Chapter 16
Gio
The dining hall is a fucking zoo.
Friday night means pre-game carb loading, which means every athlete on campus is shoveling pasta like it’s a survival requirement. Noise spikes everywhere—trays clattering, voices colliding, metal chairs shrieking across linoleum.
Perfect timing.
If I want to send a message, I do it where everyone can see it.
I walk in with Zoe. A skirt that should be illegal and a sweater soft enough to sleep on cling to her frame. She looks expensive. Composed. Dangerous in a way that draws attention without asking for it. Like she belongs on my arm.
The shift hits the instant we clear the doors. Conversations dip. Heads turn. The whisper network lights up.
I guide her toward the back corner where the long tables usually sit empty. Tonight, every seat is filled.
The inner circle’s already there. Adrian. Declan. Dante. Cole. And the women—Clara, Talia, Genny, Maya.
A show of force in public. A unified front.
We reach the table. I pull out a chair for Zoe, but she’s already sitting, sliding in with fluid ease that sends a sharp spark straight through me. She doesn’t need doors opened. She lets me do it anyway, fully aware it scratches something territorial.
“Nice of you to join us,” Dante says, leaning back with a bottled water, eyes scanning the room.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I reply, taking the seat beside Zoe.
Adrian studies her, expression unreadable. “You sure about this?”
Zoe meets his gaze without blinking. “About the food? No. It looks like cafeteria slop. About the company? I’m still evaluating.”
Adrian’s mouth twitches—the closest he gets to amused. “Fair.”
Clara sets her tray down and looks directly at Zoe. “You understand the optics.”
“I design optics,” Zoe says, lifting her fork. “I know what they’re saying. I know what they’re thinking. I don’t care.”
“They think you’re the distraction,” Maya says from across the table, nudging greens around her plate like she’s solving an equation. “They think Gio’s using you to soften his image.”
“Are you?” Genny asks, calm and curious. No judgment. Just data.
“I’m leveraging an asset,” Zoe says evenly. “No one’s being used.”
I choke on my water. “Asset?”
“You have access,” she says, slicing her chicken with surgical precision. “I have visibility. Mutually beneficial.”
“Mutually beneficial,” Cole echoes, grinning. “That’s what we’re calling it?”
“What would you call it?” Talia asks, her shoulder brushing Declan’s. Soft voice. Steel eyes.
“A suicide pact,” Declan says.
“Calculated risk,” I counter. “Odds favor us.”
“Do they?” Clara asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Surrender loses by default. This is strategy.”
“And you like the odds?” Adrian asks.
“I control them.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. Another Whisperer hit. Another admin ping. I don’t need to read it to feel the weight.
“You’re vibrating,” Zoe says.
“Background noise.”
“It’s always background noise with you.”
“She’s right,” Dante adds. “Last time you vibrated like that, we ended up in the Dean’s office.”
“That was a misunderstanding.”
“You punched a wall,” Cole says.
“The wall blocked my exit.”
The table goes quiet—then laughter breaks loose. Tension cracks.
For a moment, despite the storm outside, this feels normal. Us.
The moment thins fast.
My gaze drifts back to Zoe. She eats with measured focus. She fits—with them, with this.
That’s the problem.
Once someone fits, walking away gets harder.
“You good?” I ask quietly.
“I’m fine,” she says. “Why—worried I can’t handle pressure?”
“I’m worried you’re starting to enjoy it.”
Her eyes meet mine, dark and steady. “Maybe I am. Maybe I like being the only person in this room who doesn’t flinch around you.”
“I don’t flinch,” Cole says.
“You should respect me,” I tell him.
“I’m deeply respectful,” he deadpans. “Practically reverent.”
“Good.”
I scan the table. Adrian and Clara trade silent looks. Declan watches Talia like she’s gravity. Dante tracks the door. Cole and Maya argue over salad dressing macros.
Domestic and feral.
Exactly what keeps me anchored.
“Saturday,” Adrian says, pulling us back on track. “State’s coming for you. They’ll try to get inside your head.”
“Let them.”
“They’ll go low,” Declan adds. “Dirty hits. Bait.”
“I skate clean,” I say. “Smart. I score. We win.”
“You always bite,” Dante says.
“Not this time.”
“And the Whisperer?” Maya asks. “What if they post mid-game?”
“Then they post,” I say. “I’ll be on the ice.”
“The crowd won’t be,” Zoe says. “Neither will the scouts.”
“Let them watch,” I say. “I want them to see exactly what’s trying to tear me down.”
I cover Zoe’s hand on the table. Possessive. Intentional.
She doesn’t pull away. Her fingers lace through mine—small, deliberate.
The impact lands deep.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” she says.
“I’m playing to win.”
“Winning assumes an end,” she says. “This escalates.”
“Then I escalate with it.”
My grip tightens. She squeezes back.
Around us, the dining hall swells—voices, laughter, clatter. At this table, in this circle, the air holds.
We are the Titans of Briarcliff.
And we’re done hiding.