The Mafia king's obsession

The radiator in Classroom 302 hissed like a dying animal. Elena Vance didn’t look up from the stack of scripts on her desk, even as the heavy oak door creaked open. “The building is closed to visitors after six,” she said, her red pen slashing through the paper on her desk. “Unless you’re here for the PTA meeting, which was yesterday.” “I’m not here for a meeting,” a voice replied. It was deep, smooth, expensive, and carried the weight of someone used to being authority. Elena looked up. The man standing in the doorway didn’t belong in a public school. His charcoal overcoat cost more than her yearly salary. His dark, obsidian eyes scanned the room looking bored. “Mr. Moretti, I presume?” Elena leaned back, crossing her arms. “I’ve sent three letters home about Leo. I didn’t realize it took a threat of suspension to get your attention.” Dante stepped into the room, the scent of cedarwood and cold rain following him. He pulled out a student chair, looking absurdly large next to the small plastic seat, but he didn’t sit. He merely rested a hand on the back of it. Elena noticed the faint, jagged scar running across his knuckles. “My brother says you’ve been asking questions, Miss Vance,” Dante said softly. “Questions about where he goes at night. Questions about his ‘family business.’” “I’m a teacher,” Elena countered, her heart hammering against her ribs, though her voice remained steady. “When a sixteen-year-old shows up with a split lip and a thousand-yard stare, I don’t ask if something is wrong. I ask what.” Dante took a step closer. The dim fluorescent lights flickered. “In this neighborhood, curiosity is a luxury you can’t afford. Leo is protected. That should be enough for you.” “Protected?” Elena stood up, matching his intensity. “He’s a child. He should be worrying about the SATs, not whatever you’re dragging him into.” For a moment, the air in the room turned electric. Dante’s gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. A slow, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, the first sign of humanity she’d seen. “You have fire,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. “It’s a pity. Fires in New York usually get put out.” The tension between them was a thin wire stretched to the snapping point. Elena thought she could stand her ground, but she was about to realize that in Dante’s world, there was no such Thing as a civilian.