Page 11 of Vicious Games

He and his twin brother have been pulling pranks at Sacred Heart since elementary school. I don’t mind the jokes so much, though I know Sister Margarettastrongly dislikesthem. What Idomind is that life comes so damn easy to them.

Let me count the ways they have cracked the code to life while I’m still struggling to grasp the rule book.

They’re rich. Beyond rich. Billionaire-level rich.Oldmoney, too.

There are even rumors around school that their father is this big shot in a Chicago crime syndicate, but I never paid such gossip any mind.

I mean… c’mon?!

Crime family?

Mafia? In Chicago?

Yeah, right.

I wouldn’t put it past the twins being behind that juicy bit of gossip and spreading it like wildfire through the school just to instill fear in everyone.

They’re Machiavellian that way.

Because aside from the money and prestige, they’re alsosmart as hell.

Like genius-level smart.

And, of course, just when life can’t seem to be unfair enough, the Romano twins have also been blessed in the looks department. Towering at over six foot four since their growth spurt at sixteen, they possess ruffled, dark brown hair, striking chestnut eyes, and sun-kissed skin that suggests they’ve been enjoying a perpetual vacation in the Maldives. With a jawline that could cut glass and cheekbones that could launch a thousand ships, they embody the very essence of male beauty. They’re living, breathing Greek gods, and they know it.

It’s totally unfair that they have so many advantages while some of us are scrambling to get by.

Take me, for example.

Money? I don’t have any. The only cash I see is from the odd babysitting gig.

Looks? Not exactly model material either.

I stand at five feet seven inches, with curves that defy conventional beauty standards. My thighs touch without apology, and my double Ds promise a future of back discomfort. Throughout my life, I’ve never weighed less than two hundred pounds—a number that doesn’t resonate assexyby society’s narrow definitions. Yet, there’s strength in my body, a testament to my resilience and individuality, so fuck those haters.

And intelligence?

Well, given how long I’ve been standing in front of this whiteboard, I think it’s safe to saygeniusisn’t exactly on my resume, either.

“Frances… do you need a minute?” Sister Agnes asks softly beside me, ever the patient one.

What I need is the answer, Agnes. That’s what I need.

I try to keep that thought to myself, but my face betrays me like it always does. I know I look pissed, so there’s no use denying it.

God, I wish I could control my temper.

Sister Margaretta has spent years trying to teach me how to rein in my emotions—especially my temper—but her efforts have been in vain. Sometimes, I can mask it, but most of the time my face does all the talking for me. If I don’t say what I’m thinking, my expression spells it out for me.

It’s a curse.

Just like my temper.

Sister Margaretta says it’s bad genes. Which is funny, considering I have no idea where I come from.

Sigh.

“Fuck this shit,” Lucky mutters behind me.

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