2. Zane
2
ZANE
I swallow and ignore the throb of pain it always creates. I need some air. The lecture hall is full of fucking idiots. It always is. This whole place is full of idiots.
Imagine a normal college, with all the self-satisfied students who think they’re better than everyone else and times that by a hundred.
These guys are the kids of incredibly wealthy crime lords, and in some rare instances, crime ladies, and they have the same arrogance as the kids of the normal wealthy folk, with the added belief that they’re untouchable. They aren’t. No one is.
I learned that lesson.
I swallow again and bite back the grimace. Being almost garroted is as painful as it sounds.
The lecturer is droning on. Verity is a few feet in front of us, and she turns for the third time to flash me a smile. I don’t know why that girl is acting like a bitch in heat around me, but I’m not interested. She’s not my type, and she’s used goods of the Devils. I’m not interested in their castoffs.
Taking out my phone, I bring up my notes app. Heading out for ten. Let me have your notes at the end.
I shove the message under Saint’s face, and his twin leans in to read it, too.
Saint shrugs. “Sure, dude. Don’t go far. We said we’d hit the gym today—get some of your strength back.”
Lex grimaces. “Word is that Nathaniele is going to pick you to fight this semester. I bet he’s going to put you up against Brute.”
I let out a laugh that sounds like a hiss and slam my lips closed around the noise. I hate it. It makes me cringe inside. Fucking screwed up throat.
Not worried , I type.
“You should be,” Saint says. “Brute isn’t called that for no reason. He might be a year below us, but he’s fucking massive, and he’s also fast. Not many people have that combination.”
Brute is big and fast, but so am I. I bet he doesn’t have the advantage that I do. I don’t give a fuck about consequences. I’ll risk being pummeled into a mush rather than lose. How many people can truly say that?
Touching my hand to my forehead in a mock salute to my two best friends, the Laurant twins, I push out of my seat, head up the steps and out the double doors.
When I step into the courtyard, I immediately suck in some crisp, fresh air. It’s bright and sunny but with that distinct chill to the air that announces fall is approaching. The girls will all be drinking endless Starbucks pumpkin lattes on the streets back home, and the boys will be playing sports on a field full of fallen leaves. And here I am, shut away in this strange institution that in so many ways feels like a relic from a time gone by.
Here, the girls know their place, and the men lead. The men fight, physically, for superiority, and we have a code of silence and honor. All of it ruled over by Nathaniele Rossi, our dean, and the head of the Italian mafia across the Eastern Seaboard and beyond.
I lean against the outside wall of the building, absorbing the heat from the surface. The fresh breeze washes over me, and I close my eyes as I tilt my face to the sun. The low hum of something I can’t quite figure out rumbles in the distance. Is it a plane? I open my eyes, shielding them against the glare of the sun, and scan the sky.
There’s nothing except for a few contrails of jets far too high up to make that kind of noise.
The rumble grows louder, and, as I listen, I realize it is echoing along the road through the woods and the outskirts of the college.
Something wicked this way comes , I think to myself as that deep growling bass of engines draws ever closer.
Intrigued, I push away from the wall, stalk through the yard, and head through a door to the right which takes me to the main entrance of the college. I’m interested enough to see who is coming to our college on what sounds like at least twenty bikes.
When I exit the main doors at the front of the college, I stop and pull back a little. Standing a few feet away, at the edge of the gravel path leading to the steps, is Nathaniele and his jumped-up shit of a son, Domenic. They’re both standing formally, hands crossed in front of them as they wait.
What the fuck is going on?
The noise gets louder, bigger, until I swear, I can feel the vibrations running through my feet.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as what looks to be about thirty, not twenty, bikes roar up the drive.
Slipping out of the door while everyone is staring forward, I move to my right and take out a cigarette. I tap it against the packet and watch the bikes approach. These aren’t modern superbikes, or those sports bikes; these are big, heavy hogs.
I put the cigarette between my lips and take out my Zippo lighter. I flick the lid open, strike the wheel, and touch the flame to the end of the cigarette. I rarely smoke these days. Once a week, at the most, twice. I like the taste, and it reminds me of being young.
When I was a pre-teen, I used to steal my father’s cigarettes sometimes and have one with my sister, her giggling and shushing me. She was three years older and really shouldn’t have been encouraging me. I think she liked to see me turn red and cough. The joke’s on her, though, because she got addicted and now she vapes everywhere she goes, whereas I can take it or leave it.
There’s not much I can’t take or leave. If you become a slave to your desires, you’re weak.
I’m not weak.
I blow the smoke out and narrow my eyes as the sun glints off the metal of the first bike pulling up to a stop in front of Nathaniele and his little group.
The men on the bikes are big. All of them. Big in that burly way that makes them look as if they work with their hands and build things. The leader pulls his helmet off as he still straddles the bike. His thighs are like fucking tree trunks. I bet he’d do well in the fight ring here.
He’s middle-aged, I think. Perhaps around forty-five. I can’t tell ages easily once someone gets over thirty. Between thirty and about sixty, they look the same to me. There are young people, like me and my fellow college-goers, middle-aged people, and then old people. That’s it. Don’t ask me to narrow it down further ’cause I can’t tell for shit other than that.
He has a short, dark beard, and heavy slashes of angry brows above deep-set eyes. His gaze sweeps over the men, the building, me, and then back to the men, before settling on Nathaniele.
As each bike stops, the roar of the engines lessens, until the final bike cuts out and I can hear the birds again.
There are three bikes behind the leader. Two more big men, and in between them someone who is most certainly female.
Even though she’s still sitting on her own bike, I can tell she’s petite in height. She’s definitely not petite all over, though. Her tits are big and practically bursting out of the leather jacket she’s wearing. Her thick thighs are also leather clad and grip the bike with obvious strength. For one crazy moment, even though I don’t know what the fuck she looks like, I picture them gripping my hips.
The leader slams down the kickstand on his bike, swings his leg over the seat to stand, and strolls over to Nathaniele.
“Pleased to meet you,” Nathaniele says in that stick-up-his-ass way he has.
Biker-dude ignores the hand and narrows his eyes. “You gonna take care of my daughter?”
Nathaniele laughs. “Straight down to business, I see. Well, then. See up there?” He points to the roof of the college.
The biker’s line of sight follows where Nathaniele is pointing. He shrugs.
“Keep looking.” Nataniele encourages.
A few seconds later, the whining of one of the drones makes itself known.
“They patrol the grounds all the time, day and night. We have a wired fence right around the perimeter. Guards on the gate at the entrance to the drive, which you already know. We have dogs patrolling the grounds, too, with their handlers. We also have a new team of security who patrol the outer edges of the grounds where the woods meet the boundary, just in case.”
“Just in case, huh?” The man laughs a little. “I heard you had a little bit of trouble.”
“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Dom chips in.
Christ, he’s an arrogant fucking shit, and I would love to detach his smug head from his body. But as he’s Nathaniele’s son, that would be a deadly thing for me to attempt.
Biker-dude narrows his eyes at Dom. “That right? And you are?”
Nathaniele glances to one side. “Domenic is my son, and he’s also learning the ropes.”
“Why? You sick?”
The man is blunt, like my father. Baba always gets right down to business.
“No,” Nathaniele says easily. “One day, though, many years in the future, he will inherit all of this.”
The biker kicks the gravel with a heavy boot. “Hmmm. My daughter suggested this place to me, and when I looked into it, I begrudgingly agreed. After all, you are somewhat unique and serve our kind of demographic.”
Nathaniele glances to the side, and then back to the man in front. “To be honest, this is the first time we’ve had any One Percenters here, but all of our world are welcome.”
While ninety-nine percent of the motorcycling public follow the law, there’s the one percent who don’t, like this gang, I assume. They wear the one-percent patch to show the world who they are.
“Yeah, but we aren’t quite of your world. Not entirely.”
The whole time the men have been speaking, none of the others have moved from their bikes. The girl, who I keep glancing at, is getting twitchy. Her fingers drum on the gas tank in front of her, and her foot taps the peg.
“You’re enough a part of it for her to be offered a place here.” Nathaniele jerks his chin to the girl.
“There’s one condition, or we turn around and ride out of here.”
Nathaniele sighs and shifts his weight slightly from one foot to the other. “Go on. I shall see if I can meet it.”
“I want her to study what she wants. Math is her thing. I saw that the women here don’t study the same curriculum because they’re expected to marry and be homemakers. I want more for Vani. If she comes here, she gets to receive a proper education.”
Nathaniele clears his throat. “First, let me assure you that our females do get a proper education. Second, I can grant your request, however it does mean she’ll be taking some of her classes with only men in the room. Are you going to be okay with that?”
The biker laughs, white teeth glinting against dark beard and tan skin. “She spends her time mostly among men now, and they aren’t easy, but she holds her own. Anyways, any man here touches her, and I’ll have his balls as ornaments for my desk.”
Oh, shit. He did have to go and say that, didn’t he?
I might have lied to myself when I said I had no addictions. I do have one little temptation in life. I always want the things I’m told I can’t have.
Every. Single. Fucking time.
“Okay, then,” Nathaniele says easily, “we have a deal.”
“Good.” The biker holds his hand out, and Nathaniele takes it, then they shake.
When they’re done, the biker turns and flicks his fingers.
The girl swings one glorious thigh over the bike and stands straight. She pulls her helmet free, and a cascade of dark curls falls out of the confines and caresses her shoulders.
It’s like I’ve been punched in the chest, the air vanishing from my lungs. I stare, my eyes practically popping out of my head like an old cartoon character.
Even in her chunky biker boots, she’s only around five-foot-three, so she’s maybe five-two barefoot—and boy, do I want to see her barefoot … and naked. Her curves are breathtaking, as is her face. She has full, pouty lips that just scream to be kissed, and a button nose. Best of all, unlike the prim little princesses here, she dresses like the bar girls I like, and I can see ink peeking out of the neck of her t-shirt. Her jeans, biker boots, and leather jacket combo look great on her feminine curves.
My mouth waters, and when big brown eyes flick my way, I let myself hold her stare before I glance away and stub my cigarette out.
She walks over to her father, her hips swaying and her hair snaking around her shoulders. She’s like my very own medusa. She won’t turn me to stone, but I might lose my balls if I touch her.
It might be worth it.
I almost laugh at the thought. I bet Saint would fucking love her. He likes to take pretty things and corrupt them into something dark, and despite her ink, her sassy way of walking, and her clothing, her big, innocent eyes tell me this girl isn’t as tough as she wants to appear.
People think his nickname is Saint because of his surname, Laurant, being so close to the clothing brand—plus he never met a piece of expensive clothing he didn’t like. But his moniker has a deeper meaning. He’s called Saint because he’s the fucking devil himself in disguise.
Saint, like his twin, is beautiful. I’m not so insecure in my masculinity that I can’t see that. The twins turn heads wherever they go, but they’re fucked up. And Saint? He’s the one who’s really a mess.
He even scares me sometimes.
Good thing he has Lex to pull him back from the brink and remind him of the tiny bit of humanity stored somewhere deep inside.
Yeah, the twins will love this new girl.
From what I can gather, while I was away, they were trying it on with Camile, but they got nowhere. That girl’s family would gut them and hang them from the fence as a warning to others, so I’m glad they backed off.
A lot of the girls here guard their virginity the way the dogs guard the fence. Little Miss Curls here, though, looks like she’s an innocent girl, begging to be corrupted. Just the way we like them.