Page 37 of Matteo
Skye scoffed. “You’ll be brought to your knees one day, Nikola Nikolaev.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” he stated, letting his Russian accent bleed into his words. He stared at my friend like she was his worst enemy. They were, in fact, almost step-cousins, but that was a complicated relationship that didn’t warrant delving into.
He shook off the exchange and grinned, showing off his perfectly straight white teeth.
“Ladies.” He stepped aside, extending his hand like he was showing us a way to a magic kingdom. “After you.”
“I definitely didn’t miss this shit at Yale,” I grumbled as we all followed him deeper into the forest. Like a sick version ofLittle Red Riding Hood. “Not even been back a day and I feel like I’ve already lost a year of my life.”
“Me too,” Francesca said. “And what’s the deal with Skye and that batshit Russian?”
“It’s been like this since the beginning of summer,” Anya huffed next to me, following along. “It’s like they’re playing a game of cat and mouse, and we’re all getting caught up in it.”
“It seems to be the running theme,” Amara muttered, and I couldn’t quite shake off the feeling that she was talking about herself.
This was dumb.
I should have stayed in my dorm and gotten caught up on the work I’d missed. Instead, I stood here sweating in my Dior summer dress, my lungs burning as I inhaled sharp breaths and listened to some angry heavy metal from someone’s speaker.
“I need a gallon of bug spray,” I grumbled, scratching one leg with my other. I loved being outdoors, but trekking through the woods definitely wasn’t my thing. I preferred resorts, exotic islands, somewhere cold in Norway or Alaska where I could gaze up at the stars and not feel a single bug buzzing around me. “I’m pretty sure mosquitoes are draining me of all blood.”
“It’s because you’re too sweet,” Amara teased. “Try taking a page out of Hannah’s book and they’ll all fly away.”
I rolled my eyes, but remained silent. I hadn’t seen Hannah all day and couldn’t help but feel like she was avoiding me. Something was off with her, but I couldn’t quite pinpoint what.
Penelope interrupted my thoughts. “Those painted faces are dumb. Scary, but dumb as fuck.”
“Cousin… fucking language,” I scolded, unable to keep my face straight. She snickered before we turned to watch the wooded area around us.
The clearing lay hidden deep within the heart of the forest, smothered by towering trees whose skeletal branches clawed at the night sky, choking out any trace of moonlight. Shadows pooled thick and heavy along the edges, watching from the tree line like silent predators. The air was dense with the scent of damp earth, smoke, and something faintly metallic—sharp, like blood on rust.
Bonfires raged across the clearing, flames clawing skyward and vomiting showers of embers into the dark. The firelight twisted over the gathered crowd, their faces flickering between moments of excitement and something darker—grins that stretched too wide, eyes reflecting the flames with a strange, feral glint.
From a battered speaker perched on a stump near one of the fires, harsh metal music screamed into the night—distorted riffs, guttural vocals, and pounding drums that echoed through the clearing like a war cry. The sound cut through the air like a blade, vibrating in the chest, making the bonfires seem to burn hotter, wilder.
“Why do they do it?” I wondered under my breath. I’d heard stories of these activities taking place, but I never bothered attending them. It was truly terrifying the way the orange glow of the bonfire threw shadows all around us and glimmered off each and every skull-painted face.
“It’s like we’ve stepped into a freak show,” I added.
Anya shrugged. “Gabriel said it’s to remind the Legacies, and everyone connected to the mafia, of all the skeletons our families had to bury in the past. I suppose it’s a nod to our… parents. Ancestors.”
“That’s honestly the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Penelope hissed.
“Hey, I’m just repeating what I was told,” Anya grumbled.
“Also, each faction of the mafia uses a slightly different skull,” Amara chimed in. “See over there…” She pointed discreetly to the far right at black-and-white skulls with golden accents. “Those are kingpins. My peeps. Then over to the left with thorns and such are the Omertàs. And then of course there are those with silver accents. Those are your peeps, Arianna.”
“I guess it’s kind of… symbolic?” I hedged, noting that the only ones who didn’t bother with painted faces and scary skullswere the Ashfords—the “Billionaire Kings” as the world liked to refer to them. There were the Yakuza heirs here as well with their own terrifying masks. “And they do it like this every time?”
“More or less,” Penelope huffed. “I really hate violence, but this almost feels… more ominous.”
I wasn’t fond of horror movies, and this certainly felt like a scene from one.
We shouldn’t be here, at this “party.”
On either side of me were my roommates—the only other women here—who looked just as shell-shocked as I was.
“Tonight we show what happens to human traffickers.” A voice I recognized all too well echoed through the forest, everyone’s attention on him.
