Page 14 of Ruthless Chaos
FOUR
ALEXANDER
Bright,harmonic notes waft through the grand drawing room of Kingmaker House, a subtle backdrop for the conversations among the brothers. I pick a flute of champagne from the tray of a waiter scurrying past, downing it quickly.
I’ve lost track of how many drinks I’ve had so far, but it’s doing nothing to quell my foul mood. There are almost three hundred of us in this room—more Associates than Kingmakers—but only a few of us matter.
Unfortunately, I’m one of the most important people here, so I’ll be having many pointless conversations tonight.
This is my least favorite part of the job: the fawning sycophancy.
As I make my way to the bar in search of a stronger drink, I’m approached by three Associates. At a glance, I can tell their type.
The gaudy designer logos monogrammed on their suits, diamond-studded watch faces, and disgustingly overbearing cologne give them away as new money boys who think what they have entitles them to power too.
Their type is the first to break once initiation starts.
Before induction, money does little. Earning your place on Kingmaker House takes mental fortitude. It’s only after that wealth helps you get what you want.
Though they smile, I see the desperation in their eyes.
Everyone in this room knows the stakes. Yet, each year tens of freshman decide to take the risk anyway because of the allure of becoming a Kingmaker. If they are successful, they’re treated like gods on campus.
Despite my disinterest in what they have to say, I let them speak.
It’s the same spiel every year. They think currying favor with me will improve their chances. They tell me where they are from and what their families do. One of them even insinuates that he knows intimate details about the Beneventis—the ever-present thorn in my family’s side. The turf war was supposed to help us reclaim the territory they took from us.
They’re bold, and at least one of them has done his research. I can respect that.
But they’re woefully stupid if they think I can be bought. If they want it, they will have to suffer and claw their way to the top like I had to.
I’ll give them the “special treatment,” they’re after.
While they continue their incessant yapping, I pull out my phone and send a message to my assistant, Dexter, with their names. I instruct him to find out as much about them as possible.
I will make sure they lose their entitlement. Their first initiation trial will be a living hell, personalized for them. They had no chance at becoming Kingmakers to begin with—we automatically strike anyone who tries to curry favor with us after the first trial—but now they’ll lose their sense of self too.
I walk away abruptly and manage to make it to the bar without another interruption.
There, I find Hans behind the counter. He’s short and stocky, with a head of white hair. He’s worked at Kingmaker House for decades now, and he’s the only person I trust to make my whiskey sours.
“The usual, sir?” he asks. I nod, resting an arm on the countertop.
While Hans is busy with my drink, I survey the room.
Every year, this little shindig is put on as a “welcome celebration,” for the incoming freshmen who want to be Kingmakers. It’s how we cull the numbers. We earmark the weakest and the stupidest. This party is meant to lull them into a false sense of security.
We’re all dressed in suits, eating finger foods, talking in hushed tones. As if we didn’t all have to kill a man and rip his heart out with our bare hands to be called Kingmakers.
It’s like watching pigs run to their slaughter. The Associates flock any Kingmaker they can find—we’re easily identified by the crest embossed into our jackets.
They won’t realize the mistake they made until it’s too late.
In the farthest corner of the room, I catch the eyes of a familiar face. The middle-aged man is standing next to a towering potted plant with a drink in hand, dressed in a nondescript moss-colored suit.
He nods solemnly and gives me a terse smile. Nobody would even know it, buthe’sthe most powerful man in the room. Lev Semenov is a member of the Kingmaker Society.
It’s tradition for a member of the Society to oversee the event. It’s also tradition for us not to acknowledge whoever is sent since Associates are also in attendance. The identities of Society members are to be kept secret from outsiders.
