Running From The Mafia Falling For The Hockey King

***Valentina's POV*** The Greyhound bus smelled of stale coffee and cheap lemon air freshener, but to me, it smelled like freedom. I pressed my forehead against the vibrating glass of the window, watching the city skyline fade into the green highways. Nineteen years. It took nineteen years to finally claw my way out of the cage my father had built for me. I was leaving it all behind. The suffocating high walls of the Rossi estate. My controlling father and his horrible associates. The criminal empire that stained my family's name in blood and whispered rumors. The constant fear that every time I stepped out the front door, I might not come back. The armed bodyguards I never asked for, tailing me like shadows wherever I went. Today, those shadows were gone. Today, I was just a girl headed to college. My fingers instinctively drifted to the silver pendant resting against my collarbone. The Rossi family crest. It was a warning to anyone who knew the underworld, and a permanent leash pulling me back to my father. I unclasped it, the metal feeling cold against my skin. I slid the window open just a fraction and slipped the necklace through the c***k. Symbolically, I was cutting the cord. The mafia princess was dead. Valentina, the normal college freshman, was born. Or so I thought. Westbridge University was beautiful. It looked like a postcard for ivy-draped academia, all red-brick buildings, sprawling emerald lawns, and oak trees that had probably been here for a century. As I stepped off the bus, the normalcy of it all washed over me like a warm wave. Students were lounging in the grass, laughing loudly. A group of athletes jogged by in matching grey sweats, tossing a football back and forth under the autumn sun. Snippets of conversation drifted past me, people complaining about upcoming exams, gossiping about weekend parties, stressing over bad dates. Nobody was looking over their shoulder. Nobody was worrying about survival. "I can do this," I told myself, gripping the handle of my oversized suitcase. "I can fit in. I will fit in.” I pulled up the campus map on my phone, trying to guide myself toward the freshman dormitories. The pedestrian walkway was wide and paved with cobblestones, crowded with students navigating their first day. I dragged my luggage behind me, so focused on finding North Hall that I didn't notice the sudden shift in the atmosphere. I didn't notice the crowd parting. The roar of an engine shattered the campus chatter. It happened too fast. One second, I was looking at my phone, the next, a massive black Ducati tore around the corner of the library, bypassing the street entirely and speeding directly down the crowded pedestrian walkway. Students scattered like frightened birds, diving onto the grass with shouts of alarm. I froze. My mind, trained by years of living in a warzone, completely blanked. The motorcycle hurtled straight toward me. At the last second, the rider wrenched the handlebars. The tires shrieked against the cobblestone, burning rubber filling the air as the heavy machine fishtailed violently. The bike missed my hip by less than an inch. But it didn't miss my suitcase. The metal footpeg caught the side of my luggage, ripping the cheap fabric right down the middle. The force of the impact spun me around, and my suitcase practically exploded. Clothes, toiletries, and books went flying across the walkway in a humiliating shower of my personal belongings. The motorcycle skidded to a halt a few yards away. The engine died, leaving a ringing silence in the quad. My heart hammered violently against my ribs. I stared at my scattered clothes, then slowly lifted my furious gaze to the rider. He swung a long, denim-clad leg over the bike and kicked the stand down. Then, he pulled off his matte-black helmet, shaking out his dark, effortlessly tousled hair. He was infuriatingly handsome. He had a sharp jawline, piercing eyes, and the kind of arrogant smirk that belonged on a billboard. He looked like he owned the campus, the air, and everyone breathing it. And he was completely unapologetic. Instead of rushing over to see if I was hurt, instead of offering an apology, the guy actually laughed. A low, amused sound that grated against my every nerve. "You should watch where you're going," he called out, leaning lazily against his bike. I stared at him, my shock instantly evaporating into fury. "You almost killed me." He shrugged, the smirk never leaving his annoyingly perfect mouth. "You survived." I looked around. A crowd had formed, a tight circle of gaping students watching the spectacle. They weren't angry at him. They were watching us like this was prime-time television. Humiliation burned through my veins as I knelt down to gather my scattered shirts, my hands trembling with rage. Footsteps approached. I looked up to see him standing over me. He reached into his expensive leather jacket, pulled out his wallet, and casually tossed a crumpled twenty-dollar bill onto my pile of clothes. "For the inconvenience," he said, his tone dripping with condescension. I looked at the twenty dollars. Then I looked up at his smug face. Slowly, I stood up. I picked up the twenty-dollar bill. I didn't break eye contact as I pinched the center of the paper and tore it sharply down the middle. I threw the torn halves directly at his chest. They fluttered to the cobblestones between his boots. "Keep your garbage," I snapped. The entire crowd gasped collectively as if I had just committed sacrilege in a church. The boy's smirk finally faltered, his dark eyes narrowing as he stared at me like I was a puzzle he hadn't expected to find. I didn't give him the chance to speak. I shoved the last of my ruined clothes into the broken suitcase, turned on my heel, and dragged my battered luggage away, my spine rigid. It didn't take me long to find out exactly who I had just insulted. By the time I reached North Hall, the whispers were already following me. My new roommate, a bubbly blonde named Chloe who had watched the whole thing from her third-floor window, filled me in before I even finished unpacking my surviving sweaters. "Are you insane?" she had shrieked, practically vibrating with a mix of awe and horror. "That was Damon Blackwood!" The name meant nothing to me, but to Westbridge, it was royalty. Damon Blackwood wasn't just some reckless jerk with a motorcycle. He was the golden boy. The captain of the elite men's hockey team. A campus celebrity who was already fielding massive contracts to go professional the second he graduated. He was obscenely rich, devastatingly gorgeous, and completely, utterly untouchable. Everyone on this campus worshipped the ground he walked on. The professors gave him passes, the girls threw themselves at him, and the guys wanted to be him. Apparently, nobody talked to Damon Blackwood the way I had. But I didn't care. I already hated him. I hated his arrogance, his smirk, and the way he made me feel small. I had spent my entire life dealing with arrogant, powerful men who thought the world belonged to them. I hadn't moved three hundred miles away just to bow down to a college athlete. By midnight, the adrenaline of the day had finally faded, leaving me deeply exhausted. Chloe was fast asleep in the bed across the room, the soft hum of her desk fan the only sound in the quiet dorm. I lay on my back, staring at the shadows dancing on the ceiling, telling myself I was safe. I was normal. I was just a girl who had a bad first day at college. Tomorrow, I would wake up, go to my freshman orientation, and fade completely into the background. Abruptly, the phone vibrated on the wooden nightstand. I frowned, rolling over and grabbing it. My screen illuminated the dark room, blinding me for a second. It was a text message from an unknown number. My blood ran instantly cold. I clicked the notification, my thumb hovering shakily over the glowing screen. WELCOME TO WESTBRIDGE, VALENTINA. Below the text was an image file. I tapped it. It was a photograph of me. I was stepping off the Greyhound bus, my hand resting on the handle of my suitcase, looking up at the campus with a hopeful, naive expression. The lighting was poor, the angle slightly elevated from a distance. It had been taken only hours earlier. My breath hitched in my throat, the walls of the tiny dorm room suddenly feeling like they were closing in on me. I hadn't escaped the cage. I had just walked into a larger one. Someone was watching me.