Mara
I sit in the back row of the lecture hall. It is the furthest point from the door. It is the furthest point from the professor. It is supposed to be the safest spot in the room.
"Introduction to Ethics."
The irony is not lost on me. I am the daughter of a man who orders hits over Sunday gravy. I am studying the moral philosophy of right and wrong. It feels like a joke. A cosmic prank.
I stare at the syllabus. I am trying to focus on the words. Kant. Utilitarianism. Moral Imperatives.
"Is this seat taken?"
The voice is low. It vibrates through the wooden desk. It vibrates through my spine.
I do not need to look up. I know that voice. I heard it yesterday in the orientation hall. It whispered *Welcome to hell* in my ear.
I keep my eyes on the paper.
"Yes," I say. "It is taken."
"By who?"
"By my desire to be left alone."
"That sounds lonely."
There is a creak of wood. Denim shifts against the seat. A heat radiates from the space beside me. He sat down anyway.
I turn my head slowly.
Dante is sitting there. He is leaning back in the chair. He looks too big for the desk. His legs are sprawled out. He is wearing the same black leather jacket. He looks like he walked out of a mugshot and into an Ivy League classroom.
He is smirking.
"I thought I made it clear," I say. My voice is a whisper. "I am not looking for trouble."
"Neither am I," Dante says. He opens a notebook. It is empty. He doesn't even have a pen. "I am just here for the education. Ethics. Very important."
"You don't look like an Ethics student."
"And you don't look like an art student," he counters. He turns to face me. His eyes are dark. They are laughing at me. "But here we are. Pretending."
My heart skips a beat. He is pushing. He wants me to slip up.
"I'm not pretending," I say.
"Liar."
The word hangs between us. It is soft. Intimate.
"What is your family business, Dante?" I ask. I keep my face neutral. "Since you seem to know so much about mine."
He pauses. He taps a finger on the desk.
"Import. Export," he says. "Olive oil. Textiles. That sort of thing."
"Ah," I say. "Logistics."
"Exactly. Logistics. Moving things from point A to point B without anyone asking questions." He leans closer. "And yours?"
"Waste management," I lie. It is the classic cliché.
Dante laughs. It is a genuine sound. It turns a few heads in the front row.
"Waste management," he repeats. "Cleaning up messes?"
"Something like that."
"You must be good at it."
"I am very thorough."
"I bet you are."
His gaze drops to my lips. Then back to my eyes. The air in the room gets hot. Stifling.
"Class has started," I say. I turn back to the front.
"Run away if you want, Mara," he whispers. "But we are in the same class now. You can't avoid me forever."
"Watch me."
We sit in silence for the next hour. But it is not a peaceful silence. It is heavy. Every time he shifts, I feel it. Every time he breathes, I hear it. He is a gravitational pull. I am fighting to stay in orbit.
The bell rings. It is a relief.
I pack my bag in three seconds. I am out of the seat before the professor finishes his sentence.
"So fast," Dante calls out behind me.
I ignore him. I head for the door. I push through the crowd of slow-moving freshmen. I need air. I need space. I need to recalibrate my threat assessment. Dante Vancini is a variable I did not account for.
I burst out into the hallway. The corridor is crowded. I keep my head down. I walk fast.
"Hey! Picasso!"
A hand clamps onto my shoulder.
My reflex is instant. I grab the wrist. I twist.
"Ow! Hey!"
I stop myself. I do not break the wrist. I just hold it. Tight.
I look up.
It is Brad Sterling. The blonde senior from yesterday. The one who shoved the freshman.
He is looking at me with a mixture of pain and annoyance.
"Let go," he says.
I drop his hand. I step back.
"Don't touch me," I say.
Brad rubs his wrist. He laughs. It is that same hollow, barking laugh.
"Feisty," he says. "I like that. Most girls would kill for a touch from the President of the Syndicate."
"The what?"
"The Syndicate," Brad says. He puffs out his chest. He adjusts the collar of his polo shirt. "The premier fraternity on campus. We run this school, sweetheart. Nothing happens here without our say-so."
"Congratulations," I say. "You run a school. That must look great on a resume."
His smile falters. His eyes narrow.
"You have a smart mouth," he says. "For a nobody."
"I have a class to get to, Brad."
I try to step around him. He steps in front of me. He blocks my path. He is looming over me. He thinks he is intimidation. He is just a nuisance.
"You don't get it," Brad says. He leans against the lockers. He traps me. "You are new. You are an art major. That makes you prey. You need protection. You need friends in high places."
"And let me guess," I say. "You are the high place."
"I can be," he says. He reaches out. He runs a finger down my arm.
My skin crawls. I want to snap his finger off. I want to put him through the drywall.
"Stop touching me," I say. My voice is ice.
"Or what?" Brad sneers. "You'll paint me a mean picture?"
"Or she will break your arm."
The voice comes from behind Brad. It is deep. Calm. Terrifying.
Brad spins around.
Dante is standing there. He is leaning against the opposite wall. His arms are crossed. He looks bored. But his eyes are fixed on Brad's hand.
"Who are you?" Brad demands.
"Dante."
"I didn't ask for your name, pledge. I asked who you are."
Dante pushes off the wall. He takes one step. He is taller than Brad. Broader. He carries a darkness that Brad's country club money can't buy.
"I am the guy who is going to make you regret waking up this morning," Dante says. "If you don't take a step back."
Brad hesitates. He looks at Dante. Then he looks at his own friends, who are snickering down the hall. He has an audience. He can't back down.
"You think you're tough?" Brad laughs. "You're a freshman. You're nothing."
"Try me," Dante says.
Brad swallows. He senses it. The violence rolling off Dante in waves.
"Whatever," Brad says. He turns back to me. He tries to recover his dignity. "Look. We are having a mixer tonight. A rush event. At the Syndicate house. It's exclusive. Invite only."
He pulls a black card from his pocket. He tucks it into the strap of my bag.
"Come by," Brad says. He winks. It is repulsive. "See how the real elite live. Maybe if you beg, I'll let you join."
He looks at Dante.
"You can come too, tough guy," Brad sneers. "If you have the guts. But don't cry when we haze you until you quit."
"Hazing," Dante says. He smiles. It is a sharp, dangerous thing. "Sounds like fun."
"8 PM," Brad says. "Don't be late."
He shoves past Dante. He walks away, his friends high-fiving him as if he just won a battle. He has no idea he just invited a wolf into the sheep pen.
Dante watches him go. Then he turns to me.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
"I had it handled," I say.
"I know," Dante says. "I saw your hand twitch. You were going for the ulnar nerve."
"He was annoying."
"He is a cockroach," Dante says. He looks at the black card in my bag. "Are you going?"
"To a frat party?" I scoff. "I would rather stick needles in my eyes."
"It's the Syndicate," Dante says. "The 'criminal underworld' of the campus. Aren't you curious?"
"Curious about what? A bunch of rich kids playing gangster?"
"Exactly," Dante says. His eyes gleam. "I want to see it. I want to see what they think power looks like."
"You are going?"
"I accepted the invitation, didn't I?"
I look at him. He looks excited. Not like a student going to a party. Like a predator going to a hunt.
"If you go," I say, "you will get into trouble. Brad is looking for a fight."
"I am counting on it," Dante says.
He steps closer. He plucks the card from my bag. He reads the address.
"Come with me, Mara."
It is not a command. It is a challenge.
"Why?" I ask.
"Because you are bored," he says. "I can see it in your eyes. You are bored of pretending to be normal. You are bored of classes. You are bored of people like Brad."
He is right. God, he is right.
"And," he adds, his voice dropping an octave, "I think you want to see what happens when I lose my temper."
My breath hitches.
I do.
I want to see him in action. I want to see the mask slip. I want to know if he is as dangerous as I think he is.
"Fine," I say. I snatch the card back. "I will go. But only to watch you embarrass yourself."
Dante grins.
"Wear something you can move in, sweetheart," he says. "I have a feeling it is going to be a long night."
He turns and walks away.
I watch him go. My blood is humming. My heart is racing.
I am Mara Mancini. I should be studying art. I should be invisible.
But tonight, I am going to walk into the lion's den with a monster.
And I can't wait.
