Page 9 of King of Violence

Julian doesn’t push further, but I can feel his eyes on me for the rest of the session, studying me like I’m some puzzle he’s trying to solve. It’s unsettling.

By the time we finish, I’m drained—not from the material, but from the effort of keeping my composure.

Julian gathers his things and slings his bag over one shoulder. “Same time next week?”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

He pauses at the door and glances back at me with a grin that’s equal parts infuriating and captivating.

“Looking forward to it, Felix.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me alone in the cold, quiet room.

I let out a breath now that my space isn’t fully consumed by him. My thoughts are a chaotic mess, but one thing is clear: tutoring Julian Greco will be much harder than I expected.

JULIAN

The low hum of the fluorescent lights buzzes in the safe house’s basement, blending with the faint whir of the counting machine. Bundles of cash are stacked neatly on the metal table in front of me, the snap of rubber bands punctuating the silence as I finish wrapping another bundle.

The air smells of ink, paper, and the faint tang of sweat—the distinct scent of money laundering in progress. It’s a methodical job, one I’ve gotten used to over the years. The counting machine clicks as it finishes processing another batch, the total glowing on the tiny screen.

“Perfect as always,” I mutter, stuffing the stack into a black duffel bag beside me.

This isn’t exactly the glamorous image most people probably associate with the Greco name. No fancy parties or champagne glasses here—just hours of grunt work in a dingy basement making sure the numbers match up. But it’s a necessary part of the operation, and honestly, I prefer it to the more violent side of the business.

I’m lost in the rhythm of counting when a creak echoes from upstairs. My ears perk up and my hand instinctively reaches for the gun holstered under the table.

A familiar voice calls down the stairs, dripping with amusement. “Relax, Jules. It’s just me.”

I let out a breath and lean back in my chair. Of course it’s just Elijah.

My older brother saunters down the steps with all the cocky swagger of someone who’s never had to worry about consequences. Elijah is a walking cliché of a mobster: slicked-back hair, too much cologne, and a leather jacket that squeaks with every step.

“Didn’t expect to find you here,” he says, his gaze sweeping over the stacks of cash. “Figured you’d have one of the guys handling this.”

“I like to keep an eye on things,” I reply, not bothering to look up.

“Control freak, as always,” he quips as he pulls out a chair and plops down across from me.

“Did you come here for a reason, or just to annoy me?” I ask, tossing a stack of twenties into the machine.

Elijah leans back and crosses his arms. “Oh, I came for a reason, alright. Heard something interesting from one of the guys on campus today.”

I roll my eyes. “Do I even want to know?”

He grins, the kind of grin that means trouble. “You’ve got yourself a tutor now?”

The rubber band I’m holding snaps between my fingers. I toss it aside and reach for another one, keeping my voice steady. “It’s not like I asked for it. The school assigned him to me.”

“Oh, I’m sure they did. It’s not like we have someone who can hack into the school’s system and give you straight A’s,” Elijah says, his tone oozing sarcasm. “So, what’s this about? Youactually struggling in class and don’t wanna use our resources for some reason? Or is this just some clever ploy to get close to a cute study buddy?”

I glare at him. “You’re an idiot.”

Elijah’s grin only widens. “Come on, Jules. You don’t exactly strike me as the ‘study group’ type. Who’s the unlucky bastard stuck babysitting you?”

I hesitate, but there’s no point in lying. Elijah will dig it out of me eventually. “Felix Caruso.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “No way. Felix Caruso? Mr. No-Bullshit himself? That guy hates everyone.”

---