The morning sun spilled over the De Rossi estate, gilding its marble halls in false warmth. But the atmosphere at breakfast was frigid.
Celeste sat at the head of the long dining table, swirling her coffee, sunglasses perched on her face despite being indoors. Her skin glowed, but her eyes—behind dark lenses—were unreadable. The faintest bruising lingered beneath her cheekbones, a whisper of last night's indulgence.
Across from her, Ales stood as always.
Silent.
Stoic.
Immovable.
A shadow forged in discipline, not desire.
She hadn't mentioned the car.
She hadn't asked why she woke in her own bed, fully dressed, smelling faintly of his cologne.
She hadn't asked how she got there at all.
And that silence?
That silence was war.
Then—Vito De Rossi entered.
His presence alone cooled the air.
"Celeste," he said, voice like sharpened gravel. "You're going to class today."
She didn't even look up. "I'm not a child."
"No," he agreed. "You're the future head of a criminal empire. Learn to blend in with the prey before you rule the predators."
She arched a brow. "You want me to play normal?"
"I want you to learn control."
"I have control."
Vito's voice dropped. "Last night says otherwise."
A flicker of tension passed between father and daughter.
She shoved back her chair, finished her espresso, and stood.
"Fine," she hissed. "Let's go pretend I give a damn about algebra."
The black De Rossi car pulled up at Gravello University—where old money, future dictators, and prodigal killers learned to recite Latin while laundering their souls.
Ales opened the back door and stepped out first, scanning.
Clear.
Then Celeste emerged, sunglasses on, long legs first, heels clicking like warnings on marble.
Her black pencil skirt hugged her hips.
Her silk blouse was one breath away from scandal.
She was the goddamn sun, and she knew it.
The campus buzzed around them.
She tossed a glance over her shoulder. "Why the hell is he dressed like that?"
Ales wore fitted black jeans and a collared shirt, his holster hidden beneath a tailored coat.
One of Vito's subordinates stepped up with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"New protocol. Official enrollment. Keeps attention low. He's your bodyguard and now—your classmate."
Celeste laughed—a sharp, low sound.
"You're joking."
"He has a full identity built," the man replied. "Top marks. Transfer from Milan. Father's dead. Mother's dead. Sob story. Girls will love him."
Celeste turned to Ales and looked him up and down with lethal amusement.
"You better stay in line, student."
"I always do," he replied coolly.
Inside the courtyard, the wolves were already circling.
Her circle. The heirs of vice. The legacy brats of Europe's underworld.
Seven of them lounged near the fountain—three girls, four boys—all of them dripping in designer filth and inherited arrogance.
Luca was the first to notice.
He stood and let out a sharp whistle.
"Well, well. Look who's back from her royal coma."
"And look what she dragged in," said Danika, smirking. "Is that your new chew toy, Celes?"
Celeste barely glanced their way. "Jealousy doesn't suit you, Dani."
Danika's red lips curled. "Neither does poverty."
They all laughed.
Except Ales.
He stood behind her as she walked past them, face carved from stone.
Luca moved to block his path.
Up close, he smelled like sex and gunpowder. The kind of boy who'd snort coke off a corpse if the girl was pretty enough.
"So this is the soldier," he said, voice dripping sarcasm. "What's your name, muscle?"
Ales didn't answer.
Luca smirked. "Mute? That's hot."
Danika stepped closer, dragging a hand across Ales's chest. "I bet he's the type that cries when he comes."
"Or kills," Celeste said, pausing just ahead of them. Her tone was icy. "You think I'd keep a man around if he were weak?"
Silence fell.
Luca chuckled and stepped aside.
Ales followed, never looking back.
The lecture hall was modern, minimalist, and massive. Tiered rows. Walls of glass. A fortress dressed as a classroom.
Celeste took her usual seat—front center, legs crossed, phone out.
Ales was three seats behind, like clockwork.
His eyes scanned every angle.
Every face.
Every pocket.
The professor began to speak, but his voice was background noise.
Ales wasn't here to learn.
He was here to defend.
To bleed if necessary.
To die if required.
And yet, when Celeste shifted slightly and met his eyes across the rows, the battlefield changed.
She smirked—soft and slow.
Not playful.
Predatory.
Like she remembered exactly how his pulse had spiked under her lips the night before.
Like she knew he was still trying to forget.
She turned away without a word.
And in the silence that followed, Ales clenched his fist beneath the desk.
---------
The classroom smelled like wood polish and silent resentment.
Celeste De Rossi lounged lazily in her seat, chin resting on her palm, eyes fixed out the window—bored beyond belief. The professor droned on about power vacuums and feudalism. Irony. She could teach the damn lecture better than him.
And then came the whisper.
"Goddamn, your new shadow's built like a god."
The voice belonged to Alina, one of her friends—not close, not trusted, but tolerated.
Celeste turned, eyebrow raised.
Alina tilted her head toward the next row, biting her bottom lip.
"If he ever gets tired of you, send him my way, yeah?"
Celeste didn't respond.
She looked.
And—for the first time in the dull glow of fluorescent lighting—she really saw him.
Ales was seated directly across the aisle.
Black shirt rolled at the sleeves. Thick forearms tensed over his notebook—not that he was writing anything.
His neck was inked. A ghost of a line snaking just beneath the collar. Veins traced down his arms like a roadmap of restraint. His jaw clenched every time the professor said something idiotic, and the tendons in his neck flexed with quiet violence.
He was all silence and heat. Stillness and threat.
She shifted in her seat.
Her mouth suddenly dry.
Her thighs suddenly pressed together.
Ales must have felt her stare—he always did.
He didn't turn.
But his hand twitched.
A subtle reaction.
Too subtle for anyone else.
But not for her.
Not anymore.
The class dismissed late, the hallway outside already beginning to clear.
Celeste stretched like a lioness in sunlight. Her heels clicked against the marble floors as she walked ahead, followed—always—by the heavy, measured steps of Ales.
She didn't talk.
But she felt his presence like a second skin.
"Leaving campus?" Alina asked, slinging her bag over one shoulder.
"Lunch off-site," Celeste lied smoothly.
She didn't say Vito ordered it.
She didn't say Ales would be watching her even if she went to the restroom.
They moved toward the east quad—a scenic courtyard with ivy-covered walls and wide-open spaces that screamed security risk.
Celeste walked near the fountain, scrolling through her phone.
Ales trailed just behind, scanning the rooftops, windows, blind spots.
Something felt wrong.
Too many people were gone.
Too many doors closed.
Silence—where there should've been noise.
He reached for the comm at his belt—
Then it happened.
Fast.
Precise.
Too professional to be random.
A man lunged from behind a pillar, dressed as a janitor, but his blade wasn't for cleaning. It gleamed in the sun.
Straight at Celeste's spine.
Ales moved.
No hesitation.
No words.
He crossed the space between them like a bullet.
And took the blade.
Right in the side.
Deep.
The sound wasn't a scream. It was a grunt. A wet, sharp exhale of air through teeth.
Celeste spun around just in time to see blood spill down his side.
The attacker tried to pull back, but Ales caught him with one hand—grip locked around his wrist. Bone cracked.
Ales pulled the man forward, used his own momentum, and drove an elbow straight into his throat.
Collapse.
Silence.
Only the sound of blood dripping onto concrete.
Celeste stared.
It wasn't the gore.
She'd seen worse.
It was the way Ales stood there, blade still buried in his side, breathing through his nose like nothing had changed.
His eyes met hers.
Cold.
Feral.
Focused.
She walked toward him—slowly—heels echoing against the stones.
"You're bleeding," she said.
He looked down, as if surprised.
Then back at her. "It's not yours."
Her throat tightened.
"You took that hit for me."
He didn't reply.
Just reached up, grabbed the blade's hilt, and pulled it out in one clean motion.
Blood surged.
She didn't flinch.
Neither did he.
"You were supposed to protect me," she said through clenched teeth, glaring down at the blood soaking his shirt.
"I did," Ales replied flatly.
Her eyes flicked to the gash in his side. "You didn't need to get stabbed doing it."
He looked her in the eye—calm, cold, unfazed. "Didn't need to be told either."
The nerve.
Celeste took a step closer, heels grinding into blood-slick stone.
"You think this earns you points with me?"
"No," he said. "I don't care what you think."
She scoffed. "You're nothing without this job. Just another body with a death wish."
"Then don't get in the way next time," he said, voice sharp enough to cut.
Their eyes locked.
No gratitude. No softness. Just challenge—two predators testing each other's leash.
She turned, flipping her hair. "Try not to die. It's annoying."
Ales didn't move.
He just watched her walk away.
Still bleeding.
Still silent.
Still the only one not pretending.