Owned By The King Of Blackwood (De Luca Series)

The rain at Blackwood University didn’t wash things clean; it just made the rot smell like wet stone.

I pulled the collar of my thrifted coat tighter around my neck, ducking my head as I hurried across the cobblestone quad. Thunder rattled the stained-glass windows of the library.

Keep your head down. Don’t make eye contact. You are invisible.

That was the mantra, It was the only reason I was still breathing.

To the registrar and the student body, I was Elena Vance, a boring transfer student from Ohio on a hardship scholarship. I was a nobody, a ghost.

But to the people my father had betrayed, I was Elena Rossi, the daughter of the "The Rat." The man who had embezzled five million dollars from the De Luca crime family and vanished, leaving his nineteen-year-old daughter to fend for herself.

I adjusted the strap of my bag, my knuckles turning white. I had 1 year left. One year to get my law degree, pass the bar, and disappear to a country without an extradition treaty.

Blackwood was the last place anyone would look for me. It was too expensive, too elite, and ironically, too connected to the very people I was hiding from. It was the "hidden in plain sight" theory, and for the last two months, it had worked.

I pushed through the heavy oak doors of the Lecture Hall, the warmth of the building fogging up my glasses instantly. I wiped them on my scarf, scanning the tiered seating of the auditorium.

Advanced Macroeconomics. The class was a shark tank of future CEOs, politicians, and nepo-babies.

I climbed the stairs to the very back row, the "nosebleed section" where the other scholarship kids usually sat. I took the seat in the far corner, nestled against the shadows of a stone pillar. I opened my laptop, the glowing screen my only shield against the room.

Ten minutes passed. The room filled with the chatter of people who had never worried about a grocery bill in their lives.

Then, the silence hit.

The air left the room, sucked out by a vacuum of pure intimidation.

I didn’t have to look up to know who had walked in.

The Blackwood Heirs.

There were three of them, but only one mattered.

Niccolò De Luca.

I risked a glance over the top of my laptop. They moved in an arranged movement. Nico was at the front. He was tall, over six-foot-three, with hair the color of midnight ink and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass.

He didn’t look like a student; he looked like a weapon draped in a suit that cost more than my entire life’s education.

He usually sat in the middle, surrounded by his sycophants.

But today, he didn’t stop at the middle row.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Don't look at him. Look at the syllabus.

I stared at the screen, typing nonsense just to look busy. The footsteps were getting closer. They bypassed the popular rows. They bypassed the middle tier.

They were coming up the stairs.

Please, no. Please, God, no.

The scent hit me first, sandalwood, rain, and expensive tobacco. It was a dark, intoxicating smell that triggered every survival instinct I possessed.

A shadow fell over my desk.

I stopped typing. I couldn't breathe. I forced myself to look up, feigning the confusion of a student interrupted.

Nico was standing right there. Up close, he was terrifyingly handsome. His eyes were a pale, icy gray, wolf’s eyes framed by thick, dark lashes. There was a scar cutting through his left eyebrow, a small imperfection that only made him look more dangerous.

He wasn't looking at the empty seat next to me. He was looking at me.

The entire lecture hall had turned to watch. The silence was deafening. The Prince of Blackwood never sat in the back. And he certainly never spoke to the scholarship cases.

"Is this seat taken?"

His voice was a deep baritone, smooth as velvet but with a jagged edge underneath.

I swallowed, my throat dry as sandpaper. "I... no. No, it’s not."

I expected him to drop his bag and ignore me. Instead, he slid into the chair. He didn’t sit like a student; he sprawled, his long legs encroaching on my space, his arm resting on the back of my chair, effectively boxing me in.

The heat radiating off him was overwhelming.

"I haven't seen you before," he said. He wasn't looking at the professor, who had started the lecture with a shaky voice. Nico was staring at the side of my face.

"I transferred," I whispered, keeping my eyes on the professor. "I'm nobody."

"Nobody has a name."

"Elena," I said. "Elena Vance."

"Vance," he repeated, tasting the word. He sounded bored. "That’s a very common name, Elena."

"I have a very common life."

"Do you?"

He shifted, his knee brushing against mine under the desk. I flinched, pulling my leg back as if I’d been burned.

"Jumpy," he noted, his voice dropping to a murmur that only I could hear. "Nervous. You’re sweating, Elena."

"I ran here in the rain," I lied.

"Liar."

The word was a whip crack. My head snapped toward him.

Nico was smiling, but it didn't reach his eyes. His eyes were dead cold. He reached out, his hand large and heavy, and tucked a strand of my damp hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered on my pulse point. He could undoubtedly feel my heart trying to beat its way out of my throat.

"You have beautiful hair," he said softly. "Though the dye job is cheap. The roots are showing."

The blood drained from my face.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I stammered, reaching for my bag. "I think I’m in the wrong class. I need to go."

I tried to stand, but his hand shot out, clamping around my wrist. His grip was iron. It wasn't painful, not yet, but the threat of violence was there, simmering just beneath the skin.

"Sit down," he commanded.

I sat.

"Class isn't over, Topolino," he whispered, using the Italian word for 'Little Mouse.' "It’s rude to leave early."

He didn't let go of my wrist. He rested his hand on top of mine on the desk, his thumb tracing the bone of my wrist. To the rest of the room, it might have looked like a flirtation. A rich boy toying with the new girl.

But I knew what this was. This was a capture.

For the next hour, I sat frozen. I couldn't hear a word the professor said. All I could feel was the heat of Nico’s body, the weight of his hand on mine, and the terrifying realization that my time had run out.

When the lecture finally ended, I yanked my hand away, packing my bag with trembling fingers.

"It was nice meeting you, Elena Vance," Nico said, standing up. He towered over me, blocking out the light, blocking out the exit.

He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.

"Tell me," he whispered, sending a shiver violently down my spine. "How is your father enjoying the South of France this time of year?"

My world stopped. The air in my lungs turned to ice.

He knew. He knew everything.

I looked up at him, my eyes wide with terror. Nico De Luca smirked, a cruel, predatory expression that promised pain.

"Don't look so scared, Elena," he said, stepping back to let me pass. "The fun is just getting started."

He turned and walked away, his entourage falling into step behind him, leaving me standing in the back of the lecture hall, shaking, knowing that I had just walked into the lion's den.