For Stefano, being an Italian in a sea of Russians meant constant scrutiny. As for me, a scrappy American with a short temper, it was an exercise in restraint—restraint I often lacked.
Back then, Stefano was much smaller and quieter than I was. Heck, he looked sickly, but one thing I liked about him was his sharp tongue, one that landed him in trouble more often than I did. Although he and I never got along.
But, as the heavens would have it, it had been one of those days that trouble came in the form of Ivan Mikhailov, the son of a wealthy oligarch and the self-proclaimed king of the school. I hate shitty guys like that the most. Stefano, being the mouthy type, had made the mistake of standing up to Ivan, who didn’t take kindly to being defied.
It happened in the courtyard, snow fallin
