It’s strange how fast you can go from the edge of death to the center of a party.
Hollow Hills always throws the unofficial “start of term” get-together for the students of Blackstone Academy. This year, like every year, is invite-only, and this year, like every year, no one says the wordmafia.
We see each other’s rings. Our family crests. Our names whispered like threats.
I walk toward the fire in the middle of the field. Clusters split by blood: Russians at the rocks, Italians on the benches, the Irish with our backs to the trees.
I don’t belong with any of them.
I never have.
Not even with Cillian and Conor, my cousins, who nod like we’re on the same side.
We’re not.
They know what Uncle Liam did. They know what he’s promised me to.
And they don’t care.
I don’t stop at the edge of the firelight. I keep moving, aiming for the drinking table, somewhere I can hide and maybe warm my fingers.
I feel eyes on me. Not just watching me; weighing, measuring. The girl from the cliffs. The O’Brien girl with the haunted eyes and the ugly ring.
I look up, and there he is again. Matteo. Leaning against a black car, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other. Shirt half open, necklace gleaming, tattoos crawling from his sleeves. His brothers flank him, mirror images except for their ink.
His eyes catch mine. No smile, he only watches.
Like he’s still hunting.
I tear away, pour vodka into a cup, and throw it back. It burns, but not as much as the fire still crawling under my skin.
I don’t know how I’ll survive Blackstone Academy.
But I know one thing.
Matteo Messina is the last boy I should ever speak to again.
So why does it already feel like he’ll be the reason I don’t survive?
Chapter 2
Matteo
Confession is for the guilty.
In my family, we don’t confess.
We kneel for show.
We pray because tradition says so.
We tuck our sins into rosaries and stitch them into our suits.
The stained-glass saints watch from above. They always do
This church has seen worse, but nothing bloodier than my parents’ wedding. A day meant for champagne ended in blood, after the O’Briens attacked on holy grounds. Instead of winning, they started a war. Not only did they attack my parents' wedding day, they killed my grandmother.
I lean back, the pew creaking under my shoulders. The church smells of wax, incense, and control, the Messina scent. I roll the beads slowly, though I haven’t prayed without sarcasm since I was fourteen, but it makes my mother happy.
