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I promised myself I will keep myself busy while at work and only focus on finding my father’s murderer in my private time. And today is the day my plan slowly comes into play. I’ve come to Black Mountain for a reason. And I’ll make sure it’s not a wasted opportunity.
Back at the front of the class, I take out the textbook and place it on my desk along with a notebook and a couple of pens. The register with the names of the students lies waiting for me, but I don’t pick it up. Not yet. I want to learn about them before I see their names. Something about judging people just by the family name doesn’t sit well with me. Even though it’s how I was raised, I never want to do it to my class.
My father always made sure he knew who my friends were. Last names meant more to us than anything else. And loyalty was a currency we had to barter with, even if we hated each other. The rules we learned as children were so strict it felt as if we were imprisoned, but it was all our father could do to keep us safe.
At college, things changed. I had moved away from being a Donati in Miami and instead became a student nobody knew. And Black Mountain has become a town I can find myself in. Where I can learn who I really am.
The door creaks open as the loud, chattering students file into class, some still staring at phone screens, others focused on their friends, yet others rushing through the entrance to grab a desk of choice. Chastising myself for not having time to look at the folder, I shove it into my drawer for later.
I move to the exit once everyone has seated themselves. I’m about to shut the door when a student crashes into me, slamming right into my chest. When I look down, I note how small she is. Delicate. Possibly five-five, which puts her chest height with me. Her hair is a golden blonde, like honey, hanging in waves down her back. Her head tips upward. Eyes the color of granite peek up at me from under long lashes.
There’s a hint of makeup on her eyelids when she blinks, a soft blue. The winged liner that frames those orbs of gray makes her expression seem cat-like. But it’s her plump lips that capture my attention. They shimmer with pinpricks of glitter when she smiles shyly.
“I-I’m s-sorry, I-I couldn’t find the class.” Her soft voice lures me into a net, and I step back as if she’s electrocuted me. What the fuck? “Mr. Donati? This is history, right?”
Finding my voice, I grit out, “Yes, take a seat.” Familiarity hits me right in the chest because I have a feeling the folder in my drawer is all about her. I didn’t think she’d be in my class. Of all the fucking rooms in this school, she’s in mine.
She lowers her head before scurrying into the room. The scent of her perfume lingers. A hint of strawberries catches my nose. I could inhale her fragrance all day and night. The realization catches me off guard, and I slam the door shut. The resounding thud brings instant silence in the room, and all eyes are on me.
It’s what my father always wanted from us. I was taught from a young age that children must not be heard. Turning to face the class, I give them a moment to settle, books out, eyes locked on me at the front of the room.
“I hope you’re all well versed in writing papers, because I have something for you today,” I tell them. “In this classroom, we will be talking about topics you may not be interested in, but you will be graded on your time spent in this room, on your papers you hand in, and the exams you write.” I turn, picking up a piece of chalk and do what I’ve seen teachers and professors do when they’re introducing themselves—I write my name in large, scrawled script on the blackboard.
Glancing at the class, I immediately seek her out. The walking disaster I’m drawn to. She’s tempting, taunting me with her innocent expression. Undeniable energy crackles through me, through the room. It’s as if she were the sun and I were Icarus, and at any moment, I would burst into flames from her heat.
“For your first assignment,” I start, allowing a grin to grace my expression as the groans of annoyance rumble through the classroom. “I want you each to tell me why you think history is so important to the modern world. A short paper, two thousand words. And I want it done by tomorrow when you walk through that door.” I point at the entrance before pinning her with a steely glare. “On time.”
