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...
Re was nauseous. He roamed the city, oblivious, unresponsive. Margherita was having sex with Lorenzo.
Re's legendary intuition, his ability to read people, had failed. Love—or lust more likely—had muddled his judgment, just like his witch of a mother had always preached.
The sun mellowed in tones of gold over the fragrant spring evening, commuters honking by on scooters and bikes, but he ignored it all. His inner turmoil devoured his senses like a cancer.
In a few days, the witch would be here, and he'd turn eighteen—the Italian coming-of-age, a huge milestone, and the perfect time to grow the fuck up. It seemed only yesterday that Pescatore had shown up at his seventeenth birthday gala dressed as the laundry angel, embracing the monicker fellow students had disdainfully tacked on her after she'd saved a plummeting Mauro Arcani with the laundry cart from her family's business.
Laura Beltagna and the other fruit flies—as Ludovica had dubbed the socialites that buzzed around the P2—had told Margherita it was a masquerade just so they could publicly humiliate her and laugh at her in their designer gowns and jewelry. Undeterred, Margherita had chinned up and given Beltagna a piece of her mind, costume and all. Re had watched the Insta videos a million times, each time falling deeper for her courage, her stamina, her fierceness.
His earbuds died, and as he checked his phone, on do-not-disturb, he noticed Francesca's missed calls and ignored them. Somehow she'd gotten wind that something was off and wouldn't leave him alone. The last thing he needed was to talk about being rejected.
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The Tristante residence was old and dignified. The street door, of solid mahogany, led to a courtyard and the actual main entrance into the villa.
"Wow, what a beautiful home," Margherita commented, as he let her inside.
"Thank you."
Margherita's eyes widened in amusement. "That's it? Re would brag about having the grandest mansion..." She joked. Then she imitated Re's smug tone. "We even have a spa!"
Lorenzo answered, emotionless, "Well, he does. The Vincitore mansion is a palace."
Damn, she'd done it again. Lorenzo had been gracious enough not to point it out, but Re had plopped out of her mouth.
Lorenzo was, in fact, panicking.
All he wanted was to hold Margherita and kiss her, make out, and get it on. He wanted to forget about Ludo, the breakup, and his eternal loneliness. Yet, Margherita had been thinking about Luca the whole time.
Had things happened between Re and Margherita that Lollo hadn't known about? Lorenzo was not sensing from her the same awe that he'd picked up from Margherita when she hadn't known him at all. The thought was inevitably depressing.
Lorenzo closed the main door behind them. The foyer, though impressive, was dark, but light flooded the opposite side of the house, which opened onto the garden. The modern decor clashed tastefully with the classic architecture and marbled floors.
