Page 14 of King of Violence

I dream about shoving my dick down Julian’s throat, choking him until he’s dizzy from the taste of me. He needs to be shown he can’t push me around. I wonder what his moans would sound like. I need his hands on me now, not my own. Fuck, I need to stop thinking about the sweet melody of his voice teasing me.

I groan as my release sprays across the shower wall. The mess glares at me, taunting me like Julian’s knowing smile.

I clean off the wall and turn off the shower.

Steam clings to the mirror in my tiny bathroom, swirling and dissipating as I wipe a hand across the glass. My reflection stares back at me, disheveled and tired, with droplets sliding down my neck and onto the towel around my shoulders. Showers are supposed to be cleansing, right? But no matter how long I stand under the scalding water, I can’t seem to wash away the weight pressing on my chest.

Padding barefoot into the living room, I grab a T-shirt from the back of the couch and pull it on. It’s soft and worn, the fabric stretched from years of wear. Sweatpants follow, and I collapse into my desk chair, its wheels creaking under my weight. The apartment is quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional groan of the pipes. The stillness should be comforting, but it feels heavy instead. Ben’s away; his room is eerily quiet. He’s probably out at some study group or with that girl he’s been seeing lately. He’s the only person I truly trust, though that trust came hard-earned. Ben has this uncomplicated way of seeing the world, his optimism a rare thing in a place like Valmont.

Sometimes I envy him.

I tell myself I’ll focus on finishing my criminal justice paper. I owe it to myself to stay ahead. Falling behind isn’t an option when there’s so much riding on me keeping this scholarship. My mom depends on it. I owe her more than I can ever repay—years of sacrifice, working double shifts at a diner just to keep food on the table. She deserves better than what life’s handed her.

My laptop sits open, surrounded by a mess of highlighters, notebooks, and coffee-stained textbooks. Criminal justice coursework isn’t exactly light, but I’ve always found it more fascinating than daunting. Tonight, though, the sight of it feels oppressive.

The computer screen illuminates the dark room, casting shadows across the cluttered surface of the desk. A few clicks, and I’m staring at the files I downloaded earlier. It’s supposed to be for a project on organized crime—a deep dive into theoretical laundering schemes—but it’s quickly turned into something else.

As I scroll through the documents, my gaze catches on a familiar name: Vanguard Construction, a small, seemingly unremarkable construction company flagged for suspicious transactions five years ago. I pull up their financials and skim the details. At first glance, it’s standard: profits, expenses, payroll. But as I dig deeper, I spot discrepancies.

There are gaps in the records and transactions that don’t add up. Money moves in and out of accounts without clear justification, and the numbers—when pieced together—tell a story of something sinister.

I lean closer, my fingers flying across the keyboard as I cross-reference the data with public records. My stomach tightens as the picture becomes clearer. Vanguard Construction isn’t just a company; it’s a front, a way to clean dirty money. And one of its major investors? A trust owned by a Greco family subsidiary.

The air feels heavier, and my chest is tight with unease.

The Greco family.

I’ve read about them in news articles and old case files, but they’ve always felt like a distant entity, a shadowy force operating in the background, their influence too deep-rooted to dismantle. But this?

This connection to Valmont?

It’s too close.

My thoughts drift to Julian, unbidden—his easy smile, his quick wit, the way he can command a room without trying. His last name.

No.

I shake my head, trying to dispel the thought. There’s no evidence tying Julian directly to any of this. Just a coincidence. A nagging suspicion.

But suspicions have weight, and this one presses against my chest like a stone.

I open another file, this one detailing a list of shell companies associated with the Grecos. One name stands out: Stonebridge Development. The name is familiar,toofamiliar, and it doesn’t take long to figure out why. Stonebridge is listed as a sponsor for Valmont College’s athletic program.

My stomach twists.

I can feel the pieces clicking into place, each connection tightening the net around a truth I don’t want to acknowledge.

Julian Greco isn’t just the star quarterback. He’s part of something bigger, something darker.

The realization should steel my resolve, but instead, it leaves me unsteady. My hands tremble slightly as I reach for my notebook and flip to a clean page. I start jotting down the connections: Vanguard Construction, Stonebridge Development, the Grecos. Lines and arrows fill the page, weaving a web that’s becoming impossible to ignore.

And at the center of it all is Julian.

Julian Greco, with his cocky grin and disarming charm. Julian, who moves through life as if nothing can touch him, with the kind of confidence only someone from obscene privilege can have.

And yet, there’s more to him. I can feel it every time we lock eyes during tutoring sessions. He’s not just the shallow, carefree jock everyone thinks he is. There’s something underneath that façade, something darker. Somethingdangerous.

I’ve seen that darkness before.

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