Gloria
My mother drove like the devil was on our tail. Two hours. No words. Just the sound of tires screaming against the road and her hands trembling on the wheel.
I huffed out a deep breath and proceeded to grab my hair out of frustration. My mother was driving for the last 2 hours without letting me speak a word to her. Her frantic movements, sweaty temples, and trembling eyes helped little for me to discover what she was thinking.
My first day of school was a day in hell.
I have never seen her act like a madman. She looked hunted. Haunted.
My calm and composed mother was driving away from school, leaving our house 10 yards behind as if she had a corpse in the trunk and the FBI was onto us.
I looked out of the window, trying to figure out where we were. Several trees passed us like the wind, and the sky was getting darker. If we stay out for another hour, we will get past my father's curfew for me.
But my mother won't speak a word to save my life.
After a long, excruciating 2 hours, the car came to a halt with a screech. I grabbed my seatbelt tightly as my back hit the car seat. Mom was taking long, deep breaths. For a while, I felt as if she would stay there for an eternity.
"Come out," she opened the door and stepped out.
I reflected her movements.
The countryside stretched around us, endless green, the sky bleeding into sunset. My mother stood still, staring at the dying light like it had all the answers she couldn't give.
I could barely recognize her now. She looked so serious and composed that it gave me chills. Her eyes drifted towards me, "You need to know. Now, because it is too late."
"You need to know," her voice cracked. "Now, because it's already too late."
A tear slid down her cheek. She didn't wipe it away. "I cannot watch you suffer anymore when you don't even know why."
I froze. My throat closed.
She turned to me, eyes burning, and spoke the words that ripped my world apart.
"Your father was not just a man with a business, Gloria. He was Mikhail Valevsky's right hand. The shadow behind the most feared name in Russia. On our wedding day, blood spilled before my white dress could even dry. Mikhail was gunned down, and they pointed their fingers at your father."
Her laugh was hollow. Broken. "They said he betrayed him. His soul companion. His brother in everything but blood. Betrayal—that was the story they spread. And from that day on, the Valevskys swore vengeance. We ran. We hid. We built this fragile lie of a life for you."
Her hands gripped mine so tight it hurt. "But enemies never forget. The bullying, the whispers, that was punishment. And now it is Nico. If they cannot find someone to take the throne, they will take your brother. They will carve him into the right hand, the same way your father once was. They will not stop until one of you bleeds for their empire."
The world tilted. My knees buckled, but I stayed standing. Mafia. Father. Nico. All twisted into one blade lodged in my chest.
My voice cracked. "Luca Moretti?"
Her silence was answer enough.
Every laugh. Every cruel word. Every bruise I swallowed in silence. All because of him. Her eyes closed, face collapsing. "Luca is Dmitri Valevsky's son. The one hunting Nico."
I let go of her hands. My palms were sweating, my chest burning.
My father was mafia. My brother was being hunted. And all this time, they left me in the dark, to choke on the ashes of secrets.
And it did not feel like protection. It felt like betrayal.
*****
Each step I took toward school felt unbearably heavy, as if invisible chains had wrapped around my ankles and were dragging me backward. My mother's words had not left me; they carved themselves deeper into my chest with every breath I took.
Father. Mikhail. Betrayal. Nico. The names echoed inside me like a curse, and suddenly, every memory of my life twisted into something ugly, unfamiliar. The childhood I thought I had—the safe home, the distant yet normal family—had all been a lie carefully hidden beneath silk.
The street around me blurred. Faces of strangers flickered past, laughter and chatter spilling into the air, but none of it touched me. Their lives seemed so weightless while mine felt like it was collapsing in on itself.
My chest ached with every step, my pulse loud and erratic, and I wondered if anyone could see how close I was to breaking.
Now I knew the truth—this wasn't random cruelty. It was punishment, and I was the target.
Nico's face flashed in my mind, and the thought of him being dragged into that world made my stomach twist with dread. Secrets had been placed on my shoulders like a coffin lid, and I couldn't breathe beneath their weight.
But even heavier than all of it was him. Ilian. The gunshots from yesterday returned in a rush of sound and heat, replaying over and over, echoing in the corners of my mind until I shivered.
I tightened my fists. I couldn't keep swallowing this storm. If I wished for answers, if I wanted air, I would have to confront him.
I walked into Ashwood Hall, the hallways full of students, but my mind elsewhere. Gunshots. The day before. The memory would not let me breathe. Every shadow, every movement relived itself in my mind as I clutched my bag closer, trying to shake it off.
"Nina?" I heard, and I looked up to see her fighting through the crowd with that frantic, calm intensity she always had."Gloria! Are you okay?" Her eyes searched mine, voice tight with concern. "The school is... they're investigating yesterday. Police guards are at the gates now. Everyone's... on edge."
I nodded a little, more to get her to continue talking than in answer.
She leaned in a little, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And... girls are losing their minds over Ilian. You know, devastated Ilian, broody and sulking. Everyone's swooning."
I blinked, and it hit me. He didn't tell anyone I was there yesterday. Probably to spare me the questions. My chest tightened—not relief, not gratitude, but irritation. I would get it out of him. One way or another.
I drifted through classes, my notes mediocre, my mind still on yesterday and him. Then his class came.
The classroom changed the moment he stepped in it. Air was heavier, denser, as though gravity inclined his direction. My chest constricted without warning, my hands twitched on my notebook.
Every word he spoke had another effect on me, not just teaching, but command, magnetism, veiled threat. The aura that enveloped him—cold, impenetrable, and yet piercing. rendered it impossible to look away, impossible to focus on anything else. My heart raced. My stomach clenched. I hated that it had this effect on me, and yet... some part of me hoped it would.
Class ended, but I couldn't bring myself to call him out from the back to talk. My throat constricted, my legs trembled, so instead of facing him. I followed.
Sneaky strides, attempting not to be seen. My bag scraped against my side, every sound echoing in my ears. He walked a straight line, unaware—or pretending to be—of my presence.
The hallways emptied, and my chest tightened as realization dawned. I was following my teacher. Alone. Into who-knew-where.
Before I knew it, we were outside, and I followed him into a garden. Damp grass and early evening scented the air. My heart thudded in my ears, aching, as my head reeled. What am I doing? What if he figures it out? What if this goes wrong?
Then he turned.
Sharp and quick. Each portion of him was on high alert, each sense clamoring for attention. My feet paused, my stomach dropped. My fists clenched at my sides, and I swallowed.
I was in trouble now.