Chapter 8
Eight
Enzo
“That was fun,” Cassian said with a crooked smile. “Jett will die as he lived—annoying as fuck.” He bounced on the balls of his feet as adrenaline vibrated through him.
All of us had our rituals after violence. Our own little quirks.
Cassian’s resembled someone who’d just done an irresponsible amount of cocaine and needed to burn the power in his veins before it electrocuted him.
Cassian carried both Marchetti and Lombardi blood in his veins. Two of the most powerful Mafia families in the world. His ruthlessness was inherited.
My gaze drifted to my palm. “The asshole won’t be missed.”
Blair’s blood was still smeared across the cut I’d carved into my skin. Dark, sticky, slowly drying between the lines of my hand.
I stared down at it, fascinated by how her blood looked mingled with mine. Something about it felt intoxicating. I couldn’t wait for the next time.
Black iron sconces burned along the concrete walls while we walked through the underground passageway. Our boots echoed through the tunnel. The sound echoed off the walls in hollow vibrations.
The symbols carved into the stone always felt like they were following me as we passed them.
They were marks no outsider would ever understand.
The First Benefactors—the original Night Sons who had founded Saint Vale—had built these tunnels long before the university rose above them.
Miles of hidden passageways stretched beneath campus, splitting into chambers, corridors, and rooms that only we knew how to navigate.
Despite being a century old, the tunnels were in immaculate condition. Every generation of Night Sons maintained them. They were regular visitors here, whether they still attended the university or had graduated years ago.
Blood had been spilled here for decades. Enemies killed. Deals made.
The Night Sons weren’t just a secret society whispered about as rumors. This was a lifetime commitment. We took an oath for life, and in return, we were granted power, access, and control.
Every one of us was destined to rule something—governments, bloodlines, corporations, or criminal empires.
My father had taught me early that real power wasn’t owning land or money. The real power was owning people across every tier of society. We made sure power never slipped through our fingers.
For us, Saint Vale wasn’t just a university. It was a hunting ground.
A recruitment tool to advance our agendas.
It opened doors for us to further rule the world.
When we reached Locker Hall, Cassian and I stepped to the steel door and scanned our fingerprints against the black panel. Two sharp beeps, and the lock released.
Inside, iron lockers stretched along both walls, but they weren’t lockers in the traditional way. Behind them lay more hidden rooms. Armories and storage vaults. This was where we kept our weapons, tools, and anything else we didn’t leave lying around.
Every locker had a symbol. Not a name.
Emeri sat on a stool in front of his locker, his long legs stretched out as he methodically sharpened his favorite knife with obsessed precision.
The blade had been custom-made in Italy by a famous weaponsmith. His father—Emilio Lastro, a Lombardi Mafia capo—had purchased it for him there. It was Emeri’s most prized possession.
The overhead light above him caught the pale scars that cut across his face. Some thin, some thick, and some faded.
Emeri raised his chin when he noticed us. That was always his version of a greeting. Of the Night Sons, he was the quietest. He wasn’t shy, just always uninterested in conversation.
Cassian and I dumped our masks and weapons on the steel table in the center of the room. I wiped the blood clean from my scissors and knife with a cloth before tossing both into the disposal bin.
The launderer would come in the morning to collect the items and dispose of them properly. He’d also scrub the place spotless.
“You good?” I asked Emeri as I pulled my hoodie over my head and tossed it into the bin beside the weapons.
He gave me a simple thumbs-up without looking at me before testing the sharpness of his blade by dragging it lightly across his forearm. A cut opened on his skin, blood seeping through it. He frowned, displeased, and returned to his sharpening.
Cassian and I changed into clean hoodies and pants from our lockers.
I crouched to tighten my shoelaces and gave Emeri a mock salute. “Later, asshole. Try not to hit bone when you’re playing with that knife. You’re already a walking scar magazine.”
The knife took the place of his finger when he flipped us off.
Cassian laughed. “You’re a fucking asshole.”
I tapped the doorframe twice and left Locker Hall with Cassian behind me.
We turned right and walked thirty feet before cutting a left. At the end of the corridor, a neon Lair sign glowed above a steel door.
The Devil’s Lair was the only place beneath Saint Vale where the Night Sons allowed themselves to relax. It was where we partied and unwound, free from prying eyes or loose lips.
Saint Vale itself was intentionally remote, isolated, miles from the city, and dull as fuck. We had to create our own entertainment here. That was what Fawns and the Devil’s Lair were for.
Unlike the rest of the tunnels, the Devil’s Lair was also the only space outsiders were permitted to enter. But even then, we were selective. Very selective.
The people allowed were all women connected to us—sisters, cousins, those we trusted. Or sometimes, we’d allow former Fawns who’d survived their time with us without losing their sanity.
The rest of the tunnels were off-limits. They had only one entrance and exit for non–Night Sons. It was a hidden passage in the greenhouse on campus.
Me? I had access to everything above and below ground.
I controlled Saint Vale.
I could piss in the fucking headmaster’s bed if I wanted.
Could slit a professor’s throat between lectures.
Rip the drywall off the library walls and turn the place into a strip club.
Linkin Park’s “Numb” thundered through the Devil’s Lair when we stepped inside. The sound wasn’t nearly as satisfying as Jett’s screams or Blair’s desperate pleading, but it’d suffice.
The sharp scent of furniture polish and citrus lingered in the air.
Cassian and I walked beneath stone arches and aged vaulted ceilings. The rich oak floors stretched beneath the amber lights.
Oxblood leather couches and barstools were scattered throughout the space. Every piece of furniture had belonged to the First Benefactors.
“Piss break,” Cassian muttered, veering right toward the hallway that led to the restroom.
I headed straight to the bar. Behind it, brass shelves lined the wall, and the light made the liquor bottles almost glow.
The First Benefactors’ tastes were tacky, very speakeasy in style, with dark woods and brass fixtures. But I wasn’t going to waste my time remodeling. I had a Fawn to break.
I poured a shot of vodka and downed it in one swallow. Then I poured three fingers of bourbon into a crystal tumbler before moving farther into the room.
I passed the group of girls crowded on one of the leather couches. They were laughing, talking, and drinking.
They were the ones allowed down here.
The ones we protected.
I dropped onto the couch beside Brooks. His black tux was wrinkled, the collar of his shirt open, and he stared at me with dark, tired eyes.
We were the only ones who saw Brooks like this.
Outside, in the world above the tunnels, he was the perfect son of the president. He had been bred for the cameras with his polished smile and perfect blond hair. They called him America’s Golden Boy. His entire life had been created for him to become president one day and take after his father.
But down here? He was just Brooks.
He and I ran the Night Sons.
Every year, two seniors were chosen to lead the society, and this year, the crown had fallen on us.
Across from us, Nico sat on a leather couch with his MacBook balanced on his lap and his feet propped on the cedar coffee table. He was typing fast, probably hacking into something.
“How’s our buddy Jett?” Brooks asked, rolling a joint between his fingers.
I glanced at my Rolex. “Fingers crossed he’s dead by now.”
“Hey, assholes,” Cassian announced as he returned, zipping his fly and strolling toward us. His gaze landed on me. “You couldn’t even get me a drink? Ungrateful prick. You’re welcome for the help tonight.”
I lifted my crystal tumbler in a fake toast. “You should be thanking me. You enjoy violence.” I drained the rest of the bourbon and extended the empty glass toward him. “Pour me another while you’re at it.”
He answered with a smirk and a quick flick of his middle finger before heading for the bar. “Go fuck yourself.”
I launched the glass across the room. It shattered against the back of his head with a loud crack.
Cassian didn’t even slow down, just laughed and flipped me off over his shoulder again as he kept walking.
“Did you send the video to Jett’s dad?” Nico asked without looking up from his MacBook.
“Sure did.” I shifted on the leather couch and pulled my phone from my pocket. The screen lit up when I unlocked it.
Reginald’s reply waited for me.
One word: OK.
I held up the phone so the others could see. “Nothing like fatherly love.”
Before tracking down Blair earlier tonight, I’d sent Reginald the video Nico had pulled from the library cameras. The video showed Jett spilling his mouth about the Night Sons like a drunk idiot begging to be killed.
Reginald, an Elder Night Son, understood the rules.
The rules had existed long before he was even born. Either we punished him or Jett. Bloodlines didn’t matter when rules were broken. Not even if your great-great-great-great grand-fucking-ancestor had been one of the First Benefactors themselves. If you talked, then you died.
Jett had already proven himself a waste of oxygen, so Reginald had made the smart choice and offered up his son without hesitation.