?”a black-haired boy mutters to his friend.
The second boy shakes his head. “Amerikantsy,”he says.Americans.
“Didn’t you read the list of rules?” I say to them sharply, in English. “No fighting allowed.”
“We’re not at school yet,” the first boy says, smiling at me wolfishly.
He’s not one of the Russians—he was speaking the other language, the one I’ve never heard before. He’s got jet-black hair and a scar that bisects his right eye, and he’d be good-looking if his expression weren’t so arrogant.
“We will be soon enough,” Leo says. “So we should try to get along.”
Leo’s been in plenty of fights, but for all his cockiness, he doesn’t like bullies. He never has. He punches up, not down—it’s one of my favorite things about him.
“Who areyou?” the black-haired boy demands.
“Leo Gallo. My father’s Sebastian Gallo, head Don in Chicago.”
“If you’re Italian, then how come you speak Russian?” one of the other boys says, looking him up and down.
“My mother’s Russian,” Leo says.
The boys exchange looks. One of them mutters, “Dvornyaga,”which I think means something like “mongrel”or “half-breed.”I see a spark of fury in Leo’s eyes, and I have to dart between him and the other boys to prevent him rushing forward.
The black-haired boy scoffs. “Is that your girlfriend?” he sneers.
“We’re cousins,” I say, before Leo can respond. “Who the fuck are you . . .Sagat?”
The boy scowls, not understanding the reference, but one of his minions snorts. The black-haired boy silences the laugh with a look, then turns his glare on me.
“I’m Bram Van Der Berg, son of Bas Van Der Berg,” he says, haughty and proud.
Oh, Dutch. That’s why I couldn’t understand him—the Penose Mafia in Amsterdam is home-grown, and they speak their own bizarre cryptolect called Bargoens.
No wonder Bram is so high on himself. The Penose are known for being smart and vicious, and for holding a grudge until the end of time. That’s why nobody fucks with them—they’ll track you down and put a knife in your back ten years after you forgot you offended them.
I don’t want to give Bram the satisfaction of knowing that his family is just as famous as he thinks. But on the other hand, I can’t pretend to be that ignorant.
“Oh yeah,” I say slowly. “I’ve heard of your dad. Doesn’t he make waffles or something?”
Like most mafia families, the Van Der Bergs run an up-front business to help launder the money that pours in from less-savory sources. In Bram’s case, it’s a chain restaurant so successful that I’ve even seen them in America. The mascot is a chubby little Dutch boy proudly holding up a plate of syrup-drenched waffles.
“Were you the model for the sign when you were baby Bram?” I mock him.
Bram’s face flushes, and now it’s his friends who have to hold him back from taking a swing at me. I wouldn’t give a fuck if he did—I know I’m not as strong as these boys, but I’ve never met anyone with faster reflexes than me. Not even Leo can catch hold of me when I don’t want him to.
Leo knows that. He doesn’t jump to intervene. In fact, out of the corner of my eye, I see him grinning.
