Dante
The sign on the door says "Members Only".
I almost laugh. The bouncer is a sophomore with acne and a clip-on tie. He holds his hand up like he is stopping traffic.
"Name?" he grunts.
"Dante," I say.
He checks a list on a clipboard. He frowns. He traces the line with his finger.
"You aren't on the list."
"Check again."
"I checked. You aren't..."
I step into his personal space. I don't touch him. I just let the air drop a few degrees. I let him see the boredom in my eyes.
"Check. Again."
He swallows. He looks down. Suddenly my name appears in his mind, if not on the paper.
"Oh. Yeah. There it is. Go in."
"Good boy," I say.
I walk past him.
Inside, the house smells like stale beer and cheap cigars. They are trying so hard. There are velvet ropes. There are guys in suits that don't fit. There is jazz music playing, but it is a loop of the same three songs. It is a costume party.
"This is tragic," I mutter to myself.
I grab a drink from a passing tray. It is warm champagne in a plastic flute.
I scan the room. I am not looking for Brad. I am looking for her. The girl with the reflexes. I know who she is. I knew the moment I saw her move in the orientation hall. Mara Mancini.
My father has a file on her father. I memorized it when I was twelve. *Mancini. Volatile. Old school. Dangerous daughter.* The file said she was skilled. It did not say she was breathtaking.
I spot her near the fireplace. She took my advice. She isn't wearing the floral sundress anymore. She is wearing black. Sleek. Dangerous. It hugs her frame like a second skin. She looks like a weapon sheathed in silk.
I walk over.
"You came," I say.
She doesn't jump. She turns slowly. She sips her drink. She grimaces.
"This tastes like vinegar," she says.
"It is the best five dollars can buy," I say.
"I thought you said this would be entertaining, Dante."
"Look around," I say. "Is it not?"
She follows my gaze. A group of guys in the corner are arguing about who has the most expensive watch. One of them is holding a cigar he doesn't know how to cut. He is chewing the tip.
"It is pathetic," she says.
"It is adorable," I correct. "They are roleplaying."
"They are deluded."
"That is what makes it fun," I say. "They think they are sharks. They are goldfish in a tank."
"And what are we?" she asks.
She looks up at me. Her eyes are light brown, flecked with gold. Intelligent. Guarded.
"We are the cats watching the bowl," I say.
"I am not a cat," she says. "I am an art student."
"Right," I say. "And I am a logistics major."
"Are you going to keep doing that?"
"Doing what?"
"Looking at me like you know something I don't."
"I know a lot of things you don't," I say.
"Arrogant."
"Observant."
I lean against the mantle. I am close enough to smell her perfume. Jasmine. Gunpowder? No, just jasmine. But the imaginary scent of gunpowder lingers around her.
"Why did you come, Mara?"
"Brad invited me."
"You hate Brad."
"I hate mosquitoes too," she says. "But sometimes you have to watch where they land before you swat them."
"Violent," I say. "For an art student."
"I have a passion for restoration. Sometimes you have to scrape away the dirt to see the picture."
"Brad is the dirt?"
"Brad is the mold."
I laugh. It surprises me. I haven't laughed this much in years. Usually, my life is briefings and silence.
"So," I say. "What is the plan? Are we going to mingle? Or are we going to stand here and judge?"
"I prefer judging."
"Me too."
"Look at that one," she says. She nods toward the bar.
A guy is trying to spin a cocktail shaker. It flies out of his hand and hits a lamp.
"Smooth," I say.
"Deadly," she says.
"I bet he tells people he runs the numbers for the organization."
"I bet he can't even count to ten," she says.
We stand there, trading insults about the room. It is easy. It is rhythmic. Then the music cuts out. A spotlight hits the top of the staircase.
"Showtime," I whisper.
Brad Sterling steps out. He is wearing a white tuxedo jacket. It is ridiculous. He looks like a waiter on a cruise ship. He is holding a microphone.
"Welcome," Brad booms. "To the Sanctum."
"The Sanctum?" Mara whispers. "Please."
"Shh," I say. "The King is speaking."
"Gentlemen," Brad says. He descends the stairs. "And ladies. Selected ladies."
He winks at a group of blondes in the front row. They giggle.
"You are here because we chose you," Brad says. "The Syndicate is not just a fraternity. We are a brotherhood. We are the invisible hand that guides this university."
"He stole that line from a movie," I say.
"Which one?" Mara asks.
"All of them."
"We control the grades," Brad says. "We control the parties. We control the flow of... goods."
He pauses for dramatic effect.
"If you want to be one of us," Brad says, "you have to prove you have the stones."
He reaches the bottom of the stairs. The crowd parts for him. He walks through them like he is parting the Red Sea. He stops in front of us. He looks at me. His lip curls.
"You showed up," Brad says.
"I hate to miss a party," I say.
"And you brought the art project," Brad says. He looks at Mara.
"Hello, Brad," Mara says.
"You clean up nice," Brad says. He steps closer to her. He is invading her space again. "I didn't know you owned a dress that wasn't covered in paint."
"I have many hidden talents," Mara says.
"I bet you do," Brad says. His eyes drop to her chest. He licks his lips. It is a subtle, disgusting movement. "Maybe later you can show me. Private showing? In my room?"
The air around me turns red. Rage. Pure, white-hot rage. It surges through my veins. My fist clenches. I calculate the distance to his jaw. I could shatter it. I could drive the bone into his brain. It would be instant. I shift my weight. I am about to move.
Then I see it.
Mara's hand is on the table next to her. There is a steak knife on a plate. A sharp, serrated blade. Her fingers are hovering over the handle. Her pinky finger twitches.
She isn't scared. She is calculating. She is measuring the angle. Up under the ribcage? Or straight into the thigh?
She is going to stab him. And she is going to do it right here, in front of fifty witnesses.
The realization hits me like a bucket of ice water. It douses my rage instantly. She doesn't need saving. She is the predator here. I have to stop her. Not to save her, but to keep her from blowing her cover. And mine.
I step forward. I block her view of Brad. I break the line of sight.
"So," I say, loudly. "Brad. The speech was moving. Really. I almost cried."
Brad blinks. He looks at me. He is annoyed that I interrupted his flirting.
"What do you want, Dante?"
"I want to know about the test," I say. "You said we have to prove ourselves."
Mara's hand relaxes. She slides her fingers away from the knife. She looks at me. Her eyes are questioning. *Why did you stop me?* *Because we are playing a game,* I look back.
Brad straightens his jacket. He forgets about Mara for a second. His ego is too big to resist a challenge.
"The test," Brad says. "Right."
He looks around the room. He wants an audience.
"Listen up, pledges!" Brad shouts.
The room goes silent.
"These two," Brad points at us. "Think they are special. They think they can just walk in here and drink our champagne."
"It is warm," I point out.
"Shut up," Brad snaps. "You want to be Syndicate? You have to earn it."
"Name the price," I say.
"Not money," Brad says. "We have money. We want loyalty. We want risk."
He grins. It is a malicious look.
"The Dean of Students," Brad says. "Dean Miller. He has a vintage Rolex. A Submariner. He keeps it in a display case in his office. He loves that watch more than his wife."
"Okay," I say.
"I want it," Brad says.
"You want us to buy you a watch?" Mara asks.
"I want you to steal it," Brad says.
The crowd gasps. The drama is working.
"Tonight," Brad says. "His office is in the administration building. Top floor. Alarm systems. Cameras. Security guards on patrol."
He leans in.
"It is impossible," Brad whispers. "Nobody has ever cracked Miller's office. The last pledge who tried got expelled and arrested."
"And if we get it?" I ask.
"If you get it," Brad laughs. "If you walk back through those doors with Miller's Rolex... you are in. Automatically. Top tier. No hazing."
He looks at Mara.
"And you, sweetheart," he says. "If you get it, I will personally apologize for being rude."
"I don't want your apology," Mara says.
"Then what do you want?"
"I want your office," she says.
The room goes deadly silent. Brad's face turns red.
"Excuse me?"
"If we bring you the watch," Mara says, her voice calm, "I want your chair. At the head of the table. For one meeting."
Brad stares at her. Then he bursts out laughing.
"Deal!" he shouts. "You have a snowball's chance in hell, honey. But sure. If you pull off the heist of the century, you can sit in my chair."
He looks at me.
"What about you, tough guy? You in?"
I look at the steak knife on the table. Then I look at Mara. She is smiling. It is a small, terrifying smile.
"Oh, I am in," I say.
"Good," Brad says. "You have until midnight."
He checks his own watch.
"That gives you three hours. Better get running."
"We won't need three hours," I say.
"Cocky," Brad says. "I like it. It makes the failure sweeter."
He turns his back on us. He goes back to his group of sycophants. They are laughing. They think they just sent us to our execution.
I turn to Mara.
"Stealing a watch," I say. "How original."
"The Dean's office," she says. "That is the building with the brick facade on the quad?"
"Yes."
"I noticed the lock on the side door yesterday," she says. "Standard pin tumbler. Five pins. Maybe a spool driver."
"Child's play," I say.
"And the cameras?" she asks.
"I have a jammer in my pocket," I say. "Habit."
She looks at me. Her eyes widen slightly.
"You carry a signal jammer to a party?"
"You almost brought a knife to a fistfight," I counter.
"It was a steak knife. It was already there."
"You were going to use it."
"He was being rude."
"He was being suicidal," I say. "He just didn't know it."
She smirks.
"So," she says. "Are we doing this?"
"Do you have anything better to do?"
"I have an Ethics paper due tomorrow."
"Screw ethics," I say.
"I agree."
She puts her glass down on the table.
"Let's go steal a watch," she says.
"After you," I say.
We walk toward the door. The crowd parts again. They are looking at us like we are dead men walking. They are whispering.
"They are going to get arrested."
"Idiots."
"Brad set them up."
I catch the bouncer's eye on the way out. He looks nervous.
We step out into the cool night air. The door slams shut behind us, muting the terrible jazz music. The silence is beautiful.
"Dante?" Mara says.
"Yes?"
"If we get caught..."
"We won't."
"But if we do."
"I will buy the university," I say.
She stops walking. She looks at me. She is trying to decide if I am joking. I am not joking.
"You are crazy," she says.
"I am determined," I say. "And I really want to see you sit in his chair."
"Why?"
"Because," I say, unlocking my car—a black sedan parked in the fire lane. "It will drive him insane."
"I like that," she says.
"I knew you would."
I open the passenger door for her.
"Get in, Mara," I say. "We have a crime to commit."
She slides into the seat. She looks comfortable. She looks like she belongs in the dark, plotting felonies.
I walk around to the driver's side. I look back at the frat house. The lights are thumping. Brad is probably making a toast to his own genius right now.
I smile. *Wolves among sheep,* I think.
I get in the car and start the engine. It purrs.
"Ready?" I ask.
"Drive," she says.
I punch the gas. We disappear into the night.
