Contemporary Milan, Italy.
In the dazzling world of Vincitore Academy, Margherita, a half-Korean firebrand from humble beginnings, ignites a clash of wills with the P2, the city's elite quartet of dazzling and infuriatingly entitled boys.
Yet, privi...
In utter shock, Re waved Laura away and walked out of the school gate and into the city, oblivious to cars and people. He roamed aimlessly, Margherita's adoring gaze on Arcani branded hot on his pain. His chest literally ached. So, this was a broken heart. On top of that, he'd been made a fool for the entire school to see.
Hours later, he realized he'd walked all the way to some shady suburb. Some scumbags surrounded him, demanding his phone and wallet. Fuck'em. Have it. For once the fight had gone out of Re.
He handed off his wallet and phone. Who'd he call, anyway?
Nonplussed, Re walked away, or would have if the main thug hadn't yipped, wallet open in his hands, stacks of credit cards and cash painting a dazed afterglow on his greedy face.
Well, fuck. Re considered having to cancel all the cards, activating the new ones, his name besmirched over a mugging. He sighed and turned back. "On second thought. I'll take those back."
The alpha barely lifted his head by the time Re had knocked him out with a quick jab in the face, kicking a second guy unconscious. Re caught his phone and wallet mid-fall. The rest of the thugs scattered with small awkward back steps, arms raised, seeking easier prey.
Yet, even the fight did not revive the king.
He wandered all the way to the Navigli, to Vicolo Delle Lavandaie, remembering the date he'd forced on Margherita. Down in the subway station, he skimmed his fingers on the silly graffiti he'd improvised:
Vincitore ❤️ Pescatore
First night together
He'd been so hopeful, so naive.
So fucking stupid.
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Mauro was fuming by the time he got home.
His brother was playing video games, as usual, some shooter with zombies. "What is up, little bro? You look angry."
Mauro and his brother, Carlo, shared the room. They looked very much alike, except that Carlo had dark hair and, since the incident with Vincitore, favored one leg in an obvious limp.
"That asshole, man, you won't believe it." Mauro put his backpack down and plopped on the bottom bunk.
Carlo paused. "Vincitore?"
Every time Carlo talked or thought about Vincitore his demeanor changed: his voice lowered, his movements slowed down, and his face contracted in a bitter grimace, like the aftertaste of what had happened still lingered in his mouth. Mauro considered that four years of counseling hadn't put a dent in the amount of trauma his brother had suffered.
