Cal’s Gamble

Marlo

The hum of the Monash University cafeteria was usually just background noise the clinking of cheap ceramic plates, the chatter of nursing students arguing over anatomy textbooks, and the steady drone of the espresso machine near the back counter.

Today, you could hear a pin drop.

I sat at a corner table near the ceiling glass windows, my fingers wrapped tight around a paper cup of lukewarm black coffee. My backpack sat open on the vinyl bench beside me, the dark screen of my laptop blinking quietly.

Across the room, standing right in the middle of the crowded dining hall, were Jarrah and Cal.

They weren't whispering.

"You've been bleeding out the accounts for two months, Vance!" Cal’s raspy voice boomed off the tile walls, harsh and furious. He stood chest to chest with Jarrah, his bruised, battered face twisted into an ugly snarl. "You think because your old man ran the syndicate networks that you can just skim the logistics funds and leave the rest of us holding the bag when the feds kick the doors in?"

A sharp gasp rippled through the nearby tables. Students froze mid-bite, forks hovering in the air. Heads whipped around.

Jarrah didn't flinch. He stood tall, his massive shoulders tense beneath a black leather jacket, his amber eyes completely devoid of warmth. He looked like a predator cornered in a cage, his jaw locked so hard a muscle twitched violently in his cheek.

"Watch your mouth, Cal," Jarrah growled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low rumble that carried across the entire hall. "You're alive because I let you breathe. Don't push your luck."

"Screw you!" Cal yelled back, his fist flying out in a sudden, brutal arc.

Crack.

The sound of flesh hitting bone echoed like a gunshot through the cafeteria.

Jarrah's head snapped to the side from the impact. A thin line of bright red blood instantly welled up at the corner of his lip. The entire room erupted into chaos. Several students scrambled backward, knocking over their chairs, while others pulled out their phones to record the unbelievable sight of the untouchable hockey team captain getting punched out by his own enforcer.

Before Jarrah could retaliate, Cal shoved him hard backward into a stack of empty plastic trays.

"We're done, Vance!" Cal roared, pointing a shaking, blood stained finger at Jarrah’s chest. "I'm taking my cut, and I'm walking away before you sink the whole damn ship!"

Without waiting for an answer, Cal spun around on his heel, shouldered his way violently through the paralyzed crowd of students, and stormed out the double doors toward the courtyard.

Jarrah slowly wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. He looked up, his dark amber eyes sweeping across the stunned cafeteria until they locked onto mine in the far corner.

There was a brief, agonizing flash of raw warning in his gaze a silent message reminding me of the razor-thin line we were walking. Then, his face hardened back into cold mask of fury. He turned and walked out through the opposite exit, slamming the heavy fire door behind him.

My heart hammered a frantic, heavy rhythm against my ribs.

Everyone in the cafeteria was whispering now, their eyes darting between my table and the empty doorway.

The Vance empire is fracturing.

The enforcer turned on the boss.

Marlo Cleary’s protectors are tearing each other apart.

It was all over the student body's digital gossip boards within three minutes. The lie had taken root, planted deep and wide, exactly as we had planned. But watching Cal hit Jarrah watching real blood spill onto the cafeteria floor made my stomach twist into a sick, burning knot.

I grabbed my backpack, shoved my laptop inside, and walked out of the cafeteria into the freezing afternoon air.

The rain had stopped, leaving the campus walkways slick and shining under a heavy, grey blanket of fog. I kept my head down, pulling the hood of my coat over my hair as I crossed the central quad toward the parking garage.

My boots clicked rhythmically against the concrete.

As I turned down the row of parked sedans on level two of the garage, the air grew noticeably colder. The shadows between the concrete pillars seemed to stretch longer, heavier.

Clack.

A single pair of heavy leather shoes stepped out from behind a concrete pillar, blocking my path.

I stopped dead in my tracks, my hand instantly sliding into my coat pocket to grip the heavy metal can of pepper spray I had hidden there.

Two men stood in front of me. They weren't students. They wore identical tailored grey suits, their coats buttoned tight against the wind. Both of them had heavy gold signet rings on their right hands a serpent wrapped around an anchor.

Syndicate brokers.

The taller man, with sharp, hollow eyes and a thin scar running down his cheek, stepped closer. He didn't look threatening; he looked like a vulture smelling fresh meat.

"Ms. Cleary," the man said smoothly, his voice like dry paper sliding across stone. "It’s a pleasure to finally meet you without an armed bodyguard breathing down your neck."

"Get out of my way," I said, my voice ice-cold, forcing every ounce of fear down into my stomach.

"Oh, don't be like that," the broker smiled thinly, glancing toward the exit ramp. "We saw the show in the cafeteria just now. It seems your little protector’s house of cards is finally falling down."

He took another step closer, pulling a thick, cream-colored envelope out of his breast pocket and holding it out toward me.

"Cal O’Shea just left the campus through the south gate," the broker continued, his eyes locking onto mine with calculating intensity. "He’s broken. He’s looking to sell whatever secrets he has on Jarrah Vance to the highest bidder. But we think you might be interested in a different kind of transaction."

I stared at the envelope, my breath catching in my throat.

"What kind of transaction?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

The broker’s smile widened, revealing teeth that looked entirely too white.

"Sign a quitclaim deed transferring your grandfather’s land trust over to our corporate holding group before midnight," he murmured softly, stepping right into my personal space. "And we’ll make sure Cal O'Shea and the dead body of your so-called protector disappear into the bay where nobody will ever find them."

A cold fury, sharp as broken glass, cut through my veins.

Before I could pull the pepper spray from my pocket, a heavy, familiar set of footsteps echoed loudly from the top of the concrete ramp behind the brokers.

"She doesn't sign a damn thing," a deep, rough voice snarled through the empty garage.

I turned my head.

Coming down the ramp, his knuckles still split and bleeding, his amber eyes completely blacked out with unhinged rage, was Jarrah.