I had survived betrayal, ambushes, poison, and fire.
But even knowing that, the Black Veil Academy radiated a different kind of threat.
The car slowed to a stop.
My driver opened the door, gloved hands precise, almost reverent.
I stepped out, boots crunching against the gravel.
The air was colder here, carrying hints of pine resin from the surrounding forest and the faint metallic tang of discipline.
This wasn’t just a place to train.
It was a place that demanded transformation.
A crucible where the sharpest, deadliest men of the European underworld had been forged, honed into weapons before the world even knew they existed.
And today, for the first time, I would step inside.
The academy rested on its own jagged islet, a place so remote that even the Italian government’s satellites seemed to forget it existed.
The Black Veil didn’t just train fighters.
It created ghosts. And nightmares.
No one left without scars.
I swallowed, tasting the bitter edge of anxiety and excitement at the same time.
My hands rested at my sides, trying to seem calm, but my fingers itched, and my muscles twitched with that old instinct—the one that had kept me alive for eighteen years.
Survive first.
Calculate second.
And never, ever look like prey.
Everything demanded submission.
As we approached the main gate of the academy, the car’s engine hummed low behind us, its black frame receding into the gravel driveway like a shadow being swallowed.
Before I could even reach the threshold, a soldier—one of the guards stationed at the entrance—stepped out of the security post, holding a small biometric scanner embedded in the cold metal of the gate.
“Fingerprint,” he said, almost casually.
I pressed my finger against the smooth pad, feeling a faint electric pulse ripple up my arm.
A soft green light blinked once, twice, and the heavy iron gates groaned as they slid open.
The scanner confirmed I had permission to enter—permission I had not yet fully earned, but permission granted because of Vincenzo’s name, his authority, and the invisible weight of the Society pressing behind it.
We stepped onto the compound together, the gravel crunching under our boots.
And then I realized something.
My escort wasn’t behind me anymore.
I glanced over my shoulder, and the car was gone.
