Chapter 4
Matteo
The courtyard is quiet. Blackstone never sleeps, but it’s the silence that makes your skin prickle.
Pressure builds under my ribs, like a secret trying to claw its way out.
Grandfather and Father raised us on truths Blackstone pretends don’t exist. The kind that would send half these students running.
I step from the shadow beneath the arch. Blackstone rises like a cathedral built for monsters. Smoke slips from my mouth as I finish the cigarette, the ember burning red like a warning in the dark.
The main stone stairs climb the hill like a throne. Two figures sit on the third step, waiting.
Marco and Milo.
Marco laughs at Milo, probably another theory about the school menu hiding chemical codes. My brothers are in their element, even in the dark.
I walk into the low light and drop onto the step beside them.
“Miss me?” I flick ash onto the stone.
“Only when silence gets boring.” Marco grins.
“Only when it’s time for damage control.” Milo smirks. “What’s with your hands?” He nods at the blood on my knuckles.
I roll the ring on my thumb, adjust the others, stare at the trees. “Haven’t hit anything in a while. Found a tree that pissed me off.”
They both laugh.
“It didn't take long for your temper to show,” Marco says.
I chuckle.
If they knew what set me off they’d laugh. Sometimes it’s for something stupid, like losing an Xbox game, not getting the last cookie. But other times it’s bigger: Aoife, Mom favoring Milo, old injuries that never heal.
The three of us sit in silence for a beat, watching the academy lights flicker above. The weight of legacy presses down.
“There they are.” A voice slices the dark. Santino, a cousin from my grandmother's side.
He approaches, flanked by two thick-jawed stooges. He looks cleaner than usual, collar open, rings flashing like he’s posing for a gunrunner family portrait.
“Practicing your Sunday toast?” My question makes Marco chuckle, and I grin.
He’s the talker, the others do business.
“Nah,” Santino says, smirking. “Just making sure the legend lives.” He points to each of us in turn.
“The rager: Matteo, our wrecking ball, more blood on his hands than most here have in their bodies. Marco, the cyber reaper; he can erase a life before you log in. Milo, the predator, gets any girl, kills like he’s painting. ”
I exhale smoke and smile just enough. “You forgot the part where we’re humble.”
“That’s what makes it worse,” Santino says, and a laughter breaks between us.
Santino leans. “People are talking… staff, students. They know who you are. Half of them are already scared and you haven’t stepped into class yet.”
“We like to make an impression.” Milo shrugs.
“An empire,” Marco adds.
Santino grins. “Don’t burn it down before midterms.” He peels off with a two-finger salute, his boys follow.
Once he’s gone, the silence deepens, heavy, but not uncomfortable. Being around these two I know I’m never in danger, it’s always so simple between us.
“He’s not wrong,” Marco says.
“This place is ours,” Milo adds.
“When a Messina walks in, the air shifts,” I say, flicking my cigarette into gravel. “Aunt Camilla’s kids arrive soon. Uncle Luca’s after them. The place will smell Messina for years.” I turn to them both and ask, “Rosa settled?”
“Uncle Sebastian triple-checked, her room dead center between ours. Boxed in like a vault.” Milo shakes his head, more annoyed Uncle Sebastian doesn't trust us to look after her.
“She needs to be,” I say.
“She is,” Milo says. “She’s safe.”
Three rooms, me at one end, Marco at the other, Rosa in the middle, Milo opposite. Formation. Fortress. Not everyone gets private rooms. We’re Messina, we take.
I lean back on the stone and stare up at the tower.
Then she hits me, Aoife. The cliff, the wind, the silence before a fall. Her face when I caught her. That look, I can’t escape it.
“Hey,” Marco pulls me away from my thoughts of her. “Still thinking about her?”
I don’t answer. Because yes I am.
“Have some fun. No one will find out,” Milo jokes.
I shake my head. Fun with the enemy? Not happening. I let my thoughts wander again, maybe not the best thing, but I can’t stop thinking about her.
What kind of girl stands on a cliff flirting with death?
And why the fuck do I care?
We sit, smoke, and listen to the wind’s howl a while longer before calling it a night.
The timetable thudded onto my desk in the early hours of the morning. Neat lines, cold structure, every hour accounted for. I need to tell Leo, never enter my room without knocking. I could be with a woman or naked.
The timetable, Blackstone’s way to dress chaos in a suit and call it curriculum, the one we follow in the day; by evening, polite Blackstone disappears.
The underground wakes. We descend in silence, Marco, Milo, Rosa, and me through the hidden, reinforced, blood-scanned panel near the west library arch. Only legacy students know it, only families know why.
Rosa walks between us, chin high, jaw set. She never flinches or asks for help. She became strong, loyalty binds both ways.
Down the spiral stairs through rock, the air thickens. History sits in every crack. This isn’t where we train, it's where we’re made.
The Italian Wing opens like a well-kept secret, sleek black leather, burnished gold lines, polished steel fixtures. Minimalist, brutal, perfect. In the center: a long oak table, a beast. Grandfather sat there. Father bled on it. Uncles broke bones on it.
We’re next.
Leo waits; family friend, practically family. Built like a brick wall, military posture. Every family has men who train their kids. We have Leo.
His voice is gravel and war drums. “Tonight’s assessment. We sharpen what you are, then teach you what you’re not.” He nods and we sit.
Leo paces. “Matteo, hand-to-hand. You know how to fight. We’ll teach you how to end it faster.
Marco… systems. Surveillance. Infiltration.
Shut them down before they ever speak. Milo…
blades. Silent and precise. I want your hands to be faster than a thought.
” He pauses, eyes flicking to Rosa. “And you, you fight. Defensive. You don’t leave this place without being able to kill if needed. ”
“Good?” Leo asks, but not sure it’s a question to be answered. “That’s how it starts.”
Each family has their own space. Their own way.
The Irish Wing is loud. Whiskey and blood in the walls. Training by fire. They teach you to hit first, and then again. Respect is taken, not given.
The Russians train like it’s a chess match where every move kills. The silence in their space is heavier than our iron doors.
Cartel kids train in smoke. The Triads don’t even speak during drills. You never hear them coming until it’s too late.
But all roads lead to the Circle.
The fighting ring, center of the underground. Raised and circular, the one place we all share where names are spoken and fights follow contracts. No chaos, no revenge. Just the fight, ending one way, submission, blackout, or blood on stone.
After training, my shirt clings to my back. My muscles hum. I crack my knuckles as we step out of the Italian chamber. Milo’s muttering something about Leo trying to break his wrist. Marco’s complaining about the network server speed.
Me? I loved every second of it. I loved punching the bag, I loved punching the wall. Not one complaint, fucking loved it.
I light a cigarette and lean against one of the stone pillars, watching some of the other families slowly coming out of the chambers, the seniors who are training us are still around, they always will be.
They know a fight can break at any moment. One thing Father has taught us, watch. Watch everything and strike at the right moment.
As I continue to watch the others talking, laughing, that’s when I see her.
Aoife.
She’s on the far side near the Irish section, knife in hand, determined, focused, angry.
And failing.
Her stance is wrong, wrist stiff. She slashes at air like it’s insulted her, too slow, grip too tight.
I take a slow drag of smoke, watching her.
Clothes cling to her like second skin, leggings tight on her hips, tank low at the back, spine bare. Waist pulled in, shoulders taut. All fire and frustration.
She’s five-three at best, I’m six-one. She would fit so nicely under my chin, my body wrapped around hers.
She’s magnetic and she doesn’t even know it.
Her hair’s pulled back, loose strands slipping into her face. She swipes them away, as annoyed with them as with the blade.
Milo walks up beside me, also watching.
“Should we help before she stabs her own leg?” he says, with a laugh.
“No,” I say, exhaling smoke. “Let her try, plus it’s not our problem.”
Marco joins us, towel around his neck.
“She’s not bad,” he says. “For someone who’s never had to fight for anything.”
“Think she’ll make it through the year?” Milo asks.
“If she quits treating the knife like it scares her, maybe.” I shrug. “Again, not our problem.”
“She’s not, but—”
“But nothing.” My brothers see it, the way I watch her. They see the rage and know what her family did. But I can’t stop looking.
Rosa steps in, watching. “She’s from your blood war,” she says, voice low. “That makes her off-limits, doesn’t it?”
“Everything worth having fun with usually is,” I say without thinking.
Rosa stares at me. “Just don’t get sloppy,” she mutters, and disappears down the hall.
I stay a little longer, watching Aoife try to get her footing. She drops the blade once, mutters a curse, picks it up again. Her instructor corrects her grip, she nods, jaw clenched.
She doesn’t give up, and fuck if that doesn’t make me want to cross the ring and show her exactly how to hold it. How to use it. How to turn it into a weapon instead of a weight.
But I don’t. I stay where I am. Watching.
“He’s watching you staring at her.” Milo's voice hits my ears.
I take a drag and look around. “Who?” Not seeing anyone looking at me.
“Liam’s son, Conor,” Milo replies.
My lips curl slightly, as I see him standing next to his cousin Aoife, and wraps his arm over her shoulder.
I bring my cigarette to my lips and take in a long drag. Another reminder on why I should not be looking at her. Wondering what her fucking lips taste like.
Conor locks eyes with me. I don’t look away. A fight hums under the surface over a girl I’ve never touched, hooked by a single look.
He backs down and laughs with Aoife.
I take Marco’s drink and turn away before I walk over and slam her against a wall just to taste her.
This is going to be a long year.