Chapter 28
Gio
The silence in my room is a high-pitched whine sitting right behind my eyes. I pace the length of the floor, three steps one way, pivot, three steps back. My skin feels too tight, like I'm wearing a suit that's two sizes too small.
I grab the bottle of whiskey from the desk.
The glass clanks against the wood, too loud in the empty space.
I pour. My hand shakes. It's a fine tremor, a vibration I can't stop.
I stare at my fingers, willing them to still.
They don't. The amber liquid splashes over the rim of the glass, pooling on the desk.
"Fuck it."
I knock it back in one swallow. The burn is instant, a fireball down the throat that settles in the gut. I pour another. This one goes down just as fast.
My body needs to get out of here. Noise is needed. Bodies. Warm ones. Elm House is the destination. Getting shitfaced is the plan.
The plan is to find a girl with a pulse and a nice ass and I'm going to forget Zoe Barnes exists.
She was a body. A tight little body with a smart mouth and a spine made of steel, sure, but just a body in the end. Replaceable. There are hundreds of girls at Briarcliff who would kill to be on my arm. I don't need the one who looks at me like I'm a problem to be solved.
I screw the cap back on the flask. My hand slips. The metal threads grind together, slipping again. I slam the flask down on the desk, hard enough to crack the plastic. The sound echoes.
I'm lying to myself. I know it. If she was just a body, I wouldn't feel like I'm bleeding out internally. If she was just a body, the silence would feel like a physical weight crushing my chest.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Her name flashes on the screen.
A desperate, pathetic surge of hope shoots through me. I snatch it up, my thumb hovering over the accept button. Maybe she's calling to take it back. Maybe she realized what a mistake she made.
But she's calling because she refuses to lose. Because walking away clean matters more to her than me ever did.
A wave of self-loathing so violent it makes me sick crashes over me. I'm a liar; a coward. I'm a pathetic piece of shit who thought he could buy his way into her world and then got his feelings hurt when she called him on it.
With a roar, I hurl the phone across the room. It smacks against the cinderblock wall, the screen spiderwebbing into a thousand shards of black glass before clattering to the floor. The screen goes dark.
The violence isn't enough. The rage is a living thing under my skin, clawing to get out. I need to hit something, to feel anything other than this hollow, gnawing emptiness.
My hand balls into a fist and swings, connecting with the wall beside my door. The impact is a sickening crunch. Pain explodes up my arm, sharp and immediate. My knuckles split, blood welling up instantly.
But it's good. It's real.
I pull my hand back, staring at the crater I've just made in the drywall. A perfect, fist-sized hole. I stand there, panting, my bloody knuckles throbbing in time with my heartbeat.
The room is a mess. Whiskey stains the desk. Cracked phone on the floor, screen ruined but still faintly pulsing as notifications queue. A hole in the wall. A perfect reflection of what's inside me.
I grab my jacket and the flask. I scoop the phone up on instinct and shove it into my pocket without looking at it. My body needs a hit. A distraction is needed. I need to stop feeling like I'm the one who got erased.
The bass at Elm House is a physical blow, a heavy, thudding fist against my sternum. I push through the front door, and the air hits me—stale beer, cheap perfume, and the suffocating heat of too many bodies packed into a space designed for half the number.
Usually, I thrive in this shit. It's white noise. It drowns out the static. Tonight, it just grates.
I shoulder past a freshman who doesn't know to get out of the way, ignoring the spill of red solo cups against my jacket. A drink is needed. Anything to stop thinking.
I scan the room, tactical assessment kicking in before I can stop it.
Adrian and Clara are in the corner, her hand on his arm, looking like the fucking power couple of the century. Declan and Talia are near the DJ booth, Declan laughing at something that isn't funny. Dante and Cole are posted up by the kegs, playing bouncer like they own the tap.
Then I see Maya and Genny near the stairs, huddled like they're plotting a coup.
And then I see her.
Zoe.
Everything in me reorients. My chest tightens first. Then my shoulders angle without permission, my weight shifting in her direction like gravity has teeth.
She's standing near the wall, a drink in her hand that she isn't drinking, eyes scanning the room like she's counting exits. Closed off. Angry. Untouchable.
One step toward her before I catch myself. I force my feet to stay planted. I force my hands to stay at my sides. If I go to her now, I won't stop. My hand will grab her wrist. Her name will come out like an accusation. I'll make a scene she doesn't deserve.
My plan to find a warm body for the night evaporates instantly. She's here; she's the only thing I can see.
"Gio!"
Someone slaps my back. I flinch, turning to see Dante waving a red cup at me.
"Where the hell have you been, man? Party started an hour ago."
"Around," I say, eyes already drifting back to Zoe. She hasn't seen me yet. "Busy."
"Well, you're here now." He shoves the cup into my hand. "Drink. We're doing shots at the keg in five."
I take the cup, but I don't drink.
I watch Zoe turn her head. Zoe spots Maya, offers a tight, polite smile that doesn't reach her eyes. Zoe looks tired.
And she looks fucking perfect.
I grip the plastic cup until it buckles. I told myself she was replaceable, just a means to an end. But seeing her across the room, surrounded by noise and chaos, the only thing I can think is that the noise is too loud and she is the only quiet thing in the room. I'm fucked.
I crush the cup in my hand, beer sloshing over my knuckles, and toss it into the nearest trash can. I need a reaction. I need to see that ice crack. If she can look at me like I'm nothing, then I'm going to show her exactly how replaceable I can be.
A sophomore drifts past me—a blonde with too much mascara and a dress that's barely holding her in. She looks hungry. Easy.
I reach out and catch her wrist, pulling her into my orbit. She stumbles, giggling, the scent of vanilla and cheap booze hitting me in a wave that smells nothing like Zoe.
"Hi," she breathes, eyes wide.
"Hi," I say, turning her so her back is to the room. My hand slides to her waist, settling on bare skin. It's soft. Unresisting. Wrong.
I lean down, brushing my lips against her ear. She shivers, tilting her head to give me better access. It's mechanical. A script I've run a hundred times.
My eyes never leave Zoe.
She's watching.
I drag my mouth down the sophomore's neck, pressing a wet, open kiss just below her earlobe. The girl moans, a soft, practiced sound that scrapes against my nerves.
I keep my eyes open. I stare at Zoe, waiting for the flare of temper. Waiting for the sharp tongue or the cold glare.
She takes a sip of her drink. Her expression doesn't change. She looks bored. Like she's watching a rerun she stopped caring about seasons ago.
Something in my chest caves.
I grip the sophomore's waist harder, pulling her flush against me. She grinds her ass against my cock, but I'm half-hard at best. This is a tantrum.
"You want to get out of here?" the girl asks, turning her head to look at me.
I don't answer. I just watch Zoe turn away to say something to Maya.
She dismissed me.
"Hey," the girl says, her voice tightening. "You're not even—"
"Go," I say, releasing her waist and stepping back. "Get lost."
She blinks, the hunger in her eyes curdling into offense. "Asshole."
"Yeah," I mutter, watching Zoe disappear into the crowd. "I am."
I stand there in the middle of the party, surrounded by bodies and noise, and I realize I can't hurt her because she's already gone.
A ripple moves through the room. Conversations die mid-sentence. Heads dip. The blue glow of a hundred phone screens lifts like an offering.
My pocket buzzes. Once. Twice. Three times. I don't need to look. I know what it is.
Across the room, Adrian pulls his phone from his jacket. He frowns, taps the screen, then goes still—the kind of still that precedes violence. Declan mirrors him. Dante and Cole stop pouring and check their screens.
The music keeps thumping, but the party is over.
I pull my phone out. Cracked screen lights anyway, stubborn and cruel. The Briarcliff Whisper banner fills it. The headline burns in red:
EXPOSED: GIOVANNI ROSSI'S KILLER PAST.
The floor drops out from under me.
This is the report. Photos. Blood alcohol content. The lies. Everything we buried.
I look up, scanning for threats. My heart slams against my ribs, frantic, trapped. Adrian is already pushing through the crowd toward me. Declan is right behind him. They aren't smiling. They know.
"Hey," someone says to my left. A guy I don't know. A junior. He looks at his phone, then at me. "Is that true? You killed someone?"
"Shut up," I snap, stepping into his space. He backs off, but it's too late. People are staring. Whispers rise, sharp and hungry. The room turns. Hedonism becomes hunt.
"Gio," Adrian says, stopping in front of me. He blocks my view of the room with his body. "Put the phone away."
"Did you see it?" I ask. My voice sounds wrong. Too tight.
"I saw it," he says. His eyes search my face. Worried. I see math. Risk assessment. Containment.
"I'm fine," I say, backing up a step. "I don't need a babysitter."
"You don't need a scene," Declan cuts in. "Everyone is looking."
"Let them look," I say. My palms are slick. "I didn't do anything."
"The report says you did," Dante says from my right.
"It's a lie."
"Then we fix it," Adrian says. Calm. "Here. Now." He gestures toward the hallway. The exit. The gallows.
"I'm not going anywhere with you," I say. Every face is turned toward me. Every phone raised.
Then I see her.
Zoe stands near the stairs, flanked by Clara and Talia. Zoe isn't looking at her phone. Her focus is on me. Sharp. Focused. She sees the panic. She sees the cage.
My body breaks rank before my brain can stop it.
"Zoe," I say.
Her name rips out of me like a confession.
I move.