Page 15 of King of Violence

Growing up, my neighborhood wasn’t exactly pristine. Organized crime wasn’t just a headline in my world—it was a fact of life. My father, bless his soul, tried to shield me from it, but there were cracks in the armor. Deals made under the table. Men in expensive suits who didn’t quite belong on our streets. The whispered threats that followed whenever someone crossed the wrong people.

The threats that made themselves known in my home.

But the scars of those years haven’t faded. They’re why I don’t trust easily, why I keep most people at arm’s length. Even now, surrounded by classmates who laugh and joke like life’s one big game, I feel like an outsider.

The only person I let in is Ben.

We met freshman year when he offered to share his overpriced textbook for Intro to Sociology. There was no ulterior motive, no angle—just a kind gesture from a guy who genuinely wanted to help. Over time, he became my anchor, the one person I could count on. But even Ben doesn’t know everything.

He doesn’t know about the sleepless nights spent worrying about my mom, or the guilt that eats away at me for leaving her to fend for herself. She tells me not to worry, that she’s proud of me for chasing my dreams, but I can hear the exhaustion in her voice every time we talk.

I stare at the screen, my thoughts tangled in a web of fear, anger, and something I can’t quite name.

Julian’s name comes up again in my search, tied to a suspiciously generous donation made to the athletic department last year. It’s small potatoes compared to the larger sums I’ve uncovered, but it’s enough to make my jaw tighten.

I should hate him.

I should see him as nothing more than a spoiled rich kid riding the coattails of his family’s money. But instead, I find myself thinking about the way his smile quirks just before he delivers a perfectly timed quip, the way his eyes light up when he talks about football. I crush down the more lewd thoughts before they can take over.

I glance at my phone, sitting face down on the desk. The temptation to text him, to confront him, burns in the back of my mind. But what would I even say?

Hey, just wondering if your family is laundering money through the college????

The absurdity of it makes me laugh, but it’s a hollow sound that dies quickly in the silence of the room.

A sharp chill runs through me despite the heat still radiating from my skin. I should close the file and forget I ever saw it. But I can’t.

Instead, I open a fresh browser tab and type in Julian’s name. An ad for Valmont pops up. Julian’s godlike face smiles at me from my screen. My heart stutters.

I shouldn’t be feeling this way.

It’s wrong, on so many levels.

He’s everything I’ve spent my life trying to avoid—privilege, recklessness, and the shadow of crime. And yet, he’s the only person who’s made me feel alive in years.

I close my eyes, gripping the phone tightly.

JULIAN

The game isn’t going the way I planned.

The crowd roars, but it’s not the kind of excitement I’m used to. It’s tense, almost desperate. We’re behind by three points in the fourth quarter, and with each snap of the ball, I feel the pressure mounting. My hands are slick with sweat, the weight of my helmet and pads adding to the heaviness in my chest. I should be used to this by now—the pressure of being the quarterback, the responsibility of leading my team to victory. But right now, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m slipping.

The game started strong, but somewhere along the way, I lost my rhythm. The passes that usually hit their mark feel off today—too high, too low, or worse, just plain inaccurate. My teammates are trying to cover for me, but I can see it in their eyes—they’re frustrated. They know I should be playing better. I know it, too.

It’s not just the game. It’s everything—the weight of my family’s expectations, the constant push to be perfect, to never show any sign of weakness. I’m supposed to be a leader, ahero, but right now, all I feel like is a failure.

We’re down by seven now, the clock ticking away like it’s trying to rub salt in my wounds. I glance to the sidelines, trying to refocus, and that’s when I spot him.

Felix.

He’s sitting in the stands, alone in a sea of rowdy fans. Even from here, I can see his face—a perfect mix of concentration and skepticism. His arms are crossed and his posture rigid, like he’s watching not just the game, but me.

I feel a weird tightening in my chest. For a moment, I forget the game entirely.

I’ve been trying to get Felix’s attention for weeks now. He’s always been distant, cool, maybe even a little dismissive. He won’t bite at any of my teasing. He just forces more work on me than my teachers ever have. But there’s something in the way he watches me that makes me want to prove myself. I want him to see that I’m more than just a flashy football player, more than just a spoiled rich kid. I want him to see that I’m someone who can handle pressure—someone who doesn’t crumble.

But right now, that doesn’t feel like who I am.

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