Page 73 of Rage
For one second, I’m small again, standing in a kitchen while my mother burns napkins in the sink. Black ink curling into ash. Her hand closing over mine when I ask what the symbol means.
“Some names are safer forgotten,” she told me.
I stare at the mark until the shape blurs. Then I fold the paper and put it back in the envelope. Whatever my mother tried to bury, it is still breathing somewhere under my name.
It’s a good thing I don’t give a shit about any of it except making the man pay for what he did and the people responsible. The added bonus is Amy. The only problem is, she makes me more dangerous when I think of the possibility of someone trying to hurt her.
The SVJ Lamborghini spends its first forty-eight hours becoming a campus event.
The student body campus’s social media account has been flooded by seventeen photographs posted within the first twenty-four hours. An osmosis of people who know other people who know solicitors who know estate managers who know who to ask when the asset landscape changes of a family they have been tracking for generational reasons.
Two hundred and forty-three responses on a thread increasing every hour. Referencing the car. The estimated value. My name associated to the sons of Kenyan University, like I’m royalty. Women romanticizing the lost son of Kenyan.
One reply mentioned the size of my dick.
The last name Vitale and how I’m associated and wealthy. Mysterious. Unattainable. And surprisingly, hot.
Kenyan University’s alumni are people whose money predates its buildings. The few who know what and who is connected to whom is not a simple thing, and Valen knew this when he decided on the car. It was calculated.
I’m walking from the east academic building to the library. All eyes swing in my direction like I’m famous. If only they knew that here my blood is tainted. That I’m not considered normal or accepted by societal rules.
If only they knew that I’m a killer.
Not that I want to be, it just happened. Circumstances of my upbringing. At least that is what I told Dr. Wick when she asked. It’s incredible what people with all the money in the world get away with. The power of making things go away.
As I make my way in the building, I subconsciously look for her. I think I always will despite what happens.
In my mind, she will always be something unfinished. Unsolved. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t consider how she felt when I touched her. All I could think about was marking her. It’s only a matter of time until one of these assholes does. The way I see it, it’s better me than them.
Amy
On Tuesday, I hear about Saint’s rise to popularity. A fancy car, a house, and the clear understanding I’m not the only one he’s fucked. It wasn’t like the thought didn’t fester in the back of my mind, and I didn’t have an idea.
The girl in the library was a giveaway. The familiarity was there. The way she looked for him and how stupid I was to fall for it myself. Again.
It’s like I never learn, but it’s done. I can’t change the past. All I can do is learn from it and try to move on, but in a place like this, it’s like navigating a minefield.
By Wednesday, I have more information than I want and less understanding than I need.
The notebook on my desk has four fresh pages of compressed shorthand that have not resolved anything. I know how stories travel on campus. I learned that back in high school. The way the detail accretes in transit. The athletics locker room shower, the stairwell, and how rich and connected he is with the predominant families of Kenyan. The type of wealth you hear about from places like Monaco. The kind of wealth that isn’t announced until it decides, which is a choice rather than by accident.
Saint is none of my business, but I’m part of a bigger game. A game where I don’t see an option to win. I’m outnumbered. Outclassed. And what is worse, no one gives a shit about me.
If anything, Roman by now must be going crazy looking for me. It’s only a matter of time before he or whoever hunts Prey gets their hands on me.
One thing I can be certain of is that Saint isn’t to be trusted. Azriel tried to warn me, and I didn’t listen.
I head to the library, trying not to draw attention to myself as I speed walk toward the building. Once inside, I find the table where Rose and Azriel sit during their tutoring sessions, and I find her with a book open, reading.
“Hey,” I announce myself.
She looks up, smiles at me, and marks the paragraph with a sticky. “Hey, I’m glad you’re early so we can catch up before Azriel shows up.”
I pull out a chair and sit. “Me too. Everywhere I go, people won’t shut up about him. It’s like the man is an enigma.”
“It’s because he is a mystery and people love it when they can’t figure someone out. Once they get a juicy piece of information, they have something to talk about. Besides, it’s not like the guy is normal. He’s huge. Gorgeous.”
I know, but I won’t tell her how I know what part of him is huge. I try to keep a straight face and listen to what she knows. “Do you think he’s one of the sons of Kenyan or whatever?”
