Chapter 2

Corrin

My body smashes hard against the warehouse ground and a cloud of dust envelops my face. I cough, feeling blood seep from my nostril.

Dan pushes me harder with each training session. As far as I know, my older brother hadn’t been trained before his trial. He knew the basics, but no one was beating him up. I find myself enjoying this less and less.

My training started a year ago. First, I had to run a lot, sprint, jump, fall. Then came the mandatory firing practice at the shooting range. It’s not that I couldn’t handle a weapon before, but I had to practice more. After, I learned to steal. Robbing some poor bastard wasn’t as fun for my conscience as I had imagined, but they always carry knives so I suppose it makes us equal.

“Oh, come on, get up, little brother, and stop acting like a pussy!” A sharp voice resonates across the wide, empty halls. Dan does it for my own good and says the training will help me to control myself better or something along those lines. I see the point, only if his words weren’t proof to something I don’t want proven. The fact that my father doesn’t give me enough credit.

I scramble to my feet. “I am not a pussy.”

Dan arches his back. “You act like one.”

My older brother, well, half-brother, is known as Dan by me and everyone else. Only our father calls him Daniel. It’s not his real name. I assume he doesn’t know his birth name and is too ashamed to admit it.

Breathing hard, I lean against a concrete pillar. “Can we take a break, please?”

“Please?” A mocking smile spreads on his face, revealing a nice set of white teeth. “You have to earn that break.” He points at me with a thin metal stick. “You know, only weaklings plead, and are you a weakling, little chicken?”

I gesture at the piece of metal in his hand. “How is it you have a stick and I don't?”

“Father says you need more discipline.” Dan smacks his palm with it. “And I agree. You are a weakling. And no father wants to have a weak son.”

“And a prod will solve the problem?”

Dan juts his chin up for an answer and poises himself to appear even taller. Next to him I fall short by close to a full head.

He launches at me again, shiny metal stick ominously approaching my legs. He wouldn’t hit me in the solar plexus, I think? After all, we’re still training. Yet it was his fist that sent me down nevertheless.

I sidestep, missing his stick, which was headed where I didn’t want it, and catch his wrist with the prod. My fingers curl into a fist and I retaliate with a swing at his stomach, but he, being my faster show-off brother, swerves and with a mighty force his leg flies under my feet. Pain erupts in my right calf and I spread out on the ground, almost kissing the concrete with my chin.

I suck in a breath as I swipe my hand across the dirty concrete, collecting dust into my palm. Footsteps shuffle next to my head and I make a swift turn, rolling on my back. As Dan jumps on me, trying to pin me down, I send my hand right into his eyes. A cloud of dust explodes around his head and he lets out an anguished cough and lurches away.

My lips pull into a grin as I push myself upward. Victorious, I grab the stick from his hand. “Who’s the weakling here?”

“Shut up, you...” Dan spits to the ground as he stands. “Not bad, but that pride of yours is going to kill you.”

“As if you’re so modest.”

“I’m not.” He dusts off his sweatshirt. “But I don’t show it.”

“Sure, whatever.” I release the prod and it clings against the ground, rolling. “Let’s go. I’m tired.”

Dan always acts superior. In most ways he is. In his teen years he graduated high school with outstanding scores. I’d know because he bragged about it for a month. I could see the pride in father’s eyes then, a rare occasion his worn face showed how assured he was of his son, before he instructed Dan to forget about his grades and pull himself together. In an instant, Dan composed himself and his paper printed golden diploma never saw the light again.

Dan also takes care of me, especially since my mom got ill. But I still can't figure out, is it because he cares, or because he was ordered to by my father.

Limping, I reach the bay doors of the warehouse. Our training day often ends here, whenever the warehouse is empty between the shipments.

A normal sized door sits in the bay doors and I shoulder it open.

It’s dusk and car fumes and industrial gasses soak the air. By the gates stands a sleek, silver car, parked on the roadside. Behind it rises a warehouse, identical to the one we fought in. They stretch for near a mile across both sides of the street, aged and discolored blocks of concrete linked by tiny passages full of junk, metal scraps, and old tires.

Dan catches up with me by the car. I slide into the passenger’s seat.

“Thanks for today's lesson.” I extend my hand for him to shake, but he brushes it away.

“Where are those niceties coming from? My God, Corrin, you’re growing on the street. Act like it.”

I lean my head against the headrest. “Well, we’re not growing on the streets literally.”

“But you’re a criminal. You will be soon, anyway. Be proud.”

“I am proud.” A sense of achievement blooms in my heart from the recent victory. “Still, if we’re to take father's place, we’ll have to deal with people of higher status. So niceties might be nice.”

Dan ignores me as he swipes his hand across the control panel, adjusting settings, then scrutinizes himself in the rear view mirror. Scrupulously, he runs a hand through his dark hair and picks off pebbles from his olive-shaded face. I’d say his mother was someone from the Eastern European countries. I asked him once if he recalls anything about her— got punched instead and kept quiet since.

“You’re such a diva,” I murmur as he strokes through each of his eyebrows.

“Have to look presentable,” he answers. “If you don’t respect yourself—”

“You can’t be respected by your people, I know.” That’s what Father always says. “Good thing he likes you more then.”

My brother sneers, but his silence indicates his agreement. He was always quick to listen to whatever Father had to say, eager to take his place and craving for power. Father admires his ambition, but he always had highest anticipation for his first born. Maybe he likes Dan because he’s ten years older than me?

“Wipe your nose.” Dan hands me a napkin. Begrudgingly, I take it and he chuckles. “God, your survival instincts are way off. How are you going to handle your trial I have no idea. Even my training is useless.”

“I forgot about it.”

“Forgot about the blood pouring from your nose?” Dan cackles and starts the car. “Your fighting won’t save you if you forget about the bullet in your body. And you know Father won’t take you into the business without your trial and then a few years on the streets.”

I don’t answer.

The trial.

The trial from my crime lord of a father. The man is as criminal as they come, a boss of the infamous crime family in the underground world. From what I know our crime business is not the strongest one among other families, but it’s feared nonetheless. Father rules it and I’m his successor, at least one of his successors.

But to earn my place I have to pass the trial. Dan has had. All I know is that after his eighteenth birthday Father presented him with an initiation after which Dan disappeared for three years. I suppose, he spent time on the streets. It must’ve been difficult because he’s reluctant to share what has happened there. He says I’ll have to live on the streets after the trial like he did and he’s doing me a favor by training me in advance.

I ache for the day I’ll become a full-fledged member of my family. At last, I will have a chance to do what I was born for. That’s all my mind is set on. I’m unsure what the trial might be. Steal something valuable? Question someone or beat somebody up? It wouldn’t make sense to send a kid to do that as errand men, guys with experience, do the dirty work. But it is the trial, so naturally, it has to be something trying. The quicker I learn it, the better.

We roll away from Clare’s Island and onto the bridge headed toward the center of Havason City. In my side mirror heavy shadows of the island drown in the brightness of the bridge. Clare’s Island is one of the roughest places in the city. People work at the crumbling factories and warehouses, even reside in the slums north of the island. The mayor used to say they’d clean the place up. I met the man once at a social event when I was a kid—Father dragged us to countless social events— and the mayor seemed like a good guy when he promised to demolish the buildings and restore the factories, even spoke about the renovation to the old docks. Of course, now I understand why no one let him. Too many families like mine benefit from the poverty. Enough of us to bribe him and his party, and everyone else who might interfere.

As we cross the suspended bridge, an enormous long-standing architectural marvel with safe driving holograms above the road, our car console flashes. Same safe driving warning flashes on the screen. “Damn Ads.” Dan thumbs it off. He had his car unwired from the global tracking system and chooses to drive himself instead of using an autopilot. Most people do. No one can trace your route this way, though you still have to accept those messages, unless you have an old petrol car, which are still prevalent.

Further off to the right of the bridge, two more double-decked bridges connect Clare's Island and the east coast of Havason. The main part of the city was built on a giant peninsula mediated with waters, and we dive straight into it as the sea of lights replaces the view behind the windows. We head through the heart of the biggest city in the world.

From the tourist-flooded streets I roll my eyes at the skyscrapers, constructed in the early twenty-first century and adorned by the advertisements and holograms that light the sky. It’s not that I haven’t seen them before, but I can’t help but marvel still. To me, the city’s nightlife has always seemed mysterious and old–fashioned, and yet a flawless blend of contemporary and outdated.

“Do you want it?” Dan’s voice stands out from the street noise, dinning against the car windows.

“Want what?”

“To be in the family? Run the business?”

His question irritates me. “Of course, I do. I was born into it. You’re my family, Dan. Father’s my family, even if he doesn’t like me much.” All business related endeavors are off-limits to me. I know Father sides with many politicians and governors and I know our crime family is far from saints, but that’s as specific as it is. Dan, however, gained his approval after the trial and has been let in on almost everything. He says we own the warehouses where other crime families store their shipments. Not that vile if you ask me. Then, Dan says, we own a couple casinos for our dirty business. Is money laundering immoral? I don’t think so and couldn’t care less. Moral, immoral, whatever. The key word here is exciting. I can only imagine what deals brew behind Father’s study doors. All those parties he attends. All the people he persuades and racketeers.

“Good,” Dan says as he watches the road. Sky-high apartment buildings become single fenced houses and we head west into the rich suburbs. But our final stop isn’t here. Those belong to the averagely rich.

Dan drives for what must be for over an hour. Lawless Lake flies behind the window, enveloped by a circlet of spring trees and shimmering red in the evening sun. The park received its name from the murders that happened there twenty years ago. You won’t find anyone who doesn’t know the story. To this day it keeps the newcomers away. The media tried pitching another name, but Lawless Lake stuck. The place where six people were fished out of the water with ropes around their necks and their throats and wrists slit. From Dan I’ve heard the bodies were bled dry and it wasn’t reported in the news. Either way, not a soul has swum in the murky water since.

Our surroundings grow into lone mansions, poking from the skimpy fields hidden by tall fences. We turn into an inconspicuous road, sheltered by a scarce pine forest. Dan and I would play in these woods when we were kids. It was a mysterious adventure, to slink beyond the borders of the familiar territory. The pride of sneaking back unnoticed served as a great reward.

We skid up to the gatekeeper’s booth. Despite the automation system, rigging the whole compound, people still patrol the perimeter. Father says it’s more reliable this way.

Tall, barred gates creak open and the road in the front yard splits into a circle. To the left stands a coffee-colored, brick house for the maids and Father’s men. Dan often plays poker there. Next to the house, stretching deeper into the territory, lies a parking lot with two black cars and a long garage fitting at least five vehicles. I’d love to take one for a spin. I passed my driving exam last year after graduation. But to my frustration, I still don’t own a vehicle.

Dan drives around the circle and shoos me out in front of the mansion. Sunlight reaches through the pines, casting a shifting carpet of lights on a grand scheme of white casement windows and ornamented trims that line its foundation, doors, and roof. The mansion reminds me of those antique photos from the old history books I studied. Whoever spent a fortune on it must’ve been a history enthusiast. And they don’t build these for cheap. Not now nor thirty years ago.

But to me, it’s nothing but a place of ambitions, and disappointments.

“Home sweet home.” Dan walks past me and through a huge, ornament encrusted door. He moved out once he returned from the streets and now has an apartment somewhere in the city, which, no surprise, is off-limits to me.

We walk into a wide, luxurious foyer, branching off into the adjoining den on the left and a kitchen to the right. Past the foyer and a helical staircase, at the beginning of a hall that cuts through the mansion, the door to fathers study is ajar.

“Why do I have to concern myself with this?” My father’s dry voice reaches us. Dan and I exchange glances. Dan is older and more mature, but his brown eyes sparkle. He won’t deny me this chance to eavesdrop. Soon I’ll become a full-fledged member of the family after all.

Inconspicuously, we sneak closer, tiptoeing across the red marble floor.

“I have more pressing matters,” Father barks. “What am I paying you for if you can’t manage your men and some cop?”

It’s not the first time he’s angry. Blame often falls on his men even if they haven’t done anything wrong. When they do, however, the chastisement is twice as hard. Mom would say they don’t like Father much, but I never noticed.

Submissively, the man Father’s talking to replies, but I miss what was said.

“I know cops are nasty. Everybody knows that!” Father erupts. “You should’ve dealt with it by yourself! It’s your job, Marty. Why can’t I rely on you? Why can’t you do your job properly?”

The man mumbles something and a moment later steps approach. Dan straightens and I leap aside and pretend to be going to the kitchen. Marty exits. He’s Father’s left-hand man while Dan’s the right one, but unlike Dan, Marty’s not in the line to become the boss.

Marty nods at my brother, his face grim and troubled. For a brief moment I feel sorry for the guy until I realize pity would be what my mom would feel while father would stay frigid and logical. I shouldn’t be sorry and rather should adjust my thoughts to fit Father and Dan more. If Father’s displeased there’s a reason. Why doesn’t Marty understand that’s how it is? How Dan says it has to be. It’s Marty’s own fault if he’s in trouble. Yet, this way of thinking feels…wrong.

“Better get going before he sees you,” Dan whispers and ambles toward the study. His reflection shimmers on the floor and I’m tempted to follow, but I plant my feet in my spot. Father will want to see me in an hour or so anyway. I shouldn’t intrude.

I limp up the massive staircase to the third floor where in a lodge room with several lavish couches I’m greeted by two of Fathers German shepherds. They leap up, barking, and I pet them until they settle. For some reason, they prefer to reside on the third floor. Go figure.

I head to my room through the corridors with ornamental writings on the vaulted ceilings and doors with curling arches. When I enter into the familiar vastness, my room is the size of a small hall with a ceiling high enough to fit a statue, I find all three casement windows open. I take in a lungful of evergreen filled air as I kick off my shoes and dive onto my bed. I roll on my back, crumpling the clothing scattered underneath me, and bend my knee to rub my injured leg. The vaulted ceiling is glowing with a projection of a night city. I can never bring myself to stare at plain color. At one point I had projections of girls but thought Father wouldn’t approve of distractions if he happened to see them.

I take an old paper book from my nightstand, one I was skimming through last night, and lift it above my face. Among numerous antique things the mansion houses hundreds of books. I haven’t read them all, though I could.

When I was little my mom loved reading to me in the backyard by the pool. Dan always followed the story with one ear, even if he pretended he wasn’t interested. I, on the other hand, sat all ears. Now the fascination is gone, but something about those words, bold against the worn paper makes it so different from scrolling through the digital screen. I think it’s distinct only because so many have ever held one.

Two raps on my door and Dan steps inside. “He wants to see you. Are you reading?”

My hands drop to my chest. “Yes.” I prop on my elbows to see Dan frown.

“Corrin, God damn it, your trial is less than a month away. And yet you’re reading?”

I put the book to my side and shrug. “There’s nothing wrong with reading. What else should I be doing? We already completed today's training.”

Dan squeezes his nose bridge. “On the street there won’t be today’s training. There are multiple things you could be learning.”

“Mom said I should always get my rest.”

“Mom? I thought you wanted to impress Father.”

“I do, but he wasn’t the one who raised and taught me, was he?” I retort. Mom may not run the business and I may dispose of my pity for Marty and adjust myself to be more logical, but it was she who taught me how to lead a more or less stress-free life in the family of mobsters. In fact, it was mom who raised me and took care of me while Father was… is absent most of the time. This place is big enough for us to rarely meet.

Disgruntled, Dan scoffs under his nose. “Whatever, clean yourself up and get downstairs.”

I head to the bathroom—a white door in the cavity of the bookcase wall—where I take a quick shower, then, in a walk-in closet, throw on white buttons-up shirt and black slacks before I head down.

Fathers study smells of rich timber—the scent of power. I love it. Right beside his wooden desk two swords hang crossed on the wall, which, God forbid, you touch. A huge oriental carpet shields the parquet floor and an antique wine-colored chandelier hangs from the ceiling.

When I see my father behind his massive desk my palms begin to sweat. He gazes into the computer screen, his rigid fingers sliding along the translucent keyboard on the tabletop. I want him to stand and pat my shoulder like he does Dan’s, give me a firm handshake as I’ve often seen him do to one of their own.

He doesn’t even glance at me.

When I reach the center of the study his head jerks up. Father is like any other business man. Nothing about him screams vile, yet his deep brown eyes force me to slow and his stern face compels me to slouch. The less I see him the more distant he feels and my fear of becoming a disappointment blossoms into an ever-present sensation. It’s as if he intentionally makes me feel unneeded, or disposable. Mom never made me feel disposable and she married the man.

“Corrin.” He nods at me sharply. I halt in front of the desk and look at his clean-shaved face. On his right cheek, close to his firm jaw line, sits a small scar. Dan often brags about scars, how they make you look more dangerous and all. Maybe, if I receive one someday, I’ll prove to be more worthy?

“Sir.” I nod back.

“Dan said you’re improving,” Father says in a hurry, typing.

“I think so.” I watch for his reaction.

He pulls away from the computer and leans back in his chair. “You think so?” He reaches for his tablet.

“Um, yes, sir.”

Before he lowers his eyes he gives me an acute once–over. “You seem good, strong, ready,” he says as if describing a steed. “Except for your doubt.”

My doubt?

“I do not doubt myself, sir. I know what I want.” I try to speak with confidence, but my words come out in a blurt.

“I hope you do, for your own good. Doubt will cripple you in this life.” He taps at the screen of the tablet nervously. Or excitedly? Maybe the haggle with Marty made him frantic?

“I know and I will prove it during my trial, sir. Whatever it may be.”

The corners of his lips tilt. “If you say so.” He spins from side to side in his chair, looking at me. A shiver runs along my spine, leaving the question why? to hang unanswered inside my brain. “That’s all.” He waves me off.

I pivot to leave, not knowing what the purpose of this talk was and what I should make of it, if anything. No doubt he came to a conclusion. He’s the head of the Kaynes family after all; got an abundance of tricks under his sleeves, doesn’t he? Otherwise, ruling that many people would be problematic. But isn’t it already? Otherwise, he wouldn’t be yelling at Marty.

I climb up to my room, watching my feet as I go. I never ceased trying to amuse him. Why doesn’t he care for me? My high school graduation results are as flawless as Dan’s (we both started school when we were five-years-old so it wouldn’t intervene with the lifestyle). I keep my opinions to myself and always listen. Only Father never talks to me anyway. I respect the work he dedicates to keep our family respectable and influential. It might be one of the reasons he ignores me. One of the reasons… because it’s also obvious that some of his beloved qualities aren’t present in me. Once, I heard him argue with mom. He said she has to be stricter with me, that my focus isn’t in the right place, whatever that means. Mom has always been strict with me, she taught me things Father didn’t even bother to mention.

Dan’s leaning on the wall by my room’s door. “What did he say?”

“Nothing.” I sit on the windowsill beside him.

“He didn’t pat your shoulder?” He chuckles.

“Didn’t even ask me to sit.” A streak of hurt knots my stomach.

Dan contains a burst of laughter. “Oh, that’s too bad.”

“I don’t know how to make him proud. It doesn’t matter what I do, he looks at me like I’m a piece of trash he has to talk to.” Dan may laugh, but sometimes he does give a useful advice.

“The trial is your chance,” he says.

Anxiously, I cling to my elbow with my other hand. “It’s in my character to be a valuable member of the family, he’ll see.”

“Yet you’re reading a book.”

“I’m reading a book because Mom liked reading to me. Naturally, I’ve grown to like them too. And because I can allow myself half an hour of rest,” I say vacantly at the floor.

Dan groans.

I snap my head at him. “What is it?” Is there something wrong with me? Something father sees that makes me different from Dan? “You and father see something I don’t.”

“We see that you’re a pussy, Corrin. You’re soft inside,” Dan says, his words honest. “Reading books instead of pushing yourself to learn, resting, then whining, listening to mom. Feeling sorry for Marty.”

I recoil, disbelief overtaking my face. “I don’t feel—“

“Yes you do, I did notice your eyebrows curl,” Dan grunts.

I feel the need to defend myself. “I don’t see how that’s bad, letting myself have a minute or rest, or listening to the woman who raised me, or having some compassion. Granted, I can’t allow that compassion to obscure the business, I know that. Plus, I don’t whine.” I puff my chest.

Dan sighs. “Well, at least you know that, but you should also know it’s not enough. You’re weak and you pride yourself in your assumed righteousness, thinking you know better than me or Father,” he snarls. “I sure hope the trial will beat this thinking, and pride out of you because my training isn’t working.”

My uneasiness doesn’t go away. “What is the point of the trial, Dan?”

Dan puts a palm over his eyes and forehead. “Did you hear what I just say? Unbelievable. How are you even in this house?” He doesn’t bother to hide his anxiousness. “The trial tests your strength. If you deserve to be in the family.”

“Yes, I understand that, but why not train me from birth, Dan? Why from eighteen-years-old?” The question weighed heavy on my heart for a long while.

Dan composes himself, reconciling with my assumed stupidity. “Father believes this lifestyle cannot be taught. The resources, manpower spent teaching you from birth would be meaningless if you are not made to do what we do. The trial will reveal your true nature, whether you’re willing to sacrifice what is necessary to carry out what’s ordered. It’ll show Father if your mentality is strong enough. Because trust me, if trial and street time won’t beat all that human weakness out of you nothing will. The trial is his way to introduce you to this life.”

“Was it a good way for you?”

“It worked. In his youth, Father was taught the same way. So must be a good one. I never was so damn curious,” he growls. “I did what was ordered. I survived on the streets and I came back to take my place by his side.”

“That’s what I want to do, but he said I doubt myself.” I lift my brow and hope for Dan to explain it.

“He meant exactly what I said. Humanity.” He pauses. “Don’t doubt.” Well, that’s helpful. “Don’t let whatever mom taught you get in the way. Trust your orders like you always say you will.”

Dan’s words do make sense and I find myself wishing to be like him and Father, strong and resolute. “Right. I will.” I push myself to disconnect all my thoughts from my heart and confine them to my head.

…

“What the hell, Dan!” I’m on my knees, breathing violently, hands wrapped tight around my belly. Dan isn’t holding out on me anymore. “You’re going too far. I can survive without your harsh teaching methods!”

My brother gives a dry laugh. “A week from now Father will tell you what your trial is. You’ll get in trouble if you cannot control yourself and your damn actions. And you are far from ready.”

The hell I’m not. “Losing doesn’t mean I have no grip on myself! I can steal! I can fight better than—”

“You’re whining again! If you would be in control of yourself you wouldn’t be kneeling here, screaming at me that you’re ready. It’s like you are naturally bad at this, God!” Dan flings his hand into the air. It’s not the first time he says it and I’m starting to believe I am different and no amount of trials will change it.

I even my breathing and get to my feet. “Dan, I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to be a failure. I want to be like you and father.”

Dan looks at me with a heavy gaze, as if the I don’t want to be a failure is the only part he understands. His eyes rake over me for a long minute as his face drowns in deep thought. “I’ll help you out,” he says at last. “I know who your targets are.”

His words hit me stronger than his fist to my stomach a moment ago. “What? My targets? Dan, what do you mean? Are you saying I’ll have to kill?”

“No, order a damn pizza for the poker table. Of course, Corrin, you’ll have to kill!” He waves his hands in the air. “I’m surprised you haven’t figured that out yet. I suppose you have to blame those books for that. Or your mom rather for making you addicted to them.”

Books? Mom? How was it her fault? “But what about the hitmen? Errand men? They’re supposed to do it!”

“How do you think they start, huh?” Dan steps closer. “Do you honestly think they gain experience from a single kill? How do you think they rise to be the right-hand men of our father? Or of any boss? We all start from there, that young. Sometimes even younger,” he pauses, but I’m too perplexed to interject. “But for us, it’s harder. Everything will rest on our shoulders. If Father’s killed, it’s us who’ll have to take his place. Our way of learning is tougher because we’re not any assassins. We’ll have people relying on us. We have to be even stronger than Father is.”

My jaw moves, but no words form because I know Dan’s right. I have to be strong. I have to be like the rest of them. “You had to kill, too?” I fight to hide the tremor in my voice.

“Yes. I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.”

“Was it-was it hard?”

“It wasn’t,” Dan says quickly, then grabs my shoulder. “And once you pass, trust me, Father will train you like a real soldier.” He turns me to face him close. “You still want to do this, right?”

I don’t, shoots in my brain. “I don’t have a choice really,” I utter, but then correct myself. “Yes, yes I do.” If Dan could do it, so can I. It cannot be that hard.

“I’m going to make it easier for you. Father will not know about this and if you tell him I told you the places and the names of your targets my ass is on the line. Do you understand?” Dan says and I nod. “Your targets are two people. They run a restaurant in Coats.”

I fake a grin. “Coats, easy.” I try to distance myself from the fact that I have to take someone’s life and focus on the excitement I always wanted. It’s not exciting at all.

Dan sneers. “Yes, it is. They have some unfinished business with our family. Nothing major, but still costly. Father plans to give you your trial a week after you turn eighteen. So with this intel you’ll have a week to get a job there and learn your surroundings. When Father gives you the order, you kill them. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” I bite out.

“Good.” He pats me on the shoulder and struts to the drywall where we left our stuff. From his backpack he pulls a file. I stand on stiff feet, my gaze lost in the vastness of the warehouse until Dan shoves the papers into my face. “Names, photos, addresses, directions. Memorize it and burn it.”

I’m not even amused kill orders are handed out on paper.

From the moment my hands grasp the file the whole world begins to swim. The trial is a kill order. How on earth had Dan done it with a unruffled head? Was he nervous? A horrid realization dawns on me. He’s a killer. My brother— a hitman. He looks nothing like a hitman, but Father looks nothing like a mobster.

Corrin, what did you hope for? Of course, my family has blood on its hands. Of course, it’s not all party-talk and peaceful cooperation with a little persuasion.

The faces in the file belong to an older woman and a boy around my age. They’re both smile at me lightly. Even in the photo the woman’s kind and radiating eyes remind me of my mother’s, and her hair, just a shade lighter. I take a deep breath. Appearances can be deceiving. Dan said they’re detrimental to the business. In what way? I flip through the pages but there’re no reasons in the file, indicating it’s not my place to know. They must’ve done something. Execution is what matters.

The fact that I have to do it is another story.

…

I turn eighteen a week later. No one on the entire compound says a word about it, but I visit my mom in the hospital because I know she’ll want to congratulate me and look at my face. She’s been sick for half a year now. Doc told me of her disease and from his half-hour explanation all I took was that it’s a life-threatening infection. Doc said it’s curable, but she’s still hospitalized.

She congratulates me and I sit by her side, holding her hand while she sings to me in her frail voice. When I was little she’d sing songs she composed herself. They weren’t flawless. Dan often criticized her lyrics as being too boring, which earned him a strict shut up from me and a loving laugh from her. Even if her lyrics were monotonous, her voice was one of the strongest voices I’ve ever heard. I even caught Father listening to her once.

She also prevented me from learning too much about our family business. Considering, I’m not sure if I’m grateful. Dan often sat in father’s office, following his work. I would attempt to enter, but every time my mother would take my hand and whisk me away from the mysteries of our family. She never talked about what Father does and never urged me to follow. Curiosity, of course, got the better of me, as did the hope of unraveling the captivating lifestyle of a mobster. The less I saw, the stronger the desire became.

Now I’m left to reassure her that I’ll make her proud and help her to return on her feet. She looks delighted, but even if she tries not to give in, a presence of sadness crawls its way into her emerald eyes. She never tells me what’s on her mind, hopeful I’ll figure it out on my own.

I will, once I prove myself, once I’m in a family and my word actually matters.

I leave her with my chest heavy, torn between knowing I have to head to that restaurant and knowing she’d never approve of the kill I have to execute for my trial. Yet I push my dividing thoughts aside and take a subway ride to the Coats.

I find the restaurant and stand in front of its windows, breathing dry spring air. I focus on the reflection of myself—a poorly dressed figure with a doubtful expression on his face. I passed this Coat’s district a couple times in the past. People’s attire is similar to the laborers on Clare’s Island and I wore my worn clothes to match the kids of the Coats.

A palm slams against my back and I almost jump in place. A dark-skinned boy stands by my side, his eyebrows raised high. “Why are you standing here by the windows like a chump?” He chuckles. My heart skips a beat. It’s a guy from the photo. Rovan. “Either you’re a street beggar, which, I’d say you’re dressed too well for or you’re looking for a job.” Prompting me to answer Rovan’s eyebrows jump even higher.

“Ah, yes… yeah,” I force myself to return a wavering smile. “I need some money. I’ve visited a few restaurants already. I-I know you’re most likely not looking for anyone right now, but—”

“Hey, relax,” he interrupts my stutter. “Everyone needs paper. We have some teens working the kitchen. My mom does all the employment. I might be able to help you out. Come on, help me with the supplies first.”

I’m surprised by how trusting he is, immediately reaching out.

Corrin, he’s your target. Do not forget it.

I follow him through the dumpster-filled alley to the back of the restaurant. Two workers unload the crates from a truck, parked by the back door.

“I’m Rovy, by the way.” He extends his palm.

“Corrin.” I shake it. Damn it! Should’ve created another name.

He beckons at the truck and tells me to help the workers while he goes to talk to his mother.

“Damn chilly, isn’t it?” One of the men complains. “Gotta hate the climate of Havason.”

“Better hate the summers,” says another, a younger and scruffier boy.

“Those are better. At least summers are short. You suffocate from the smog only for a few months.”

He passes one crate to me. “At least the supplies are already baked,” I murmur. One of the boys snickers and introduces himself. As I help them unload we chitchat of the climate and it eases me until Rovy comes back and invites me in through the back door. A narrow corridor stretches into the kitchen, interrupted by two doors in front of each other. One, wide open to the left, leads into a storage room. Another one, to the right, into a small security room, where Rovy enters.

The woman from the photo stands from behind a small desk with two displays and I fight the urge to bolt this restaurant. “Rovan said you need a job?” Her face lights up. She shakes my hand, her palm warm against mine, and I almost pull my palm away. She introduces herself and I do the same with a weak nod.

Your second target.

A bead of sweat runs down my neck. I must kill them for a reason. They may not appear like bad people, but they are, and they cost our business.

“Are you okay?” Mrs. Brice asks me.

“Yeah. Just worried whether I’ll do well.” I notice I’m pinching at my elbow and jerk my arms to my sides.

Rovan laughs, his voice deep, but sincere. “Don’t worry about it. You'll do fine!” It doesn’t make it any easier.

We agree on the pay and Mrs. Brice doesn’t present me any contracts so I’m safe as far as validity goes.

Rovan swerves through the kitchen aisles like fish through water and I pivot my head around at all the people. No more than eight members of staff work the kitchen, but in a place this small it feels like twenty.

“There’s someone I want you to help out, all right?” Rovan hands me an apron he conjured out of nowhere.

“Sure.”

He stops near a girl with a very messy knot of hair. Dark strands stick out of it like twigs in a haystack, falling on her small shoulders. Her head hangs low and if not for the moving mop I’d think she's fallen asleep. Rovan pokes her shoulder and she raises her head. “Hey, Sevs.”

Though rosy red covers her cheeks her skin is pale. Even I don’t look this white after a vacation-less winter. Her face is lean like Rovan’s and her features sharp compared to the majority of the girls I’ve seen in my life.

She glances at my face for a splinter of a second as if wanting to avoid me altogether, but it’s enough for me to notice her amber eyes glimmer with alarm.

“Sevina, Corrin. Corrin, Sevina,” Rovy rushes with his words. “A new guy. Show him the ropes.” He smirks at her and she subtly rolls her eyes in return. Striking, harsh brown lines the outer ring of her irises. Natural, but rarely seen.

“Okay, come on,” she addresses me in a mellow voice, unmarred by interest.