My voice hardened.
"It was all a game. And deadly serious."
I took a breath, steeling myself for what came next.
"Near the end of ninth grade, one of my teammates killed himself."
Mila's eyes filled with tears, but she held my gaze.
"His name was Giovanni," I said. "We called him Gio. Beast of a kid. Fourteen years old and built like a professional linebacker. Coaches said he'd go pro for sure. That he was the future of the program."
My throat tightened.
"But Gio had the mind of a poet. The heart of a protector. He used to write in this little journal he kept hidden under his mattress. Wrote about his little sister back home. About how he was doing this for her. So she could have a better life."
I paused, the memory sharp and cutting.
"When he died, something in me changed. Broke, maybe. Or woke up. I don't know."
I met Mila's eyes.
"But it also brought me my new family. Eight other boys who felt the same way I did. Who were tired of pretending everything was fine. Who wanted out but didn't know how to get there."
I described the late-night meetings. The whispered conversations after curfew. The way we'd cover for each other, protect each other, hold each other together when the weight got too heavy.
"They became my confidants," I said. "My brothers. The only people who understood what it was like to live in that hell every day."
I paused, checking her face.
She was still with me. Tears on her cheeks, but present. Listening. Holding my hand like it was the only thing keeping me tethered.
"They were there when my parents died," I said quietly. "House fire. Middle of my junior year. I was seventeen."
Mila's breath caught.
"Faulty wiring, they said. Ironic, considering my dad was an electrician. The whole building went up. Four families. All dead. No one made it out."
My voice was flat now, emotionless. The only way I could get through it.
"My brothers held me together when I couldn't hold myself. Sat with me through the funeral. Made sure I ate. Made sure I didn't do something stupid."
I swallowed hard.
"Without them, I don't know if I would've survived that year."
Mila's hand tightened on mine, and I drew strength from it.
"With my friends, we didn't just protect each other," I continued. "We started comparing notes. Gathering intel, even though we didn't really know what that meant at the time. We paid attention to who came and went. What the coaches said when they thought we weren't listening. Where the money was going."
I met her eyes.
"And we figured it out."
I let the words hang there for a moment.
"St. Paul's wasn't just an athletic academy," I said. "It was a grooming school. A place where boys with skill and potential were turned into soldiers for organized crime. Made men. Like in the mafia movies, if you can believe that."
Her eyes went wide, but she didn't pull away.
