Contemporary Milan, Italy.
In the dazzling world of Vincitore Academy, Margherita, a half-Korean firebrand from humble beginnings, ignites a clash of wills with the P2, the city's elite quartet of dazzling and entitled boys.
Yet, privilege holds no...
At the Vincitore's mansion, Re had been locked in his room for days, listening to loud and angry nu-metal music.
Fuck this.
The king, who was basketball-player tall and had the physique one would expect from someone who boxed daily, was staring at the frescoed ceiling in gray sweat pants and a white t-shirt, stark against his light brown skin.
He hated his looks, part of the curse that bewitched most people into adoring the Vincitore heir with no regard whatsoever for his shitty personality.
Except Margherita Pescatore. She'd seen through him and, of course, had rejected him. What had he expected? His curse was to love and crave love more than life but never be loved. He'd thought he could change, and he'd been wrong. Even if Margherita ever loved him back, she'd be subjected to the worst of fates. She'd been already the victim of horrendous bullying and only because of Re's interest for her. Not to mention, if his witch of a mother ever found out about Margherita, she would probably destroy her. What had he been thinking?
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Luca's father was an Egyptian oil magnate and, beside his complexion, he'd passed down to his son black hair and stunning, amber-golden eyes that, if not large, were piercing and intense. The curls and perfectly regular features came from his witch of an Italian mother.
The witch had been right; feelings were a weakness. Good thing she lived in New York and was not around to see the train wreck that had become the heir of the House of Vincitore. She visited once a year, for Luca's birthday (but really for the Salone del Mobile, a fair that happened every year in April), and unfortunately would be here soon enough.
Luca had to get his shit together by then.
His dad had used to visit for his birthday as well, but since Re had beaten Arcani to a pulp, his father had been "too busy" to come to Italy. Re had high hopes for his eighteenth birthday. Surely, his dad would forgive him for his milestone coming-of-age?
Regardless, with Dear Mother coming, it was prime time to outgrow his stupid, unrequited crush. Re had been raised to be a perfect sociopath thanks to staff that rotated positions every couple of months so that Luca wouldn't get attached to any of them. No one should matter more than the company, which would be his life priority, like it had been his parents'.
After becoming an orphan, Lorenzo had lived with Luca at the mansion, but by the time they had turned thirteen, the president—which was what everyone called Luca's mother—had politely ordered Lorenzo to move back to his own Milanese villa; the boys were getting too close.
He barely heard the knocking on the door.
"Go away!" He yelled. They'd leave his food outside the door and he'd eat it later. Maybe.
