Chapter 15
Gio
Elm House is a fucking disaster zone.
Thursday night is supposed to mean studying, or at least the performance of it, but the living room is already a minefield of red Solo cups and stale beer.
Music thumps through the floorboards from the basement—bass-heavy, relentless, vibrating through my teeth like it’s trying to shake something loose.
We’ve holed up in the designated “War Room,” which is just a euphemism for the back office with a door that locks.
Dante, Cole, Adrian, and Declan sprawl across mismatched furniture, bodies arranged with the loose familiarity of people who’ve bled together.
The inner circle. The only guys in this town who understand the difference between a slapshot and a felony charge.
I drop onto the couch and tip my head back against the wall. Sleep never showed. The Whisperer’s posts kept me awake until after three, staring at the ceiling, running every possible scenario where Rylan finds a new way to hurt Zoe.
“You look like shit,” Cole says.
He’s pacing—sharp turns, restless stops. A glance out the window. Then back across the room. His energy is jagged enough to cut skin.
“I feel like shit,” I say. “Thanks for checking in.”
“Did you hear?” Adrian sits in the armchair with his legs crossed, composed, like he’s chairing a board meeting instead of an intervention in a frat house. “The Whisperer posted again.”
“I saw.”
“It’s getting specific,” Adrian continues. “They’re referencing the police report. They’re talking about the payoff.”
My jaw tightens. “Speculation.”
“Accurate speculation,” Declan says.
He cleans his nails with a pocketknife, the motion slow, rhythmic. Hypnotic.
“Someone’s feeding them. Someone who was in the room.”
I don’t look at him. Don’t react. I already know who stood in that room. I already know who’s holding the knife.
“It’s a rumor mill,” I say, keeping my voice even. “People love a tragedy. Especially when the hero shows a crack.”
“This isn’t gossip anymore, Gio,” Dante says.
He leans against the desk, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
“It’s a target. And you’re standing dead center.”
“Then I move.”
“Anchored,” Cole snaps, stopping short and turning on me. “Star winger. Face of the offense. If you go down, we all feel it. Scouts are watching. NHL eyes too. One wrong step and you’re radioactive.”
I hold his stare. He’s right. That’s the part that sticks—the way my mess bleeds outward. Brotherhood comes with a radius.
“I’m handling it.”
“How?” Adrian asks. “By dragging Zoe Barnes into it?”
The room stills.
I straighten. “What?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Adrian says. “We saw you at the Box. We saw the texts. You’re walking her around like armor.”
“She’s a strategy,” I say. “Deliberate.”
“She’s a civilian,” Dante counters. “She has nothing to do with this. If Rylan—or whoever’s running that account—takes a shot, she’s the softest target.”
“She can handle herself.”
“Design student, Gio,” Cole says, voice climbing. “She doesn’t live in our world. She doesn’t know how to absorb a hit. You put her in the crosshairs, you’re setting her up to burn.”
Anger flares—hot, sharp. They see collateral. I see the only person who looked at me and saw the truth without flinching.
“She’s clear right now,” I say quietly. “I’m keeping it that way.”
“By letting everyone think she’s your girlfriend?” Declan asks. “That paints a bullseye.”
“Misdirection,” I snap. “If they think she’s mine, they hesitate. Second-guess. It buys time.”
“Time for what?” Adrian asks.
“To find the leak.”
“And proof?” Cole presses. “That you’re innocent? We know that. The rest of the world wants a villain. They want blood.”
“Then I’ll give them a better story.”
I stand and move to the window. The street outside looks empty, but I feel the town pressing in—windows, phones, quiet watchers who think silence means permission.
“What’s the plan for the weekend?” Dante asks, redirecting before I tip too far.
“Game on Saturday,” I say. “We shut down State. We send a signal.”
“What kind?” Declan asks.
“That we’re still standing.”
“And Zoe?” Adrian asks. “What’s the move there?”
My reflection stares back at me in the glass. Tired. Wired. Dangerous.
“She stays close. Public appearances. Study sessions. Library. The Box. We sell consistency.”
“And if she gets tired of playing along?” Cole asks.
“She can walk.”
“You think she will?”
I think of last night—her stare, the way she stripped the bullshit down to bone, the refusal to back down.
“No.”
“Then make sure you’re worth the risk,” Adrian says.
He stands, shrugging into his jacket.
“Meeting adjourned. Go home. Sleep. And stop texting Rylan. You’re feeding the fire.”
“I’m not texting him.”
“Then someone’s tracking you,” Adrian says. “Because the Whisperer just posted a photo of your car. From last night.”
Cold floods my veins.
“What?”
“Outside the dorm,” Adrian says. “Zoe’s dorm. Timestamped eleven.”
I yank my phone out, fingers clumsy, and open the app. The image loads slow and ugly—a grainy shot of the brick facade, a third-floor window glowing yellow in the dark.
The caption is short.
Whisperer: Pretty little collateral. Tick tock.
Rage detonates—white-hot, blinding. Rylan was there. Watching. Saw me walk her to the door. Saw me touch her.
“Gio,” Dante says sharply. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I’m going to kill him.”
“No,” Declan says, stepping in front of me. “You’re sitting down. You’re drinking a beer. And we handle security.”
“I can handle this.”
“Then explain why he’s tracking her,” Cole says. “Because if you go after him now, you give him exactly what he wants. You confirm every version of you he’s selling.”
I look at them—my team, my brothers. The wall holding me upright.
“Fine,” I say, shoving the phone into my pocket. “But Saturday is too far away. Pressure starts before then.”
“The schedule’s locked,” Dante says.
“I know the fucking schedule,” I snap. “I’m talking momentum. We don’t wait for the puck to drop.”
We start now.