In Love With The Mafia Kings Son

Chapter 3

Letty navigated the massive, gleaming halls of Westwood Academy toward the cafeteria. The lunch service wasn't just food; it was a culinary performance. The offerings were impossibly fancy—artisan salads, miniature quiches, and glistening plates of expensive, unrecognizable cuisine. Letty, feeling out of place even holding her tray, opted for the most basic, least conspicuous items: meatloaf with a small scoop of mashed potatoes and a plain bread roll.

She pushed through the heavy double doors into the dining area. It was cavernous, designed with high, arched ceilings and tall windows that filtered the harsh California sun into shafts of theatrical light.

The space was immediately and rigidly defined by cliques.

The students were all technically wearing the same uniform: the plaid skirt and black shirt with a plaid tie for girls, the plaid pants black shirt and plaid tie for boys. But that was where the conformity ended. The girls—the designers, the entrepreneurs, the athletes—had their skirts rolled dangerously high, their shirts tied to reveal slivers of toned midriffs, making the uniform provocative and undeniably expensive-looking. The boys wore their ties loosened, sleeves rolled to expose muscled forearms, a uniform of effortless, loud confidence.

The wealthy wore the rulebook as a suggestion; the scholarship kids wore it as a uniform.

In a corner furthest from the windows, near the inconspicuous entrance to the kitchen, Letty spotted her life raft.

Brenda, the thick-rimmed glasses perpetually sliding down her freckled nose, was sitting at a round table with three other students. She spotted Letty and immediately began smiling and waving slightly obnoxiously, a beacon of welcome that drew more attention than Letty was comfortable with.

Letty took a deep, fortifying breath—Invisibility is out, survival is in—and walked across the polished floor.

“Thank God, you're still alive!” Brenda whispered, her relief palpable as Letty slid onto the bench. She immediately scooched over, making an entirely unnecessary amount of room for Letty’s small frame.

“That’s great! We were worried you’d been absorbed by the collective.”

Letty managed a nervous smile, careful not to mention her brief, accidental moment of heroism in Health Class. She had practically painted a big red target on her back by speaking up, a detail she would keep to herself.

Brenda immediately launched into introductions.

“This is the whole sad crew. The Scholarship Kids. Matt, who codes for fun. Sarah, who knows literally everything about five dead languages. And Leo, our resident mathematician.”

The students—three boys and one girl, including Brenda—were polite, dressed in the standard uniforms but with their own flair: slightly rumpled shirts, non-designer glasses, and an air of quiet, powerful intelligence. It was abundantly clear they had all been admitted solely based on their brains, not their parents’ money.

One of the boys, Matt, peered at Letty with a look of genuine confusion. “Wait, seriously? You got a scholarship here?” He adjusted his glasses. “No offense, but you’re... really beautiful. Like, one of the rich kids.”

Letty felt the familiar flush of shame and discomfort. She shrugged shyly, looking down at her tray. “I’m not that pretty.”

The whole table snorted, and Leo, the mathematician, leaned forward. “Please. You have that whole quiet, high-fashion look down. If it wasn't for those worn shoes and that tragic backpack, we would never have known you weren’t one of them.”

Letty started to get uncomfortable. Her chest tightened. She hated being the center of attention, even when the comments were meant kindly. She tried to deflect the conversation, nodding along to whatever Sarah was discussing about a recent archaeological find.

But then, the air in the vast cafeteria seemed to subtly change temperature.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a cluster of students seated at a massive, circular table near the center of the room. It was the absolute pinnacle of the social ladder. Dante Rossi was there, sitting with a large group of rich boys and girls, his sister Isabella amongst them.

The rich boys were laughing loudly about something, tossing their heads back. But Dante ignored them. His massive frame was relaxed against the chair, yet he was completely immobile, his head slightly tilted toward the Scholarship Kids’ corner.

His deep, intense chocolate brown eyes were locked onto Letty.

The intensity of his stare was a tangible pressure, a weight settling on her skin. He wasn't just looking; he was claiming. A flirty smirk played on his lips, a silent acknowledgment that he saw her, knew her name, and was enjoying her visible discomfort.

Letty cleared her throat, her compliance snapping back into place. She instantly turned her full attention back to her tray, poking uselessly at the scoop of mashed potatoes as if they were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

But even with her eyes down, she still felt Dante’s proprietary gaze on her—unblinking, possessive, and entirely dangerous.

Letty and Brenda hurried to their next class, Advanced Chemistry. The walk from the cafeteria felt like running a gauntlet, with the echo of Dante's proprietary gaze still hot on Letty's back. When they reached the classroom, Letty felt a fresh wave of anxiety: scanning the room, she immediately spotted Dante Rossi.

He was in the back row, already settled into a corner seat, his massive frame looking both relaxed and coiled. He wasn't talking to anyone, simply staring at the ceiling, radiating an aura of untouchable boredom.

Letty and Brenda quickly chose two seats in the very front row, placing the entire classroom, and Dante, behind them.

The Chemistry teacher was an unenthusiastic older gentleman who looked as if he had retired twenty years ago and been forced back into service. He shuffled to the front desk, dropped a stack of papers, and sighed dramatically.

“Settle down. Open your textbooks to page one hundred and thirty-two.” His voice was a flat monotone. “Today’s subject is chemical imbalances and erosion.”

He droned through the material, covering the delicate equilibrium of chemical systems and how the introduction of a single foreign element could destabilize the entire reaction, leading to breakdown.

The irony was heavy and inescapable: the subject mirrored her own life, a small foreign element—herself—dropped into the unstable, high-stakes system of Westwood.

After ten minutes, the teacher closed the book, his sigh louder this time. He posed a difficult, conceptual question to the room about the long-term effects of environmental changes on biological catalysts.

The class, filled with students whose minds were clearly focused on trust funds and party plans, was met with silence. No one—not even the usually quick-witted Brenda—raised a hand.

The teacher waited five beats, then sighed again, rubbing his tired eyes. “Anyone?”

Letty bit her lip. She knew the answer. The detailed facts, the scientific certainty, offered a momentary, safe retreat from the messy chaos of human interaction. She focused on the problem, not the audience.

Slowly, shyly, she raised her hand.

The teacher looked at her, his brow furrowed in surprise. He hadn't expected a front-row girl to engage. “Yes…” He consulted his attendance sheet. “Nicolette.”

Letty forced her voice out, soft but clear. She bypassed the simple textbook answer and dove straight into the molecular mechanisms.

“The long-term effect would be a catastrophic shift in the equilibrium constant,” Letty explained, her voice gaining confidence as she spoke only to the science.

“Specifically, the degradation of the catalyst would increase the reaction’s activation energy, essentially slowing or halting the necessary biological functions entirely. It’s an unsustainable reaction, leading to eventual systemic erosion and collapse unless a new, more robust pathway is introduced.”

The classroom was utterly still.

The unenthusiastic teacher stared at her. His expression, which had been set in stone for decades, finally cracked. He gave her a slow, deliberate nod—a monumental show of respect.

“That, Ms. Nicolette,” he said, his voice actually gaining inflection, “is perfectly stated. A concise explanation of the entire concept, something I haven’t heard here in years. Well done.”

Letty’s cheeks burned crimson. She had done it again. She had impressed the hardest teacher in the school, and in doing so, had magnified the target on her back.

She could feel all eyes on her, their curiosity now tinged with resentment. But one set of eyes stood out, burning through the back of her skull with unmistakable intensity.

Letty dared a quick glance over her shoulder.

Dante Rossi hadn't moved. His massive body was still relaxed, but his eyes, fixed on her from the gloom of the back row, were no longer merely amused. They were assessing, confirming a suspicion. There was a look of pure, proprietary fascination on his face. Her mind was as sharp as he was dominant.