The Secret from Columbia

The New York air in September held a deceptive crispness, a double-edged blade that sliced through the lingering summer heat. It was a dense cocktail of hot asphalt, the acidic tang of coffee smoke wafting from street corners, and the electric promise of new beginnings that hovered between the skyscrapers. For Beatriz, the thrum of her Ducati Monster was the only melody that mattered. The machine’s vibration between her legs was a constant reminder that she was the one in control. As she threaded through the heavy Broadway traffic, the yellow cabs were nothing more than blurred streaks of color in her peripheral vision. She hadn't crossed the ocean to Columbia University just to be another law freshman with a pristine Casebook tucked under her arm; she came to conquer, to dissect the system from the inside out. Every gear shift was a stride toward a destiny she had mapped herself, far from the protective shadows of her life back in Brazil. [...] — Bea! Over here! — Alice’s shout broke through the low hum of jazz and bar chatter. Her childhood friend, who had been breathing Manhattan air for a year now, waved frantically from a corner table shrouded in shadows and candlelight. Beatriz walked with the posture of someone who never asked permission to exist. Her leather boots clicked rhythmically against the dark wood floor, a metronome of pure confidence. As she reached the table, she realized the "quiet get-together" Alice had promised was a social sham. Her friend was practically glued to the side of a dark-haired guy with an easy smile named Lorenzo, whose eyes sparked with youthful mischief. — You’re late! — Alice complained with a pout, though the glint in her eyes betrayed her joy. — Bea, this is Lorenzo. And these are... well, the rest of the crew. Beatriz greeted them with a curt nod, the bare minimum of courtesy for someone scouting the terrain. But then, her eyes locked on the man at the head of the table. The room, once spacious, seemed to shrink, the exposed brick walls closing in around that single figure. Nicholas. He didn't just sit; he occupied the space like a predator. Standing at about six-foot-three, his muscular build was evident beneath a perfectly tailored navy linen shirt, the top buttons undone to reveal an infuriating self-assurance. His bronzed skin contrasted with his dark, impeccably styled hair, as if the New York wind didn't dare to muss it. But it was his eyes that stole Beatriz's breath for a millisecond: they were dark, deep, and heavy with an ancestral arrogance—the kind belonging to those born into old money but raised to fight in the trenches. He sized her up with insulting slowness, lingering on her scuffed boots and leather jacket, a ghost of a sneer playing on his well-defined lips. — So, this is the famous Brazilian? — Nicholas’s voice was a rich baritone, with a slight Italian inflection that dragged the vowels dangerously, like velvet over razor blades. — I thought your lot were more... colorful. You look ready for a street fight, piccola. Beatriz didn't flinch. His use of the diminutive was a match struck over gunpowder. She pulled out a chair, sitting directly across from him, and leaned her elbows on the table, invading his personal perimeter. — And I thought Columbia’s MBA students were at least somewhat original — she shot back, her voice sweet but laced with distilled venom. — But you look like you crawled out of a catalog for "Generic Heir with a God Complex." Nicholas, right? Or would you prefer I address you by some imaginary noble title? Silence fell over the table like a guillotine. Beatriz let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, feeling her pulse thrumming at the base of her throat. — Is he always like that? — she asked Alice, struggling to keep her voice steady while her hands still trembled slightly beneath the table. — Nic? He’s... intense — Alice replied, her voice laced with a caution Bea had never seen in her friend. — He’s from a very powerful family, Bea. Real family, you know? It’s better not to cross him. Just forget he exists. Beatriz took a sip of the drink Lorenzo had pushed toward her, feeling the liquid burn its way down her throat and warm her chest. She glanced at the wooden door Nicholas had just exited, now framed by the shimmering lights of New York. — Too late — she whispered to herself, in a tone Alice couldn't catch. — I already have. She didn’t tell Alice what she had seen in the encrypted files her father—a paranoid ex-military man who never believed in coincidences—had helped her access before her trip. She had seen names linked to shell companies. She had seen symbols that didn't appear in history books. And the symbol Nicholas wore on the signet ring on his right hand—a stylized she-wolf beneath a crown of thorns—was the exact same one that sat at the top of the most classified investigations into the East Coast underworld. Nicholas Moretti wasn’t just a brilliant MBA student. He was the heir to a throne of blood. And Beatriz was determined to find out just how deep that rabbit hole went, even if the price was her own safety. The game in Manhattan had begun, and she had just made the opening move.