SAVAGE RITES
Blackwood University had a hierarchy for everything, even coffee.
The scholarship students drank coffee from the vending machines in the basement of the Science Center. The average students went to the Starbucks in the student union. The elite, the ones whose last names were on the buildings went to The Aviary.
It was a glass-walled lounge on the roof of the Arts building, filled with fiddle-leaf figs, velvet armchairs, and baristas who knew better than to make eye contact.
I sat in a corner booth, a cup of black coffee cooling in front of me.
I was wearing the black wool dress Nico had given me. My hair was pulled back in a severe, tight knot. I wore no makeup except for the dark berry lipstick.
The whispers started the moment I walked in, but they felt different today. Before, they were whispers of ridicule. Look at the rat. Look at the charity case.
Today, the whispers were laced with fear.
I stared out the window at the gray campus below. I saw students rushing to class, worrying about midterms and crushes. They looked like a different species.
“Is this seat taken? or does Nico require you to build a shrine around it?”
I didn’t jump. I turned my head slowly.
A girl was standing next to my table. She was striking, sharp features, pale skin, and a bob of platinum blonde hair cut so precisely it looked like a blade. She wore a leather moto jacket over a silk slip dress, and her combat boots were Chanel.
I recognized the look in her eyes. It was the same look I saw in the mirror lately. Boredom masking danger.
“Nico isn’t here,” I said evenly.
“I know. He’s at the administration building terrorizing the Dean,” the girl said. She didn’t wait for an invitation; she slid into the booth opposite me. She placed a pack of cigarettes and a gold lighter on the table.
“I’m Sloane,” she said. “Sloane Valenti.”
The name clicked instantly. The Valentis were Chicago. They ran the gambling and the unions in the Midwest. They were old allies of the De Lucas, powerful, brutal, and strictly “business first.”
“Elena,” I said.
“I know,” Sloane replied. She picked up a sugar packet and twirled it between her fingers.
“You’re the talk of the town, Elena. The Scholarship Girl who turned into the Mafia Queen overnight. It’s a very Cinderella story. If Cinderella’s fairy godmother was a sociopath with a private jet.”
“Is there a reason you’re sitting here?” I asked.
“Or are you just here to critique my life story?”
Sloane smiled. It wasn’t a warm smile, but it wasn’t cruel either.
“I’m sitting here because you’re the only person in this room who isn’t boring me to death,” Sloane said. She gestured to a group of girls in pastel sweaters giggling near the counter. “Look at them. Sheep. They think their biggest problem is whether Chad will text them back. They don’t know there are wolves in the room.”
She looked at me pointedly.
“Nico likes you,” Sloane said. “And Nico hates everyone. I called my dad this morning. He said the De Lucas have officially ‘tagged’ you.
That makes you untouchable to everyone… except other untouchables.”
“And you’re an untouchable?”
“I’m a Valenti,” she shrugged. “We break bread with the De Lucas. Nico won’t mind if I talk to you. In fact, he’d probably prefer it. Better me than…”
She trailed off, her eyes flicking toward the entrance.
The glass doors opened. The air in the room shifted.
Bianca walked in.
She wasn’t alone. She had her usual entourage. Bianca was wearing white today, a pristine cashmere coat and trousers that made her look like an ice sculpture.
She scanned the room, looking for a victim. Her eyes landed on me.
Her lip curled. She whispered something to her friends, then started walking toward our booth.
Sloane sighed, leaning back in the booth.
“Here comes the Wicked Witch of the West Coast. God, she’s exhausting.”
Bianca stopped at the edge of the table. She looked at me, then at Sloane. Her eyes narrowed slightly when she recognized the Chicago heiress.
“Sloane,” Bianca acknowledged with a stiff nod. “I didn’t know you picked up strays.”
“I like strays,” Sloane drawled, looking bored. “They have more personality than purebreds. And they bite harder.”
Bianca ignored the jab and turned her full, venomous attention to me.
“You have some nerve showing your face here,” Bianca said. “After what you did to Julian.”
“Julian is a big boy,” I said, picking up my coffee. “He can handle rejection.”
“Rejection?” Bianca laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. “You humiliated him, Elena. He’s skipping classes. He’s a mess. You broke his heart.”
“Better his heart than his hands,” I said coldly.
The reference to Nico’s threat made Bianca pause. A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. She realized, perhaps for the first time, that I wasn’t playing by the rules of polite society anymore. I was playing by Nico’s rules.
“You think you’ve won, don’t you?” Bianca hissed, leaning down, her hands pressing onto the table. “You think because Nico took you away for a weekend and… used you… that you have status.”
She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“But you’re just a flavor of the week, El. A novelty. And when he gets bored and he always gets bored, you won’t have the De Lucas. You won’t have Julian. You’ll have nothing.”
My hand tightened on my cup. The old Elena would have teared up. The old Elena would have run.
I set the cup down slowly. I looked up at Bianca. I imagined Nico standing behind me, his hand on my shoulder.
“You’re wrong, Bianca,” I said softly.
“About what?”
“I’m not the flavor of the week,” I said. “I’m the leverage. I’m the one who knows where the bodies are buried because I helped dig the holes.”
I saw Sloane raise an eyebrow in appreciation.
“And as for Nico getting bored,” I continued, letting a small, cruel smile touch my lips. “He didn’t seem very bored this morning when he refused to let me get out of bed.”
It was a lie, mostly but it hit the mark.
Bianca’s face went pale, then red. The jealousy flared hot and ugly in her eyes. She looked like she wanted to slap me, but she glanced at Sloane, who was watching with amusement, and thought better of it. The Valentis and Riccis had a truce, but it was fragile.
“You’re disgusting,” Bianca spat.
“I’m surviving,” I countered. “Run along, Bianca. Your latte is getting cold. And so is your spot on the throne.”
Bianca stood up straight, trembling with rage. She opened her mouth to retort, but Sloane cut in.
“She said run along, B,” Sloane said, lighting a cigarette despite the ‘No Smoking’ sign. She blew a cloud of smoke in Bianca’s direction.
“Don’t make it awkward.”
Bianca glared at us one last time, spun on her heel, and marched away. Her friends scurried after her like frightened mice.
The lounge was quiet again.
Sloane watched Bianca leave, then turned back to me. She took a drag of her cigarette and exhaled slowly.
“Okay,” Sloane said, a genuine smirk appearing. “I see it now.”
“See what?”
“Why Nico kept you,” Sloane said. “You’re not a mouse, Elena. You’re a baby cobra. You just needed to break out of the shell.”
She reached across the table and tapped her cigarette ash into the empty saucer.
“We should hang out,” Sloane decided. “I need someone to sit with during Macroeconomics who won’t ask me about my dad’s indictments.”
“I think Nico would approve,” I said, testing the waters.
“Oh, Nico will love it,” Sloane said. “It keeps you away from the ‘civilians.’ And it keeps you in the family.”
She pulled a second cigarette from the pack and offered it to me.
“Smoke?”
I looked at the white stick. I had never smoked in my life.
“Sure,” I said.
I took the cigarette. Sloane lit it for me. I took a drag, coughed slightly, and then leaned back in the booth.
***
Nico’s Point of View
Dean Miller’s office smelled of lemon polish and terror.
It was a smell I had grown up with. My father’s study, the back rooms of social clubs, the quiet corners of funeral homes, they all smelled like this.
I sat in the high-backed leather chair typically reserved for donors and board members.
I’m I simply watched Dean Miller try to pour a glass of water from a crystal pitcher.
The glass clinked against the rim—ting, ting, ting—betraying the tremor in her hands.
“So,” I said, breaking the silence. “We are in agreement.”
Dean Miller swallowed. She was a woman of fifty, with a PhD.
“Yes, Mr. De Luca,” she said, her voice thin. “Elena Vance… excuse me, Ms. Vance… has been granted retroactive bereavement leave for the past three days. A death in the family.”
“Tragic,” I said. “Her father. Sudden heart attack.”
“Of course,” Miller nodded rapidly. “And regarding Professor Vance…”
“Arthur Vance has resigned,” I stated. “Effective immediately. He has chosen to pursue… other opportunities. In a facility that can better accommodate his mental health needs.”
“We will scrub the tenure track record,” Miller promised, opening a file on her desk. “The incident with the… envelope… will be sealed. To protect the university’s reputation naturally.”
“Naturally.”
I stood up. Miller flinched, knocking her pen onto the floor.
I walked to the edge of her desk. I placed a check on the mahogany surface. It was a donation to the History Department. A large one.
“Blackwood values discretion, Dean,” I said softly. “It’s why we pay such high tuition. We pay for the education, yes. But we also pay for the silence.”
“I understand, Nico,” she whispered. She looked at the check, then at me. She looked like she wanted to vomit.
“Good.”
I buttoned my jacket and walked out.
The outer office was empty. The secretary had conveniently gone to lunch. I walked through the heavy oak doors and into the corridor of the Administration Building.
I felt good. The loose ends were tied. Tony Rossi was in a shipping container headed for a labor camp in Eastern Europe, a fate far worse than death, and far more profitable for the family. Elena was firmly under my thumb.
Then, I turned the corner.
He was leaning against the marble pillar, arms crossed over his chest.
Julian Thorne.
He looked like hell. His golden boy veneer was cracking. His hair was messy, his clothes rumpled, and there were dark bruises on his neck that my fingers had put there.
But it was his eyes that annoyed me. They weren’t fearful. They were burning with a fanatic’s light.
“You look like shit, Thorne,” I said, not breaking my stride. “Rough night?”
Julian pushed off the pillar and blocked my path. He was tall, I’d give him that. Nearly my height.
“Where is she?” Julian demanded.
“She?” I stopped. I looked him up and down with amusement. “You mean Elena? She’s at The Aviary. Having coffee with Sloane.”
Julian blinked. “Sloane? That’s impossible. Sloane is…”
“One of us?” I finished. “Yes. Elena is finding her crowd. You should be happy for her. She’s finally making friends who can actually protect her.”
“You aren’t protecting her,” Julian spat. “You’re brainwashing her. I saw her yesterday. In the library. Her eyes… there was nothing there. You took the light out of her.”
I stepped closer. I invaded his personal space, forcing him to hold his ground or retreat. To his credit, he didn’t retreat.
“I didn’t take her light, Julian,” I said, keeping my voice low so the passing students wouldn’t hear. “I opened her eyes. Elena isn’t a victim. She’s the daughter of a thief. She has survival in her DNA. All I did was show her how to use it.”
“You broke her,” Julian insisted. “You terrorized her until she developed Stockholm Syndrome just to survive you.”
“Psychology major now?” I scoffed. “Stick to the piano, Thorne. You have soft hands.”
I tried to step around him, but he grabbed my arm.
It was a mistake.
My reaction was instinctual. I grabbed his wrist, twisting it sharply outward and up, locking his elbow. I shoved him backward, slamming him against the trophy case lining the wall. Glass rattled.
“Don’t touch me,” I snarled.
Julian gasped in pain, but he glared at me through the agony.
“You think you’ve won,” Julian wheezed. “You think because she said she chose you, it’s over.”
“It is over.”
“No,” Julian shook his head. “I know Elena. That girl is still in there. And she hates you.”
He leaned forward, ignoring the pressure on his twisted arm.
“One day, Nico, you’re going to slip up. You’re going to push her too far. Or you’re going to realize that you actually feel something for her.”
He smiled. It was a bloody, desperate smile.
“And when that happens,” Julian whispered, “she’s going to destroy you. And I’m going to be there to watch.”
I stared at him.
I should break his arm. I should snap the radius right now, hear the bone crack, and leave him screaming in the hallway. It would be easy. It would be satisfying.
But Julian was a Senator’s son. And right now, with the FBI sniffing around my father’s shipping containers in Jersey, we didn’t need a war with Washington.
I released him. I shoved him away with disgust.
Julian stumbled, clutching his wrist, breathing hard.
“Stay away from her,” I warned. “This is your last warning, Julian. The next time you approach her, I won’t strangle you. I won’t break your arm. I will burn down everything you love. Your piano. Your reputation. Your father’s career. I will leave you with nothing but ash.”
I adjusted my cuffs.
“Do we understand each other?”
Julian didn’t answer. He just watched me with that hateful, defiant stare.
I turned and walked away.
I could feel his eyes on my back.
He was right about one thing. Elena did hate me.
But he was wrong about the rest. Hate wasn’t a liability. Hate was a fuel. And as long as she hated me, she was focused on me. She was obsessed with me.
And that was exactly where I wanted her.
I took my phone out and typed a message to Elena.
Meet me at the car. We have a dinner to attend.
I hit send.
I needed to see her.
TBC
