Conquest (Of Ruin and Royalty #1)

Chapter 1 Vincenzo

Vincenzo

There’s a reason we come here in bulletproof cars.

Vintermoor doesn’t look like an academy when you first drive up.

It looks like a fortress that got tired of pretending it ever welcomed children.

All sharp lines and gothic bones, as if someone dropped a medieval stronghold in the middle of a snow-bitten hellscape and slapped Wi-Fi on it as an afterthought.

It’s not a school. It’s a glorified chessboard for legacy brats with too much power and not enough impulse control. A finishing school for war criminals in training.

The iron gates groan open on cue, slower than necessary, and we don’t wait for them to finish creaking before the tires cross the threshold.

My father taught me a long time ago that waiting is for the weak and the wounded.

That if a man smiles too often, he’s either lying or selling something.

And if he hides his hands when he talks, you shoot first and don’t bother with the questions.

By that logic, most of Vintermoor qualifies as a threat.

My window’s cracked just enough to let the cold bite at my jaw, and I let it. The sting keeps me present. The scent of pine and old snow drifts in as we pull up beside the stone fountain that doesn’t run in winter; the frozen water trapped mid-spill.

The engine cuts with a soft purr, muffled by the static in my head. My driver doesn’t say a word. He knows better. He moves with precision, opening the door and stepping back.

My boots hit the gravel, and I stretch to full height, spine straight, chin up, every inch of me daring the onlookers to mistake me for approachable.

Let them stare. Let them whisper. There’s not a soul on this campus who doesn’t know who I am.

Every name here may carry weight, but my name comes carved with a crown.

The Vieri heir. Son of Salvatore. Twin of Silvano—the traitor no one dares to mention unless they want to choke on broken teeth. Crown prince of the Five Families. My existence is a loaded gun with the safety off.

The campus is already crawling with the familiar vultures—Cartel sons, Bratva wolves, Sicilian blades. They all play a role here. Gentleman. Soldier. Phantom. No one survives Vintermoor unless they learn to wear masks better than their fathers wore crowns.

But it’s not them who pulls my attention like a trigger being cocked.

It’s him.

Nikolaj Dragovich.

The Bloody Prince of the Bratva.

The Rogue Heir.

And the one motherfucker in this place I was told to watch.

He’s leaning against the stone balustrade that flanks the North Wing, a cigarette balanced between his lips, tattoos right up to his chin, black coat and combat boots.

His hair is so pale it might’ve been spun from ice, and eyes like they were scraped off the Arctic floor.

Empty. Wild. Beautiful in that cruel way only monsters can be.

He looks like a nightmare someone forgot to wake up from.

They say he was raised in a house without windows, taught to kill before he could spell, and baptized in the blood of traitors. They say his brother sends him to handle problems bullets can’t fix.

They say a lot about him, and I’ve heard most of it. None of it prepares you for how it feels to be looked at like he’s already decided where to bury you.

It’s not curiosity or rivalry. It’s war in the shape of two boys who were never meant to survive long enough to become men.

His frostbitten eyes meet mine, and I swear to God, the courtyard tilts. He exhales a curl of smoke and watches me, his curious gaze dragging across my face. I don’t blink. I won’t give him that.

I take a step toward him, my jaw set, spine still straight.

I’ve been taught never to flinch or fold.

My father used to say that Vintermoor is where empires fall when their heirs forget what the stakes are.

This isn’t high school posturing. This is bloodline politics, and one wrong glance can write your eulogy.

“Vieri,” he says, dragging out the vowels in his Russian-accented English. “Didn’t think royalty showed up without an escort.”

“Dragovich.” My tone is flat, yet polite enough to be poisonous. “Didn’t know they let you loiter this close to East Wing territory so early. Did the kennel finally let you out for the season?”

He lets a smile split his face, thin and pleased, like a man who’s found the exact phrase that will bruise. “Always the poetic one, aren’t you? You practice those barbs in the mirror, or did Silvano pen them for you?”

I let the name Silvano hang between us and watch his expression flash with an assessment of whether my knife is sharper than his reputation.

“You Vieri men wear crowns like you wear suits,” he continues softly, tilting his head. “Expensive, unnecessary, and asking to be torn off.”

My lips curl. “At least my blood remembers how to be feared with no need to prove it every hour.”

He snorts, small and dangerous. “Fear is a fashion statement when you have nothing else to show for your life. I’d rather be a blade than a gilded paperweight with a title.”

“Paperweights don’t start wars,” I tell him, and there’s a low heat behind my words that I don’t bother to hide. “Paperweights keep the pages from blowing away. There’s value in preservation.”

“Preservation is cowardice with better table settings.” He steps forward, close enough that I can smell clove cigarettes and expensive cologne.

His eyes search my face as if looking for landmarks he can claim.

“I’ll enjoy watching you learn the difference between being called a king and actually being able to keep a crown on your head. ”

“Watch from wherever you prefer,” I say. “The ground suits you. You’ll fit right in with the dirt.”

He laughs then and shakes his head. “You practicing jokes or begging me to teach you fear?”

“I don’t hire tutors for subjects I mastered,” I say. “But if I ever need a lesson in being leashed by an older brother with control issues, I’ll send for the Dragovich family expert.”

The cigarette pauses on its way to his mouth. The pause is a confession he didn’t intend to give away.

“Careful,” he murmurs, smoke curling between us. “You say my family name like it suits your tongue.”

“I say it like it ends the conversation,” I answer. “You can take the hint or choke on it.”

We stare each other down, and I’m aware of the eyes around us now. Heirs from every wing, every dynasty. Neutral houses and allied ones. Old money and older blood. All of them are witnessing the first contact between the Vieri crown and the Dragovich blade.

“Just so we’re clear,” he says, grin turning serrated, “I’m not here for the view. I’m here to find out which kings forget they can bleed.”

“And I’m here to remind the ambitious that scavengers don’t get a seat at the table,” I say, letting the smile curl into something I usually save for funerals. “They get the scraps or they get the door.”

That makes his lips twitch, and he looks too pleased. “Then I guess we’re gonna make this interesting. I’d be lying if I said watching you fall wouldn’t be the highlight of the year.”

“You’ll be watching from below,” I murmur. “Assuming you survive long enough to witness it.”

“I’ve survived worse than pretty Italian boys with too many knives and not enough of a bite, Vincenzo.”

I bristle. “Say my name with that disgust in your voice again. Let’s see how long your teeth last, Dragovich.”

His eyes narrow just a fraction, and for a moment, neither of us moves. We’re locked in the kind of silence that always ends in blood or sex. And I don’t fuck dogs.

I breathe in slowly, catching the scent of spice again. “I’ll make you bow before the year is out.”

That earns me another laugh. Rough, amused, and almost honest. He steps back to slide his hands into his pockets, a shoulder cocked in challenge. “I’d rather bleed out.”

“You might.”

His gaze drops to my mouth, then back up, and that bastard grin returns. “I look forward to it... Vincenzo.”

Then he turns and walks away.

I know with a sick, quiet certainty that this year at Vintermoor just got fucked because there’s a weapon walking these halls, and he’s wearing the face of a prince.

Welcome to Vintermoor, Nikolaj Dragovich. Let’s see how long you last.