I nod once. “She’s scared,” I admit. The word tastes weak. “She trusts me. I need that to mean something. She’s been getting messages too.”
Milo straightens. “Messages?”
“She told me last night. No name, no number. They disappear after she reads them. Anything on the gossip site, Rosa?”
“Nothing posted,” she says. “If anyone knew, it’d be all over by now.”
Marco tosses the apple again, catches it. “So, who the hell is it?”
“I don’t know.” I crush the cigarette in the tray. “Whoever they are, they’re smart. Know how to cover tracks.”
“Someone inside?” Milo asks.
“Maybe.” I rake my hand through my hair. “So, we keep quiet. No one else knows until I talk to Grandfather.”
“Speaking of plans,” Marco says. “How are you getting her out this weekend? Conor’s glued to her.”
“I’ll find a way. Maybe through alliance training. Leo might run interference.”
“And if he won’t?” Rosa’s voice is soft.
“Then I lie. But he’ll help.”
The silence that follows is heavy, less judgment, more worry. The kind that comes from loyalty.
“She’s really in this deep?” Milo asks. “You are too?”
I nod once.
But inside, everything spins.
If I don’t get this right, we’re not risking love.
We’re risking blood.
The airin the classroom hangs heavy, buzzing faint under tired lights.
I slump in the back corner, elbow on the desk, counting seconds. Marco taps his pen in a rhythm that drills behind my eyes. Milo’s half-asleep, hood up like he’s plotting an escape. The teacher’s voice blurs. I haven’t heard a word in forty-five minutes.
I’m watching her.
Aoife sits front row, posture straight, mask in place. Conor leans in too close, whispering something that makes her jaw tighten. Her arms lock across her chest like armor.
Whatever he’s saying, she hates it. My hand curls under the desk, fist tight enough to ache.
Marco notices. “Stop staring before you combust.”
Milo’s voice drifts through a yawn. “She looks pissed.”
The bell rings. Chairs scrape, bags zip. Aoife’s the first up, slipping past Conor before he can grab her. I track her until the door closes.
“Come on,” Marco says, stretching. “Let’s get out before my brain dies.”
“Garden?” Milo asks.
“Yeah.” Marco kicks my boot. “Move.”
We push through the corridor into sunlight. The garden hums with laughter and gossip. Ricci and Remo argue over a street race while Remo tosses grapes into Santino’s mouth.
