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“Hello?”
“Leo! Andrea has been shot. You’re on speaker phone. I’m in the ambulance right now.”
“What the fuck?” There’s rustling in the background, like he’s getting out of bed. “I’ll be there in a minute, babe.”
“Can you get my phone from the front porch?” I ask with a low voice, praying he takes pity on me. My lip trembles as I await his response, and my breath catches in my throat when the paramedics look at me closely.
“Of course,tesoro mio,” he says and my breath whooshes out. “I’ll be right there.”
“Bye,” I whisper, watching the paramedics still working on my brother.
His chest is getting pumped, and I hear the crunch of ribs under unfamiliar hands. Hands that should never have touched him.
He shouldn’t be here.
Andrea should be at home as always, with earbuds in, reading books in bed until he passes out. Not shot on the front porch. Not dead. Not on the fucking front porch.
Who did this to him? Who shot him? Who fuckingkilledhim?
I may not know the answers to who did this, but I will find out, and when I do…that person will pay too.
In blood.
My father will make sure of that.
When I was a teenager, I knew love was going to be painful. It’s a given, my mother said. Except I always thought I’d fall in love with my fiancé, and instead, I fell for the wrong person. The enemy my parents always warned me about. The big bad wolf. He was never that, though. He was sweet, gentle, even.Forbidden. But the heartbreak I experienced… I don’t think I will ever feel again. Not with anyone but him. And now I’m forced to face him three times a week in my business class.
Atlantic University in Seaside, Florida, is a college designed for mafia students. We’re sent here to assemble, to form and foster relationships. The future of our families depends on alliances, and what we can do to create them. The students at this school are not limited to Chicago. They’re the mafia kids of different families scattered across the United States. Chicago, New York, Las Vegas, and Florida, to name a few places. This school's organizations include La Cosa Nostra, Bratva, Irish Mob, and Polish Mob. There’s more than that—but those are the only ones that matter because they make up The Elite.
The Elite is a group of men who have come together to run everything. They’re bosses who have had the opportunity to stake a claim in the school and are in charge of who is accepted, who isn’t, and everything that goes on in the college. There are twelve of them in total, all from different locations. There are three Italian, Russian, Polish, and Irish members—the most powerful family of each location. The main areas are Chicago, New York, and Las Vegas.
Not only are they in charge of who gets accepted into the school, but they also dole out punishments to the ones who step out of line. Punishments are given based on the offense made. But there’s a loophole. Any murder or maiming that happens on Atlantic University soil is not punishable by death because it’s neutral ground. That’s not to say that they won’t be punished, though.
The school’s housing is also divided by countries to avoid conflict, considering that many of our families are enemies. The Italians and Russians have their own houses on campus, similar to frat houses, and we all have our name for our groups, which is also the name of our house. The Russians areD’yavolo, and that’s also the name of their house, and we, the Italians, areDemoni. I personally don’t live in one of the houses, instead, my father bought a house at the edge of campus that is technically still Atlantic U soil, just away from everyone else. My friends and I live there, thanks to Matteo DeLuca and his controlling ways. He wants to know that I’m not drinking and partying anymore. I should care; in fact, I should be outraged that he’s trying to control me to this level, but I honestly just don’t.
I checked out of caring six months ago when my little brother, Andrea, was killed. Now I just survive, put my head down, and go about life. I get through it one day at a time. The only thing that saves me right now, that makes me feel alive, is dance. And sometimes, on certain days, seeing Nikolai Pavlov in the crowd of students sitting in my business classroom.
My dream one day is to become a ballet teacher, maybe after being a Prima Ballerina for some time. But it’s important to me to finish college first, as I never know what could happen. Ballerinas can have injuries, and I need something to fall back on in the event that a tragedy happens. And it would be my bad luck, because tragedy has been following me around since I was seventeen years old.
So, in the hopes of achieving all my dreams, I’ve taken up business to learn how to have my own. I want my own studio one day, and the only way to make that happen is by having at least basic knowledge on how to run more than just the dance side of it. I don’t expect to have any help from my family, although if I make my trust fund last, I could live off it for many decades to come.
But now, as I sit here in my business class, taking out my notebook and pens—because I color code my notes—my biggest nightmare steps in through the door and smiles at me. A smile so bright my heart nearly stops in my chest. As if the last time we spoke hadn’t traumatized me. Like he didn’t break my heart beyond repair. And yet he has the audacity to walk right up to me and plop down on the chair right next to mine. He puts up the little desk attached to the chair and looks at me. I feel his gaze burning my face, but I don’t dare turn toward him. Instead, I keep my eyes forward and try to ignore him.
It’s difficult to ignore Nikolai Pavlov, though. His presence fills the room like nothing I’ve ever felt before, except maybe through my entire teenage years, when he was everything to me. Now his scent taunts me, sandalwood and vanilla, filling my nostrils until I want to cry from how much I miss it. Him.
Nikolai taps his pen against his desk, annoying me, and I huff. I glance over at him and roll my eyes, “Could you please stop that?” I ask calmly, and he smirks. “You’re distracting me.”
“I’m sure that’s not the reason why you’re distracted.” His voice is deeper than I remember. His body is different too. He’s broader, stronger. Built like a man, not the boy that I knew. Even his jaw looks stronger, more chiseled. His lips fuller. His eyes prettier. Maybe I’m just imagining things. His black hair still falls over his eyes when he looks down, and his silver eyes still have that black freckle on the right one.
“Why are you here, Nikolai?” I ask him with a shaky voice, trying not to cry, trying not to remember the last time we spoke. The hurtful things he said. “We haven’t talked in three years.”
“I’m aware.” He says coolly. “You look like shit, Camilla.” My heart clenches in my chest briefly at the way he pronounces my name, the way he always used to. I loved it so much. Now, it just hurts.
I know I look like shit, unfortunately. It’s kind of hard to care about my appearance lately, although I’m still making sure to be presentable. But today? The one day he notices me? I’m just wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt with a messy bun on top of my head. He should be used to it; this is exactly what I would wear after the dance studio when we met up, only now he’s using it against me to make me feel bad about myself. Go figure. “Thanks. I guess that is what happens when your brother gets killed.”
I look at him briefly, just quick enough to see his cringe and the hard set of his jaw. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be.” I raise my chin, “That was fucked up.”
