Page 12 of Bound in Debt
“I know who you are, Dante. An old member of the Giordanos. Ruthless mob back in the mother country. I could use that kind of man.” He slides the business card into my front pocket, giving it a patronizing tap for good measure. “Call this number by the end of the week. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you have the funds and intend to pay back the six million dollars Marco failed to return to me.”
And on that note, Angelo disappears through the door, leaving behind an air of despair in my bland beige and brown classroom.
What the hell did my brother get into?
Marco worked in investments, sure, but he had a spotless reputation. Never failed an audit.
He was supposed to be better than me.
He promised.
4
VICTORIA
Monday, September 2
“God, he’s such an asshole, but he’s so hot.”
I inhale and try my best to ignore the two girls sitting behind me. They’ve been at it for the last two minutes, ever since Professor Moretti handed out his syllabus and began explaining his strict rules and unyielding expectations. He’s wearing black slacks and a white button-up shirt that’s rolled up to the crook of his elbows, revealing veined forearms that my classmates can’t stop tittering over.
He says he’s here to teach music and that’s it.
Shocker. Professor Moretti is all music and no empathy.
After everything that happened Saturday, I realized Professor Moretti was never going to be my biggest fan. No, he’s just waiting to pounce on whatever I say that he can twist around to draw the worst conclusion. He has no intention of getting to know anything remotely personal about any of his students, not even the ones caught up in shit with his own nephew.
He came to Thronewood for one thing and one thing only—the violin. Professor Moretti wants his students to shut up, play, and leave him alone.
“I don’t accept tardiness,” he continues, pacing along the front row. Normally, the front of the classroom is my go-to spot, but I made sure to find a seat somewhere in the middle. I don’t intend to ever sit there.
Professor Moretti already thinks I’m a moron, so I’ll keep my distance and just learn what I can from afar this semester.
No need to add to my stress levels.
“If you’re not here to learn to play the violin, drop my class immediately,” Professor Moretti instructs with a growl of irritation. His jaw is locked, disdain written all over his face. He acts like he was forced to teach this class, like the act of teaching is somehow beneath him.
Maybe that’s his default setting—Grade A asshole.
“I’m here to learn how to play his violin,” the girl behind me mutters. Professor Moretti’s head snaps in our direction with a look that could level mountains.
“Did you have something to say Miss Waldorf?” he barks out with a sneer. “Don’t let me stop you.”
Fuck.
I can take the hit or throw the chick running her mouth under the bus.
She’s lucky I’m not a whiny snitch.
“I apologize, Professor,” I answer as timidly and sincerely as I can. “Just making sure I wrote everything down. I tend to talk to myself without realizing it.”
He stares at me for a beat. “You might want to get that checked out.”
I bow my head, breaking his heated stare, but he doesn’t stop there.
No, he’s more than happy to embarrass me in front of the whole class rather than let me off easy. If he had been paying any attention, he would’ve noticed that my damn lips weren’t the ones moving.
“Will this be an ongoing problem, Miss Waldorf?” he continues. “Adults know how to shut their mouths when other people are speaking.”
