Chapter 12
Matteo
It’s the first time in days I’ve laughed without blood in my mouth.
We’re out behind the Italian wing but can still see everyone around us.
Leaning against the stone wall, the sun actually shining for once in this cursed place.
Milo’s shirtless, cranking out pull-ups on the rusted scaffolding like he’s posing for a calendar.
Marco’s sitting on a crate nearby, phone in one hand, protein bar in the other. “You’re not even going all the way down. That’s cheating,” he snaps at Milo, and I laugh, agreeing.
Milo lets go and drops down. “Ten full ones. Clean.”
“Ten limp ones,” Marco mutters.
“Let’s see your hacker ass make it halfway,” Milo fires back.
I laugh, finishing the last drag of my cigarette before flicking it away.
Rosa rolls her eyes as she joins the conversation. “You boys and your testosterone contests. It’s like watching dogs sniff each other’s asses.”
Milo tosses her a water bottle. “Don’t act like you didn’t volunteer to judge.” She smirks, and Milo adds, “Please. You know if we judged, you’d cry when Marco loses,” he jokes, and I laugh as Marco tells him to fuck off.
“That’s slander,” Marco says. “And disrespectful to my biceps.”
We’re joined by two of our cousins, Remo and Ricci, straight from Italy with accents thick and egos thicker. We have America, they have Italy. Remo’s talking shit about the Triads and their silent-ass training spaces.
“They don’t even blink when they fight,” he says. “I swear one of them smiled once and I almost dropped my knife.”
“They probably train with ghosts,” Ricci shrugs. “Makes sense for people who look like they sleep standing up.”
Milo’s doing another round of pull-ups, showing off now. “Let’s have a real competition. Loser does night patrol alone.”
I stretch my arms. “Fine. But if Rosa wins, you all wear pink tomorrow.”
She cracks her knuckles. “Bet.”
We all take turns, Marco actually surprises everyone, he might be a computer man, but the man still had to train the same as us, Remo fakes a cramp halfway, Ricci slips off the bar completely, claiming ‘bad grip’ like a coward.
I pull off twelve clean ones just to spite them all.
I could have done more if I wanted to but didn’t want them to hate me.
Rosa hits ten, no surprise with Uncle Seb training her. “Don’t worry, Matteo, one day I’ll beat you.”
“We both know that’s not true,” I say. “I held back.”
We sit in a circle after, still sweaty, half of us shirtless. Milo’s ranting about one of the other Italian factions, Donati’s son, who is annoying him for one reason or the other. I think it’s more because he got a girl Milo was eyeing up.
“They showed up to underground wearing fucking cologne,” he groans. “I thought we were training, not dating.”
“Donati boys always smell like daddy’s wallet,” Marco says.
Everyone laughs.
Rosa leans back against Ricci, who pokes at her protein bar like it offended him. Milo wrestles Alonza to the ground, calling him a greasy bastard. Marco films, narrating like it’s a nature documentary.
And me?
I’m not thinking about blood.
Not thinking about cliff edges.
Not thinking about her.
For a little while, we’re just loud, dangerous kids playing like the world doesn’t want to kill us.
For a little while, I let myself breathe.
Just as Rosa’s stretching out her arms, another voice joins the chaos.
“You know, this looks more like a bad gym promo than Mafia royalty,” comes the voice of Santino, our cousin from the Hollow Coast branch of the Messina line, well we say family, but they’re our grandmother’s side of the family.
They’re there for family dinner when Grandfather hosts, and they’re there when we need them, just like we are for them.
“Santino,” Milo groans. “Here to critique our form or just show off your overpriced sneakers again?”
Santino drops beside Marco. “These are Italian leather. Handmade. You wouldn’t understand, you still dress like an Eastern European hacker.”
Marco flips him off. “Better than a Vogue mafia intern.”
Milo and I burst out laughing, because that has to be the best line Marco has thrown at him in a long time.
“Boys,” Rosa chimes in, laughing. “Can we not start a fight over shoes?”
“He started it,” Marco mutters.
“You gonna cry next?” Santino smirks. “Need a hug?”
“I’ll hack your bank account and donate it to cat shelters,” Marco fires back.
Santino leans back, looking smug. “At least cats fight, I don't mind.” He knows Marco can do it in less than five minutes if he wants.
“What you need to hack into is the shipment Father asked you to look into,” Milo tells him, and Marco shrugs his shoulders, as if there are more important things he needs to do. “You know he will call, even worse come here for an answer.”
“Yeah, I’m halfway through it, I messaged Father this morning.” He looks up at us all, and smiles. “Who wants the answers to the algebra test tomorrow?”
“How the fuck did you hack into the school computers?” I lean forward, taking his phone off him, and see the test paper on his phone.
“That’s the difference. You’re the muscle, I'm the brains, he's the killer.” Marco takes his phone back, and emails the paper to Milo, Rosa and me.
“The first to stop the pull-ups has to fuck one of the teachers.” Milo stands up ready to win.
“We all know who’s going to win.” Marco looks over at me, and I smile. “Or is your dick still itching for someone else?” he asks, and I stand up, take my shirt off, because there is no way I can do pull ups with this being tight around me.
“Let’s go,” I dare him, adding when Rosa stands up, “I don’t fucking think so, sit your ass down.” Because there is no way in hell she’s taking part in this. I glance over at Marco, almost begging him to make his fucking move on her. I have no idea what’s stopping him.
“Your dad will kill the three of us if you get into a scandal with a teacher,” Marco tells her, and he isn’t lying. We all still remember the warning he gave us.
Nothing is to happen to his baby girl, no one is to touch her again, and while we are here, no one fucking will.
“Fine.” She sits back down and starts tapping on her phone, most likely to her little brother.
Marco looks at me and smiles. “You win, I want proof you do it, I don’t trust you can.” He looks over at Milo, who agrees.
“Come on then, let's do this.” I never back down from a competition, will I fuck a teacher, who knows, but they don’t need to know that.
Right now, all I want to do is prove to both of them that, no matter what, when it comes to challenges like this, I will always win.
Hacking the fastest, I don’t have a chance, and throwing a knife to hit the right spot, thirty-seventy chance of it happening, while Milo, has never missed.
But this, this is my game, and I win all my games.
I was summoned.
Not asked. Not invited. Summoned.
The parchment came folded in black wax, pressed with a seal no one speaks of, but everyone knows. I found it resting on my pillow when I returned from training, with just the mark.
The Ring.
Ordo Tenebris.
Blackstone’s oldest tradition. The silent war where names are carved into legacy or erased.
For the next four years, it tells the school who won, the one who wears the ring is the most powerful.
I should’ve expected it. Eldest Messina. Blood on my hands. A reputation that walks louder than I do. Still, something about the seal made my pulse shift.
Was it fear, or excitement? I have no idea, but you never say no.
I enter the corridor behind the altar stairs, one of the oldest stone paths in Blackstone.
Leo meets me at the stone arch.
“You understand why you’re here?” he asks in a tone so dead, it takes me a second to reply, because his tone has never been like that before.
“Tradition,” I reply.
He grins. “Legacy.”
The chamber is older than the school above. Candles flicker in carved alcoves. A stone circle marked with Latin I don’t understand waits in the center.
Five seats. One for each family.
I wasn’t the only one summoned.
Conor O’Brien.
His jaw is locked, expression unreadable. When his eyes meet mine, something passes between us. Not hate. Not respect. Something colder. Older. Acknowledgment.
Two others are already seated. A boy with silver rings on every finger, Cartel - Felix.
I don’t know much about him, but then again we don’t do business with them so I don’t need to.
A girl with white-blonde hair and a stare like a blade, Petrov, Russian, Lara.
If rumors about her are true, I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her.
The last comes seconds later, smooth and silent, Triad, Han. Like the rest of them, he’s unreadable.
Five of us.
Leo steps forward, four others behind him, part of each family's training staff.
“Welcome.” Leo’s voice is still dead. “You have been chosen by blood, tradition, and legacy. You will represent your families in Ordo Tenebris. This is not a competition. It is a rite. A proving ground.” He looks at each of us.
“There are no eliminations. No deaths. No betrayals.” He pauses on me.
“Only survival. Growth and understanding who you are when no one else is watching.” Leo puts his hand out for us to follow.
One by one we step into the circle. A blade passed around, each of us press our thumb to its edge. A drop of blood. Onto the stone. Then the seal glows faintly, just for a second. Enough to remind us that this is older than any of us, and deeper.
“You begin Monday night,” Leo says “Five trials. Five random nights. Five lessons.” He hands each of us a small black coin.
The mark of the Ring, and then we look in the middle when something from the ground appears.
A pedestal rises and in the middle is the ring.
The ring everyone wants, the ring which gives you the name to fear no matter what, and the corner of my lips lifts, itching to touch it.
I turn the coin in my palm, and there is only one thing I know. I don’t play to lose. Not now. Not ever.
Something happens around us, the lights flicker as a cold wind hits me, and Leo stands tall in the center of the chamber again, his voice heavier now.
“There are five trials,” he starts. “You will not know the order. You will not be told who designs them. Each family oversees them, us five will watch you.”
My stomach turns, not from fear, but from anticipation.
Leo looks at me last. “You are the eldest. The weight falls heaviest on your shoulders. Lead like it matters.”
Each trainer walks over to a family member, and I look at Leo.
“You look like you’re ready.” He smiles.
“I am.” I look down at the coin again then smile at him. “Isn’t this why we're here, to win.”
“And you better win. My father’s students won, I can’t be the one who doesn’t,” he says, making me laugh.
“Looks like we both have something to prove.” He nods in agreement then tells me to go back to the dorm and fill my brothers in on what’s coming, since they’ll announce the players at training tomorrow.
He hands me a rolled sheet sealed with the same black wax that marked the parchment on my pillow.
I walk into my room. No surprise they’re both there.
Marco glances up from his laptop. “Where the fuck have you been?”
Milo tilts his head. “See her?”
I don’t answer, just toss the black coin at them.
Marco catches it, eyes widening. “Shit.”
“Is that—”
“Yeah.”
“Holy fuck.” Milo grins. “The Ring."
I drop onto the couch, rubbing my forehead as it's starting to hurt. “It’s real. It starts Monday night.”
Milo whistles. “They gave you the invite?”
“Not given. Forced. Tradition.”
Marco flips the coin, frowning. “Five trials?”
“Strength. Silence. Loyalty. Strategy and chaos. The last one’s tailored to us.”
Milo lets out a sharp laugh. “Yours is going to involve blood, fists, and psychological warfare and maybe some poetry.”
“Shut up,” I mutter.
Rosa walks in, catching the tension. “What’d I miss?”
Milo waves the coin. “Big bro’s chosen.”
“The Ring?” she asks.
I nod.
Her smirk fades. “That’s no joke.”
“I’m not laughing.”
Marco leans forward. “You good?”
“I’m ready,” is all I can say; what else is there?
Inside, something twists. This isn’t a game. It's a legacy. Power. Becoming who I’m meant to be. I’d rather burn than fail.
I open the black seal, and as I unroll the paper, my brothers gather around me, ready to read it.
Five trials. Five nights. Scattered through the term.
No set dates. No pattern to follow.
The summon arrive without mercy.
The Ring calls when it wants.
It watches. Waits. Strikes when it sees your weakness.
Each trial mirrors what you hide.
1. Strength:
Brutal. Physical. Power—and restraint. Winning matters, but so does knowing when to stop.
2. Silence:
Forty-eight hours in darkness. No sound. No light. No escape. Your mind is the arena.
3. Loyalty:
Your words are weapons. And ruin. Silence betrays. What do you protect—and who do you sacrifice?
4. Strategy:
A live simulation. Alliances. Moves and countermoves. One mistake can cost everything.
5. Shadowborn:
The Ring chooses. Your sins. Your cracks. Your fears. It knows your name—and every secret you try to bury.