Chapter 22
Nikolaj
I track the movement of the clouds like I track breath. Not out of boredom, but necessity. Every muscle inside me is tightly wound, trained to snap into motion at a moment’s notice, but it’s the stillness I’ve had to relearn. Stillness is strategic. Stillness masks what I want.
And I’m not supposed to want anything anymore.
I know the rules they rewrote inside me.
I know how I’m supposed to think when I see him—when that fucking pretty face turns in my direction and lights up the room like the world isn’t a pit of rot.
I know what the memory of my brother’s voice told me: He is the crown that threatens us.
He is your mission. He is the enemy. Nothing more.
But the lie doesn’t hold the way it should.
I press the heel of my palm into my temple, grinding down on the pressure that’s been building since dawn.
It spikes when I let my thoughts stray too far from my orders.
My memory of the past is patchwork, stitched together with deliberate seams I’m not supposed to unravel.
Whenever I try to really remember something specific about him, the pain flares sharp and immediate, almost like a punishment.
So, I don’t try. But that doesn’t stop the instinct.
Vincenzo Vieri is not a person. He’s not a boy or a man or a fucking heir. He’s a target. A threat to the future Arseniy helped secure in blood and fear. He’s what I’m here to eliminate. That’s what they told me. That’s what they made sure of.
Except every time I see him, I still forget all that.
It starts in the base of my spine. A restless crawl.
My shoulders tighten, my vision sharpens, my pulse kicks just behind my ribs.
He exists like static electricity, and the second he steps into a room, the entire frequency of my body changes.
There’s no softness in it. It’s not longing. It’s not love.
It’s territorial.
I clench my jaw, ignoring the burn behind my right eye as I force myself to refocus. I’m not watching him. I’m scanning. That’s the phrase they drilled into me. Surveillance. Threat assessment. Predictable behavior.
Except he’s not predictable. Not when he laughs like that.
I don’t move, but my eyes zero in like a scope.
He’s standing by the garden wall near the East Wing, sunlight cutting over his shoulders and making his hair gleam.
His arms are crossed, but his weight is shifted toward the person in front of him.
Another heir. Italian. Second-tier legacy with too many teeth and not enough bite.
He’s pretty in that forgettable, polished way.
Tall. Tan. Wearing a grin that stretches too far.
And Vincenzo is smiling back.
My vision tightens. The space around them blurs at the edges as my body goes cold. There’s a lightness in the way Vieri speaks to him—relaxed shoulders, slight tilt of the head. The kind of subtle flirtation designed to lure without committing.
Then the other heir leans in and touches Vincenzo’s arm.
That’s when the blood starts to roar in my ears.
I don’t realize I’m gripping the hilt of the dagger strapped to my lower back until I feel the press of leather against my fingers.
The headache sharpens into a spike, memory and command colliding like opposing warheads.
Do not react. Do not feel. Eliminate only when ordered.
But the heat in my chest overrules the training.
My knuckles go white, and then the dagger leaves my hand.
I don’t remember pulling it free. I don’t remember calculating the angle or adjusting for wind. It just flies; the blade sinking into the wall next to Vincenzo’s head, and landing close enough to whisper mine.
There’s a jolt, a collective inhale, a slow ripple of silence that travels like blood spilled into still water. The guy next to him jerks back, eyes wide, stumbling over his own feet like he’s not used to real danger.
But Vincenzo just turns his head, looks at the knife, looks at me, and smiles. The kind of smile you wear when you’ve already read the ending and still enjoy the burn of every page.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of a stare-down.
I walk away. Straight down the hall, out the south exit, down the steps, past the side garden, through the back gate.
Every step measured. Every breath even. I don’t look back.
I don’t break stride. I don’t speak to the three students who freeze when they see me coming.
I don’t have to say anything. The knife did that for me.
And yeah, maybe it’s not discipline to react like that.
Maybe it’s not control. Maybe it’s the kind of thing Arseniy would slap me for if he were here to see it.
But I don’t care. Because I didn’t touch him.
I didn’t say his name. I didn’t kiss him, or fuck him, or let him smile at me like I’m still bleeding for him behind my ribs.
I reminded him that no matter how far I pull away—how clean I cut the lines, how much violence they used to condition me—he is still on my mind when I least want him to be.
I go back to my dorm. The walls are bare, the windows cracked. I don’t turn on the light. I don’t speak. I just peel off my shirt, toss it to the floor, and sit on the edge of the bed with my hands on my knees.
My chest feels like it’s caved in, but my pulse is steady. I told myself pain was the path forward, but it’s the restraint that hurts more. Because when I closed that space between us and threw that blade, I didn’t miss.
And that’s the part that scares me.
Because one day, I might not miss on purpose.