Where the Heirs Reign

Mara

The university orientation hall is a tactical nightmare.

There are too many sightlines. There are too many blind spots. There are fifteen hundred students crammed into a space designed for a thousand. The air smells like cheap cologne and teenage desperation.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. I resist the urge to check the knife strapped to my thigh beneath my floral sundress. My father would be appalled that I am standing in the middle of the room. He taught me better.

"Never be the center of the target, Mara," he used to say while cleaning his gun. "Be the ghost in the corner."

But I am not the daughter of the Mancini crime family today. I am Mara. Just Mara. Art History major. Civilian. I am here to learn about Renaissance brushstrokes, not how to dissolve a body in lye.

"Excuse me," a girl with pink hair says, bumping into my shoulder. "Is this the line for student IDs?"

I force a smile. It feels tight. "I think so."

"God. It is taking forever. I'm anxious. Aren't you anxious?"

"Terrified," I murmur. But not for the reason she thinks.

I scan the exits again. North. East. The service doors behind the stage. If a shooter walked in right now, I would take the girl with the pink hair and shove her under the registration table. I would vault the railing. I would be out in six seconds.

"Hey! Watch where you're walking, pledge!"

The shout cracks through the hum of conversation like a gunshot.

My head snaps to the left. My pupils dilate. The reaction is instantaneous. It is a reflex drilled into me since I was old enough to walk.

A scrawny freshman is stumbling. He has been shoved. A heavy metal tray of iced coffees from the welcome table is tipping out of his hands. It is falling toward the polished floor. The crash will be loud. It will sound like a bomb.

I do not think.

I lunge.

I cover the ten feet between us in a blur of motion. My hand shoots out. I do not grab the boy. I grab the tray. I catch it inches from the ground. The ice rattles. The plastic cups wobble but stay upright. Not a single drop spills.

The boy freezes. He stares at me with wide, terrified eyes. He looks at the tray in my hand, then up at my face.

"Whoa," he breathes.

I blink. The adrenaline fades, leaving a cold sweat on my neck. I straighten up slowly, balancing the tray with one hand like a waitress at a mob wedding.

"You dropped this," I say.

"Nice catch, sweetheart."

The voice is dripping with condescension. I turn. The person who shoved the kid is standing there. He is tall, blonde, and wearing a polo shirt that costs more than the freshman's tuition. He has a jawline that screams privilege and eyes that scream cruelty.

This must be Brad Sterling. The type of guy who peaked in high school and is about to make everyone else's life miserable.

"He tripped," I say. My voice is flat.

Brad laughs. It is a hollow, barking sound. He steps into my personal space. He smells like peppermint and entitlement.

"He tripped because he is clumsy," Brad says. He looks me up and down. His gaze lingers on my chest, then my legs. "You, on the other hand. You have got reflexes. What are you? A gymnast?"

"Art student," I lie.

"Art," he scoffs. "Cute. Maybe you can paint me a picture of you getting me a drink?"

He reaches out. He goes to touch my arm. His fingers are an inch from my skin.

I don't move. I don't flinch. I just look at his throat. I imagine exactly how much pressure it would take to collapse his windpipe. It would be so easy. A twitch of the wrist.

Brad pauses. He blinks. Something in my eyes makes him stop. The lizard brain inside him realizes, just for a second, that he is the prey.

"Whatever," Brad mutters. He pulls his hand back. He sneers at the freshman. "Clean yourself up, loser."

Brad pushes past us, disappearing into the crowd of laughing sycophants.

"I am so sorry," the freshman stammers. He takes the tray from me. "He just... he came out of nowhere."

"Forget it," I say. "Stay away from him."

"I'm Kevin. Thank you. Really. That was ninja stuff."

"Just luck, Kevin."

I turn away. I need air. I need to reset my heart rate. I almost broke a student's neck for being rude. This cover is going to be harder than I thought.

Then I feel it.

A prickle on the back of my neck. The sensation of being watched. Not looked at. Watched.

I stop. I scan the hall. My eyes sweep over the sea of faces. Laughing students. Bored parents. Texting teenagers.

And then I see him.

He is leaning against a pillar on the far side of the room. He is alone. He is wearing a black leather jacket that looks lived-in, not bought for fashion. His hair is dark, messy in a way that suggests he doesn't care, though it falls perfectly.

He is not looking at the stage. He is not looking at his phone.

He is looking at me.

Everyone else in the room jumped when Brad shouted. Everyone else flinched when the tray almost hit the floor.

He didn't.

He is perfectly still. His face is a mask of bored indifference, but his eyes are sharp. Calculating. Predatory. They are dark, like polished obsidian.

He saw the catch. He saw the speed. He saw the way I looked at Brad's throat.

My stomach drops. He knows.

I should look away. I should play the shy art girl. I should blush and check my phone.

I don't. I lock eyes with him. I stare back. A challenge.

A slow smirk spreads across his face. It is terrifying. It is the most handsome thing I have ever seen.

He pushes off the pillar. He starts walking toward me.

The crowd seems to part for him. He moves with a liquid grace that screams danger. He doesn't walk like a student. He walks like he owns the building. He walks like a soldier.

My heart hammers against my ribs. Fight or flight. Fight or flight.

He stops two feet in front of me. He is taller up close. He smells like leather and rain. The air between us suddenly feels heavy, charged with enough electricity to short-circuit the lights.

"You are fast," he says. His voice is deep, a low rumble that I feel in my chest.

"I played softball," I lie. The lie tastes like ash.

"No," he says softly. He tilts his head. "You didn't."

He steps closer. His gaze drops to my hands, then back to my eyes. He is dissecting me. He is peeling back the layers of my disguise with a single look.

"Who are you?" I whisper. I can't help it.

He smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," he says. "Civilians don't catch heavy objects before they fall. Civilians flinch at loud noises. You didn't flinch."

"Maybe I'm just calm."

"Maybe you are dangerous."

My breath hitches. He leans in. His mouth is close to my ear. For a second, I think he is going to kiss me. The thought sends a jolt of heat straight to my core.

"I'm Dante," he says.

The name lands like a heavy stone. Dante.

He pulls back. He holds my gaze for one second longer than is polite. It is a promise. It is a threat.

"Welcome to hell, sweetheart," he murmurs.

Then he turns and walks away, disappearing into the shadows of the hall, leaving me standing there with my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest.