My fingers brush over the crest and I laugh. Mafia families hate each other yet send us to the same school.
These four years will be long.
I smooth invisible wrinkles out of my skirt. The tie strangles my throat, but I keep it tight. Punishment. A reminder. The ring on my finger glints under the light, too bright, like it’s laughing at me.
I get in the car, trading one prison for another, the latter being marriage. The drive’s short. Hollow Edge blurs past as Blackstone swells ahead.
We stop just outside the gates, where all the students slowly exit their cars. They make you walk through the gates to feel the building’s power.
I step out. The air thickens, chills. Blackstone looms ahead. Every step toward the building feels heavier, the closer I get, themore I feel it, the history, the power. Shadows whisper names to see who flinches. I do.
I pass through the gates and pause at the base of the stone staircase, tilting my head back. The archways above the main doors are lined with gargoyles. Watching, waiting for their next victim. The stairs gleam dark and slick, as if blood has washed over them more than soap.
Walking inside, the air shifts again.
Candles flicker in black sconces. Chandeliers sway. The grand staircase, oak and iron, wide enough for an army. It rises to a landing where stained-glass filters light like confession. The stairs hum with memory. I ache to know their history.
I force myself to move. Step by step. Breath by breath.
Students file in around me, their voices a low murmur. I keep my head down, ears open. I hear names in sharp accents, O'Connell, Vasilyeva, Moretti, Harper, Zhang. Mafia blood. Dynasty blood.
Every crime family has a representative—Irish, Italian, Russian, Middle Eastern, Korean. Everyone is someone or owned by someone.
But the rules? The rules are ironclad. No fights in public. No blood in the halls. No retaliation without permission.
You want to survive Blackstone? You follow the rules. I don’t know what happens if you break them, because I’ve not heard of anyone who dared to.
I keep moving with the flow of students, heading toward the registrar’s booth at the far side of the entry hall. I feel someone staring.
I see him.
Across the corridor, half in shadow, wearing the uniform, tie loose, shirt open enough to show the chain at his throat. Rolled sleeves showing his tattooed arms, matte black watch. Effortlessly disheveled. Matteo Messina.
My heart stutters, slams. He’s watching me.
I look away fast, fixing my gaze on the front of the line. My pulse screams behind my ribs. The weight of the ring on my finger feels like lead. I force myself to breathe, to move, to pretend like I didn’t just feel the ground tilt under my feet.
He’s the enemy. Always has been. Always will be.
Even if I wasn’t engaged, he’s the last person I should be looking at. Yet… he looked at me first. At least that’s what I’m going to tell myself.
I walk over to the board where the other students are standing around. Above are letters, and I go to the one for the letter O, and I scan it until I find my name: Aoife O’Brien – Room 317B. Paired with: Nora Quinn.
Quinn. I know the name. Lower-level Irish crew, dock shipment family. Not high-tier like mine, but still part of the structure. I’ve never spoken to her.
I head toward the dormitory halls, following a group of girls climbing another staircase. Everything in this building creaks, but not with age, more like a warning. The corridor stretches ahead, mirrors warped from age bending our reflections into strangers. Brass numbers cling to each door, old and dull, like they’ve survived things no one speaks about.
I find our room and push the door open. Dark and cold. Stone and old perfume. A single narrow window. Two iron beds. Scarred desks. Walls stained with unsaid stories.
Nora’s already here, sitting cross-legged on her bed, unpacking books.
She looks up. “Aoife?”
“Yes.”
“I figured.” She doesn’t smile, but there’s no hate in her voice. Just calm recognition. “I’m Nora,” she says. “We’ve never met, but our dads did business once. I think yours took over that whole port line after.”
I nod, unsure what to say. “You’re Quinn Shipping?” I ask.
