Running From The Mafia Falling For The Hockey King

Chapter 4 - The Van In The Fog

***Valentina's POV***

The fallout from the Delta Sigma party was inescapable.

By Monday morning, the campus had officially split down the middle. Half the student body looked at me like I was a ticking time bomb, whispering furiously whenever I walked into a lecture hall. The other half, mostly the students who were secretly tired of Damon Blackwood's untouchable reign gave me approving nods and subtle high-fives.

The rivalry wasn't just gossip anymore, it was an established campus fact. Damon and I were officially at war. When we passed each other in the athletic complex, the temperature in the hallway seemed to drop ten degrees. We didn't speak. We didn't have to. The hateful glares we exchanged said everything.

But the social drama was the least of my problems.

Ever since I discovered that Damon's bracelet had been deliberately planted to frame me, paranoia had settled over my shoulders. Someone was playing a game with me, and they were playing for keeps.

The strange incidents started small. A hang-up call on my personal cell phone at three in the morning. The feeling of eyes burning into the back of my neck while I studied in the library. A guy in a dark hoodie who seemed to be standing outside my dorm building every time I looked out the window, only to vanish when I blinked.

I told myself I was just jumpy. I told myself the stress of the party and the burner phone were making me see ghosts.

I was wrong.

By Wednesday evening, volleyball practice ran notoriously late. Coach Miller had us running suicide sprints until my lungs burned and my legs felt like lead. By the time I showered, changed into black leggings and an oversized hoodie, and finally stepped out of the athletic center, the campus was practically deserted.

The autumn air was chilly, a thick layer of fog rolling in off the nearby river and curling around the old streetlamps. The usually bustling pedestrian pathways were empty.

I pulled my hood up, gripping the straps of my gym bag, and started the long walk back to North Hall.

Then a sound like the crunching of leaves rippled behind me.

I froze. The sound of a boot snapping a twig echoed from the treeline to my left. I stopped breathing, straining my ears. After a while, I realized it was nothing but the wind rustling the dead leaves.

I quickened my pace, my heart beginning to thud against my ribs.

A block away from my dorm, the pathway intersected with a narrow service road used by the maintenance trucks. As I approached the crossing, an engine idled in the dark. A matte-black utility van with tinted windows sat parked beneath a broken streetlamp. It had no license plates.

Every instinct my father's world had ever drilled into me screamed in warning.

I didn't keep walking. I didn't pull out my phone. I instantly pivoted on my heel to sprint back toward the athletic center.

The van's side door slid open with a crash.

Two men piled out, dressed in dark overalls, black ski masks pulled down over their faces. They moved with practiced speed.

I didn't scream. Screaming wasted oxygen.

As the first man lunged for me, reaching for my shoulders, years of brutal self-defense training took over. I didn't recoil, I stepped into his guard. I drove the heel of my palm sharply upward, catching him squarely beneath the chin. His teeth snapped together with a crunch, and he stumbled backward with a muffled grunt.

But I was outweighed and outnumbered.

Before I could turn, the second man tackled me around the waist. The force lifted me off my feet, and we crashed onto the cold pavement. My shoulder hit the concrete hard, sending a shockwave of pain down my arm. He scrambled to pin my wrists, pulling a zip-tie from his vest.

I thrashed violently, bringing my knee up and burying it into his ribs. He wheezed, his grip loosening just enough for me to yank my right arm free. I slammed my elbow into his temple, scrambling backward on the ground.

"Grab her legs!" one of the men barked, his voice muffled by the mask.

A heavy hand clamped around my ankle, dragging me brutally across the pavement toward the open mouth of the van. Panic finally clawed its way up my throat. I kicked out wildly, my sneakers connecting with solid muscle, but he didn't let go. I was losing. They were too strong.

Suddenly, a beam of white light slashed through the fog.

The roar of a high performance engine shattered the clatter.

A massive motorcycle came tearing down the service road at a suicidal speed. The rider aimed the machine directly at the masked man dragging me.

At the last second, the rider wrenched the handlebars, kicking the back tire out. The motorcycle skidded sideways, acting as a wall of metal sliding right between me and the attackers.

The masked men leaped backward to avoid having their legs crushed.

The rider slammed his boot down to stabilize the bike and kicked the kickstand down. He ripped his helmet off.

It was Damon.

His chest was heaving, his dark eyes wide and blazing with anger. He didn't look like a spoiled college athlete, he looked feral.

The attackers looked at the motorcycle, then at the bright headlights of a campus security golf cart slowly turning the corner three blocks down. Their window of opportunity was gone.

"Go!" the first man shouted.

They scrambled into the back of the van, slamming the sliding door shut. The tires squealed against the asphalt as the van peeled out, disappearing into the fog without turning its headlights on.

I sat on the cold pavement, my chest heaving violently, my hands trembling so hard I could barely push myself up.

Damon turned to me, the anger in his eyes quickly fracturing into shock. He took a hesitant step forward, looking at my scraped elbows and the dirt smeared across my leggings.

"Are you... what the hell just happened?" His voice was rough, entirely stripped of its usual arrogance. "Who were those guys?"

"I don't know," I lied, my voice shaking. I forced myself to stand, swaying slightly as a wave of dizziness hit me.

Damon reached out instinctively, his large hand gripping my upper arm to steady me. His touch was warm, grounding me. I expected a sarcastic remark. I expected him to mock me.

Instead, he just looked at me. For the first time since we collided on that walkway, I didn't see the cocky campus king. I saw a twenty-year-old guy whose heart was pounding just as fast as mine, genuinely terrified by what he had just witnessed.

"Get on the bike," Damon ordered softly, letting go of my arm and grabbing his helmet.

"I can walk," I breathed, though my knees felt like water.

"You're getting on the bike, Rossi, or I'm throwing you over my shoulder and carrying you. Pick one."

I didn't argue. I climbed onto the leather seat behind him. Damon handed me his helmet, refusing to take no for an answer, and secured the strap beneath my chin.

"Hold on," he muttered over his shoulder.

I wrapped my arms hesitantly around his waist. He was solid, his muscles tense beneath his leather jacket. As he revved the engine and pulled out onto the road, the cold wind whipped around us, but I was entirely shielded by his broad back. I pressed my cheek against his jacket, breathing in the scent of worn leather and expensive cologne. It was the safest I had felt since arriving at Westbridge.

The ride was tense, silent, and heavy with unspoken questions. Neither of us wanted to acknowledge what had just happened. I didn't want to thank my worst enemy, and he didn't want to admit he had rushed in to save me.

He pulled up to the back entrance of North Hall, keeping the engine idling. I slid off the bike, handing him back the helmet. Our fingers brushed against the polished fiberglass.

"Lock your door," he said quietly, his dark eyes searching mine.

"I will," I whispered.

I turned and walked inside, the roar of his motorcycle fading into the distance only after the dormitory door clicked securely shut behind me.

I took the stairs two at a time, my adrenaline finally beginning to ebb. I reached my room, unlocked the door, and slipped inside. The room was dark, Chloe was out at a late study group.

I sighed, dropping my gym bag by the closet. I reached over and flicked on my small bedside lamp.

The soft yellow light flooded the room. But as soon as it did, I froze, my blood instantly turning to ice.

Sitting perfectly centered on my pillow, right where I was supposed to sleep, was a small, neatly folded piece of paper. The door had been locked. The window was shut. Nobody should have been able to get inside.

With a trembling hand, I reached out and unfolded the paper. Written in the same bold black ink as the note with the burner phone, were six words that sealed my fate.

WE KNOW WHO YOU REALLY ARE.