SAVAGE RITES
I didn’t sleep.
The piece of paper with my uncle’s name on it sat on the nightstand. It stared at me all night like a watching eye.
Professor Arthur Vance.
He was the only person who sent me a birthday card every year. He taught History. He didn’t know anything about stolen money or the mafia. And Nico wanted me to “ruin” him.
The sun came up. The rain had stopped, but the fog was thick against the glass of the penthouse windows.
I needed coffee. I needed to wake up and figure out how to survive the day.
I opened my bedroom door. I listened. The hallway was quiet. The heavy silence of the house made my skin prickle.
I still had on the black silk dress from dinner. It was wrinkled now. I felt dirty in it, like a party favor that had been left out too long.
I grabbed my old, oversized gray cardigan from my suitcase and pulled it on over the dress. It was ugly, but it felt like armor.
I walked down the hall, my bare feet silent on the carpet.
I found the kitchen. It was a massive room with stainless steel appliances and black marble counters. It looked like a kitchen in a magazine, clean, cold, and untouched.
But it wasn’t empty.
Someone was standing by the espresso machine.
It wasn’t Nico. It wasn’t Matteo or Dante.
It was a girl.
She had her back to me. She was tall and slender, wearing a white silk robe that looked soft as a cloud. Her hair was dark, almost black, and it fell in a perfect, shiny curtain down her back.
She heard me enter. She didn’t jump. She didn’t look scared. She turned around slowly, holding a tiny cup of espresso.
She was beautiful. But it was a sharp, dangerous kind of beauty. Her eyes were dark brown, shaped like almonds. Her lips were painted a deep red. She looked like a queen standing in her castle.
I stopped in the doorway. “I… I didn’t know anyone else was here.”
The girl looked me up and down. Her gaze was slow. She looked at my messy hair. She looked at the wrinkled dress. She looked at the cheap cardigan.
She took a sip of her coffee. She didn’t smile.
“You must be the stray dog,” she said. Her voice was smooth, but cold as ice.
I pulled the cardigan tighter around myself.
“I’m Elena.”
“I know who you are,” she said. She set the cup down on the counter with a soft clink.
“Elena Rossi. Daughter of the Rat.”
She walked toward me. She moved with a grace that made me feel clumsy. She stopped just a few feet away.
“I am Bianca,” she said. “Bianca Ricci.”
The name hit me hard. The Ricci family. They were almost as powerful as the De Lucas.
They ran the ports. They were royalty in this world.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said, taking a step back. “I just wanted water.”
“This is a private floor, Elena,” Bianca said. “Did Nico invite you to roam around?”
“Nico forced me to be here,” I snapped. The anger flared up again. “I don’t want to be here.”
Bianca laughed. It was a short, humorless sound.
“Please,” she said. “Don’t pretend. Every girl at Blackwood would kill to be in this penthouse.
You think you’re special because he dragged you up here? You think you’re the first ‘project’ Nico has had?”
She stepped closer. She smelled like expensive perfume—jasmine.
“You are not a guest,” Bianca whispered. “You are a toy. And toys get broken.”
“I’m not a toy,” I said, trying to stand tall. “I’m a student.”
“You are leverage,” she corrected. she reached out and flicked the fabric of my cheap cardigan.
She looked disgusted. “Look at you. You are a mess. You don’t belong in this world, Elena.
You are going to get eaten alive.”
“Why do you care?” I asked.
Bianca’s eyes narrowed. “Because this is my world. Nico is my… friend. We grew up together. Our families are partners. I know how he thinks.”
She leaned in close. Her face was inches from mine.
“He will use you until he gets his money,” Bianca said. “And when he is bored, or when your father is dead, he will toss you aside. Do not think, for one second, that he feels anything for you.”
“I don’t want him to feel anything for me,” I said. “I hate him.”
Bianca smiled then.
“Good,” she said. “Keep hating him. Because if you fall for him, I will destroy you myself.”
Before I could answer, the elevator doors down the hall dinged open. Heavy footsteps echoed on the marble.
The energy in the room changed instantly. Bianca stepped back. Her cold face transformed. She looked softer, warmer.
Nico walked into the kitchen.
He was wearing a black t-shirt and gray sweatpants. His hair was damp, like he had just showered. He looked less like a monster and more like a tired college student. Until he saw us.
He stopped. His gray eyes flicked from me to Bianca.
“Bianca,” Nico said. His voice was flat. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”
“I brought pastries,” Bianca said, her voice light and sweet. She pointed to a white box on the counter. “And I wanted to see the new… acquisition.”
Nico walked over to the coffee machine. He ignored Bianca’s smile. He poured himself a cup of black coffee.
“She isn’t an exhibit at the zoo, B,” Nico said. He turned to face us.
“She certainly dresses like one,” Bianca teased. She walked over to Nico and placed a hand on his arm. It was a possessive touch.
“Look at her, Nico. She’s shivering.”
Nico looked at me. His eyes were blank.
“Go get dressed, Elena,” he ordered. “Real clothes. Classes start in an hour.”
“I don’t have my clothes,” I said. “You only put that dress in the closet.”
Nico took a sip of coffee. “Check the dresser drawers. The movers finished this morning.”
He turned his back on me, focusing on Bianca.
Bianca looked over Nico’s shoulder at me and smirked. It was a clear message: I belong here. You do not.
I turned and walked out of the kitchen. My face was burning.
I had thought Nico was the only danger in this penthouse. I was wrong. Bianca Ricci was a different kind of shark.
***
I ran back to Room 304. My heart was beating fast, like a trapped bird.
I slammed the door and leaned against it. I wanted to lock it. I wanted to push the heavy dresser in front of it. But I knew it wouldn’t matter.
There were no locks in this house that could keep the De Lucas out.
I walked to the dresser. Nico said the movers had finished.
I pulled open the top drawer.
My breath hitched.
My old clothes were not there. My faded jeans, my comfortable oversized t-shirts, my worn-out socks—all gone.
Instead, the drawer was lined with black velvet. Inside lay rows of lace underwear. Black. Red. Silk. Things I would never buy.
Things that cost more than a month of rent.
I opened the next drawer.
Skirts. Plaid, wool, leather. Short enough to be daring, long enough to be allowed on campus.
The next drawer.
Cashmere sweaters. Cream, charcoal, navy.
He had erased me. Elena Vance from Ohio was gone. In her place was a doll made of expensive fabric and fear.
I felt a scream building in my throat, but I swallowed it down. Screaming wouldn’t help. Survival was the only thing that mattered.
I grabbed a gray pleated skirt and a black turtleneck. I put them on quickly, my hands shaking. I pulled on a pair of thick black tights and the boots I had worn yesterday.
They were dry now, but they still looked scuffed. The only part of the real me left.
I went to the mirror. The girl staring back looked sharp.
I reached into the pocket of the silk dress on the floor and took out the note.
Task 1: Ruin the Professor.
I folded it until it was a tiny square. I shoved it into my bra, right against my heart. It felt cold.
I grabbed my backpack.
I didn’t check the phone Nico gave me. I didn’t want to see any more messages.
I opened the bedroom door.
The hallway was empty. I walked to the elevator. I pressed the button for the lobby.
When the doors slid open on the ground floor, the air changed.
It wasn’t the smell of lilies anymore. It was the smell of leather and gun oil.
Matteo was waiting for me.
He was leaning against the front door, spinning a set of car keys around his finger. He wore a leather jacket and jeans.
He looked like a bad boy from a movie poster, except the gun bulge under his jacket was very real.
“Morning, Sunshine,” Matteo grinned. His teeth were white and straight. “Ready for school?”
“I can walk,” I said. I gripped my backpack strap tight.
“Negative,” Matteo said. He pushed off the door. “Nico says you don’t walk anymore. You ride. With us.”
He opened the heavy front door. Rain was falling again, a light, freezing mist.
A black SUV sat in the driveway. The windows were tinted so dark they looked like ink.
Matteo opened the back door for me. “Get in.”
I hesitated. “I have a class in twenty minutes. History.”
“I know,” Matteo said. His smile didn’t fade, but his eyes went flat. “Professor Vance.
Introduction to European History. Room 104.”
He knew exactly where my uncle was.
I got in the car.
The interior was black leather. It smelled like new car and cold air. I slid to the far side, pressing myself against the door.
Matteo got in the driver’s seat. He started the engine.
As we drove down the winding hill away from the Heirs’ mansion, the silence was thick.
“Open the glove box,” Matteo said.
I looked at the back of his head. “What?”
“The glove box, Elena. Open it.”
I reached forward. My fingers trembled as I popped the latch.
Inside, there was a envelope. It was thick.
“Take it,” Matteo ordered.
I pulled the envelope out. It was heavy.
“What is this?” I asked.
“That,” Matteo said, turning onto the main campus road, “is the evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
“Of a very nasty habit,” Matteo said lightly. “Gambling debts. Embezzlement from the university fund. And some… inappropriate photos with a student.”
My stomach turned over. “That’s a lie. My uncle would never do that.”
“Doesn’t matter if it’s true,” Matteo said. He looked at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes were chillingly empty. “It only matters that it looks real.
The photos are Photoshopped. The bank statements are forged. But the dean won’t know that. And by the time the investigation clears him, his career will be over. He will be fired. Disgraced.”
“I won’t do it,” I whispered. I dropped the envelope on the seat. “I won’t plant this.”
Matteo didn’t yell. He didn’t swerve the car.
He just reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. He tapped the screen and held it up so I could see it in the mirror
It was a live video feed.
The camera was shaky. It showed a classroom. A lecture hall.
At the front of the room, an older man was writing on the chalkboard. He was wearing a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows. He was smiling as he spoke to a student in the front row.
It was Uncle Arthur.
“We have a man in the back row,” Matteo said softly. “He has a gun with a silencer. It’s very quiet.”
I stared at the screen. My uncle wiped the chalk dust from his hands. He looked so happy. So normal.
“If you don’t put that envelope in his desk drawer before class starts,” Matteo said, “my man gets a text. And your uncle dies right there in front of his students.”
I couldn’t breathe. The air in the car felt thin.
“Why?” I choked out. “Why ruin him? He didn’t steal the money.”
“Because it hurts you,” Matteo said simply. “And because it isolates you. Once you do this, you can never go to him for help. You will be the one who destroyed him. You will have no one left but us.”
The car pulled up to the curb in front of the History building.
Matteo put the phone away. The car stopped.
“You have ten minutes before the lecture begins,” Matteo said. “The office is adjacent to the lecture hall. It’s unlocked. Put the envelope in the bottom drawer.”
He turned in his seat to look at me. His face was deadly serious.
“Don’t test us, Elena. We don’t bluff.”
I looked at the heavy envelope on the seat. I looked at the building where my favorite uncle was waiting to teach his class.
I grabbed the envelope.
I opened the car door and stepped out into the rain. My legs felt like jelly.
“Have a good day at school!” Matteo called out cheerfully.
I slammed the door.
I walked up the stone steps. Every step felt like a betrayal. I clutched the envelope to my chest. It felt like I was carrying a bomb.
I entered the building. The hallway smelled of floor wax and old paper. Students were rushing to class, laughing, complaining about homework. They were normal.
I was a ghost.
I walked past the lecture hall door. I could hear my uncle’s voice inside.
“History is written by the victors…”
I stopped at the office door. It said A. VANCE in gold letters on the frosted glass.
I put my hand on the doorknob.
It was unlocked.
I pushed the door open. The office was empty. It was small and cluttered with books. A half-eaten bagel sat on the desk. A picture of me and him from my high school graduation was on the shelf.
I walked to the desk. My hands were shaking so bad I almost dropped the envelope.
I opened the bottom drawer.
And then I froze.
There was a shadow in the doorway.
“Can I help you?”
I spun around.
It was the Dean of Students. A tall, severe woman with glasses.
She looked at me. She looked at the open drawer. She looked at the thick envelope in my hands.
“I…” I stammered. “I was just…”
“You’re Elena Vance,” she said, her eyes narrowing behind her lenses. “Professor Vance’s niece.”
“Yes,” I breathed.
“Is everything alright?” she asked. She took a step into the room. She was looking at the envelope. “What do you have there?”
My heart hammered against my ribs. If I gave it to her, maybe she would understand. maybe she would help.
But then my phone buzzed in my pocket.
A reminder.
The man in the back row.
I looked at the Dean. I looked at the envelope.
“It’s just…” I swallowed the bile in my throat.
“It’s just his lunch. He forgot it.”
I shoved the envelope into the drawer and slammed it shut.
“I have to go,” I said. “I’m late.”
I pushed past the Dean and ran into the hallway. I didn’t stop running until I reached the bathroom at the end of the hall.
I locked myself in a stall and slid to the floor.
I had done it. I had planted the bomb.
And now, I had to wait for it to explode.
TBC
