SAVAGE RITES
The silence in the master bedroom of the Estate was heavy, but it wasn’t threatening.
For the first time since I arrived at Blackwood, the silence felt like peace.
It had been twelve hours since we walked out of the Textile Factory. Twelve hours since the war ended.
I sat in a velvet armchair next to the massive bed, watching Nico sleep.
He looked different when he wasn’t awake to maintain the mask. The doctor—a private surgeon flown in from Boston had taped his ribs and stitched the cuts on his chest and face. His left eye was swollen shut, bruised a violent shade of purple and black. His breathing was shallow, a rhythmic rasp that told me he was still in pain, even under the heavy sedation.
I was wearing one of Nico’s shirts, oversized and soft, smelling of sandalwood and detergent.
My hands were clean. I had scrubbed the gunpowder and blood from my skin until I was raw. But when I closed my eyes, I remembered everything.
There was a soft knock at the door.
The door creaked open. Bianca walked in.
She looked remarkably put-together for someone who had spent the previous night in a sewer tunnel. She was wearing a fresh silk robe, her hair washed and blow-dried. She carried a silver tray with a pot of coffee and two cups.
She walked over and set the tray on the nightstand, careful not to make a sound.
“Is he dead?” Bianca whispered, looking down at Nico’s battered face.
“He’s sleeping,” I said. “The doctor gave him enough morphine to knock out a horse.”
Bianca poured a cup of coffee and handed it to me. “He looks terrible. My father would be horrified. He thinks a De Luca shouldn’t bruise.”
“He’s human, Bianca,” I said, taking the cup.
“Debatable,” she murmured. She sat on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs. She looked at me over the rim of her own cup. “So. We won.”
“We survived,” I corrected.
“Same thing in this town.” Bianca took a sip. “My father called. He’s… impressed. Apparently, giving up fifty percent of the ports to the Valentis was a ‘bold strategic move.’ He thinks it was Nico’s idea.”
“Let him think that,” I said.
“I told him it was yours,” Bianca said casually.
I looked at her, surprised. Bianca didn’t give compliments. She gave insults wrapped in designer labels.
She shrugged, avoiding my gaze. “If we’re going to be allies, Elena, we might as well be honest. You saved my life. You got the money. You got the guns.”
She looked down at Nico.
” And you saved him. I wouldn’t have gone back to that factory. I would have run.”
“You helped,” I said. “We wouldn’t have had the car or the weapons without you.”
“True,” Bianca preened slightly. “I am excellent at spending money.”
A groan from the pillows interrupted us.
Nico shifted. His face contorted in pain as the movement pulled at his broken ribs. His one good eye cracked open, struggling to focus in the dim light.
“Too loud,” he rasped. His voice sounded like gravel grinding together.
I set my coffee down and leaned forward, placing my hand on his forehead. “Hey. Don’t move. You’ll tear the stitches.”
Nico blinked, his gaze focusing on me. Then it drifted to Bianca sitting on the foot of his bed.
“Why is she here?” Nico grumbled. “Did I die and go to hell?”
“You wish,” Bianca said, standing up. “I brought coffee. And I’m checking on my investment. If you die, the alliance falls apart, and I have to marry a cousin or something dreadful.”
Nico tried to laugh, but it turned into a wince. He reached out, his hand searching for mine. I took it. His grip was weak, but possessive.
“The Senator?” Nico asked.
“Handled,” I said. “Dante has him on a tight leash. He’s already issued a statement about Julian having a ‘mental health crisis’ and being admitted to a private facility in Switzerland.”
“Switzerland,” Nico mused. “Far away. Good.”
He squeezed my hand.
“You shot him,” Nico said. The memory seemed to clarify in his hazed mind. “In the knee. You crippled a Senator’s son.”
“He needed to learn a lesson,” I said simply. “And you told me to aim lower.”
“I told you to shoot to kill,” Nico corrected. “You disobeyed me.”
I tensed, waiting for the anger. Waiting for the control freak to reassert himself.
But Nico wasn’t angry. The corner of his bruised mouth lifted in a smile.
“Mercy,” Nico whispered. “You showed him mercy so you could own him. That was excellent.”
“I had a good teacher,” I said.
“Teacher?” Nico closed his eye again, his energy fading. “No. The student has surpassed the master.”
He drifted back toward sleep, his breathing evening out.
Bianca watched him for a moment, then turned to me.
“So,” she said quietly. “What happens now? The Russians are gone. The Thornes are owned. The Valentis are paid off.”
I looked at the sleeping King. I looked at the rain hitting the window.
“Now?” I said, standing up and walking to the window. I looked out over the campus of Blackwood University. It looked different from up here. It didn’t look scary anymore. It looked like a chessboard where all the pieces were finally in the right place.
“Now,” I said, “we rule.”
***
Monday morning at Blackwood University was the same.
It had been one week since everything. But kings and queens couldn’t rule from a fortress forever. Eventually, they had to walk among the subjects.
The convoy rolled onto campus at 8:55 AM.
It wasn’t just the Aston Martin today. It was an arrangements. Two black SUVs flanked Nico’s car, their windows tinted obsidian dark. We didn’t park in the student lot. We pulled right up to the curb of the main quad, idling in the ‘No Parking’ zone that no tow truck driver would dare touch.
I sat in the passenger seat of the Aston, checking my reflection in the visor mirror.
The girl looking back wasn’t Elena Vance from Ohio.
My hair was loose, styled in dark, glossy waves that fell over my shoulders. I wore a black turtleneck dress that hugged every curve, a cashmere coat draped over my shoulders, and boots with heels sharp enough to puncture a lung.
And around my neck, resting against the black fabric, was the ruby, I had gotten it back.
“Ready?” Nico asked.
He was wearing sunglasses to hide the healing bruise around his left eye, but the tape visible above his collar hinted at the violence underneath.
“Ready,” I said.
We opened the doors.
The campus went silent. It was instant, just like that first day in the lecture hall.
Conversations died. Frisbees dropped mid-flight. Phones were lowered.
We stepped out.
From the SUV behind us, the rest of the inner circle emerged.
Matteo was first, his arm in a black sling, wearing a grin that said ‘I got shot and lived to tell the tale.’
Dante followed, silent and imposing in a dark trench coat.
Then, the women.
Sloane stepped out, lighting a cigarette immediately, looking bored by the spectacle.
And Bianca. She adjusted her sunglasses, smoothed her white skirt, and fell into step beside Sloane. She didn’t look at me with hatred anymore.
We walked toward the Lecture Hall.
It was the same building where Nico had first cornered me. The same heavy oak doors. The same smell.
But the formation had changed.
I wasn’t walking ten paces behind, clutching a thrift-store bag. I was walking beside Nico. His hand wasn’t gripping my wrist to restrain me; it was resting on the small of my back, guiding me.
We pushed through the doors.
The hallway was crowded with students heading to Advanced Macroeconomics. As we approached, the crowd parted like the Red Sea.
We entered the auditorium.
The professor was already at the podium, arranging his notes. When he saw us, he froze. His hands shook slightly as he adjusted his glasses.
The room was full. The “nosebleed section” in the back where I used to hide was packed with scholarship kids. The middle rows, the power seats, were filled with the elite.
Nico didn’t walk to the back.
He walked straight down the center aisle. I walked with him. Matteo, Dante, Sloane, and Bianca followed.
We reached the middle row.
A group of basket ball players was sitting there. They were big guys, arrogant, used to owning the space.
Nico stopped. He took off his sunglasses, revealing the black eye. He stared at the captain of the team.
He didn’t say a word.
The captain looked at Nico. Then he looked at Dante. Then he looked at Matteo.
The captain stood up. “Let’s move, guys.”
The entire row scrambled to vacate the seats, grabbing their bags and shuffling to the back of the room.
Nico gestured to the empty chairs.
“Sit,” he told me.
But he didn’t point to the seat next to him. He pointed to the seat in the center. The seat he usually occupied.
I hesitated. “Nico…”
“Sit,” he repeated softly. “The Queen sits in the middle.”
Nico sat to my right. Matteo took the left. Sloane and Bianca took the row behind us, kicking their boots up onto the empty seats in front of them.
The entire auditorium was watching us.
“Mr. De Luca,” the professor squeaked. “Welcome back. We… we didn’t expect you.”
“Evidently,” Nico drawled. He leaned back, stretching his legs out, wincing slightly as his ribs protested. “Please, Professor. Continue. We are eager to learn about… what is it today? Market volatility?”
“Y-yes,” the professor stammered. “Market volatility.”
“Fitting,” Nico murmured.
He reached out and took my hand. He interlaced our fingers and placed them on the desk in front of us. The ruby on my neck caught the overhead lights, flashing red.
I looked around the room.
I saw the fear in their eyes. I saw the envy.
I looked at Bianca behind me. She caught my eye and gave a small, sharp nod.
I looked at Sloane, who blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling, daring the professor to say something.
Then I looked at Nico.
He was watching me. Not the room. Me.
“You aren’t typing,” he whispered, nodding at my closed laptop. “Don’t you want to take notes?”
“I don’t need to,” I said, squeezing his hand. “I already learned the most important lesson.”
“And what is that?”
“Power isn’t given,” I whispered, looking out at the sea of faces that used to terrify me. “It’s taken.”
Nico smiled. It was the first time I had seen him smile without a shadow behind it.
“Class is in session, Mrs. De Luca,” he teased,
I didn’t correct him.
I opened my laptop and started typing.
TBC
