“Hey,” Marco pulls me away from my thoughts of her. “Still thinking about her?”
I don’t answer. Because yes I am.
“Have some fun. No one will find out,” Milo jokes.
I shake my head. Fun with the enemy? Not happening. I let my thoughts wander again, maybe not the best thing, but I can’t stop thinking about her.
What kind of girl stands on a cliff flirting with death?
And why the fuck do I care?
We sit, smoke, and listen to the wind’s howl a while longer before calling it a night.
The timetable thuddedonto my desk in the early hours of the morning. Neat lines, cold structure, every hour accounted for. I need to tell Leo, never enter my room without knocking. I could be with a woman or naked.
The timetable, Blackstone’s way to dress chaos in a suit and call it curriculum, the one we follow in the day; by evening, polite Blackstone disappears.
The underground wakes. We descend in silence, Marco, Milo, Rosa, and me through the hidden, reinforced, blood-scanned panel near the west library arch. Only legacy students know it, only families know why.
Rosa walks between us, chin high, jaw set. She never flinches or asks for help. She became strong, loyalty binds both ways.
Down the spiral stairs through rock, the air thickens. History sits in every crack. This isn’t where we train, it's where we’re made.
The Italian Wing opens like a well-kept secret, sleek black leather, burnished gold lines, polished steel fixtures. Minimalist, brutal, perfect. In the center: a long oak table, a beast. Grandfather sat there. Father bled on it. Uncles broke bones on it.
We’re next.
Leo waits; family friend, practically family. Built like a brick wall, military posture. Every family has men who train their kids. We have Leo.
His voice is gravel and war drums. “Tonight’s assessment. We sharpen what you are, then teach you what you’re not.” He nods and we sit.
Leo paces. “Matteo, hand-to-hand. You know how to fight. We’ll teach you how to end it faster. Marco… systems. Surveillance. Infiltration. Shut them down before they ever speak. Milo… blades. Silent and precise. I want your hands to be faster than a thought.” He pauses, eyes flicking to Rosa. “And you, you fight. Defensive. You don’t leave this place without being able to kill if needed.”
“Good?” Leo asks, but not sure it’s a question to be answered. “That’s how it starts.”
Each family has their own space. Their own way.
The Irish Wing is loud. Whiskey and blood in the walls. Training by fire. They teach you to hit first, and then again. Respect is taken, not given.
The Russians train like it’s a chess match where every move kills. The silence in their space is heavier than our iron doors.
Cartel kids train in smoke. The Triads don’t even speak during drills. You never hear them coming until it’s too late.
But all roads lead to the Circle.
The fighting ring, center of the underground. Raised and circular, the one place we all share where names are spoken and fights follow contracts. No chaos, no revenge. Just the fight, ending one way, submission, blackout, or blood on stone.
After training,my shirt clings to my back. My muscles hum. I crack my knuckles as we step out of the Italian chamber.Milo’s muttering something about Leo trying to break his wrist. Marco’s complaining about the network server speed.
Me? I loved every second of it. I loved punching the bag, I loved punching the wall. Not one complaint, fucking loved it.
I light a cigarette and lean against one of the stone pillars, watching some of the other families slowly coming out of the chambers, the seniors who are training us are still around, they always will be.
They know a fight can break at any moment. One thing Father has taught us, watch. Watch everything and strike at the right moment.
As I continue to watch the others talking, laughing, that’s when I see her.
Aoife.
