14. Vogue

Sittingat a small table in the campus café, my fingers curled around my to-go cup of tea, the chatter around me fades into a dull hum as my thoughts fixate on the shadow creeping over Crestmont University. It's like I can feel eyes on me from every direction, the presence of unseen threats closing in.

I look up to find Callum, Quentin, Harrison, and Thayer, all watching me with varying degrees of concern and curiosity. They're part of this world, born into it, pulled under by currents too strong to resist, and here I am, caught in the wake of this mess.

"Tell me about them," I say, setting my cup down, "The rival mafia organisation that shot the place up yesterday. What do they really want with Crestmont? I don't believe this was about me. Or Quentin. Why attack here where there are hundreds of other people?"

Callum's lips press into a thin line, his blue eyes darkening. "Never let it be said that you weren't a smart cookie," he murmurs. "But you might be right. They want control. They see Crestmont as a strategic point. Crestmont is a power hub, teeming with future leaders, influencers."

"Don't forget the money," Quentin says. "Crestmont has resources and connections. These rivals? They're looking to siphon off everything this place has to offer."

"Plus, they hate that we have a stronghold here," Harrison adds, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. He looks every bit the enforcer he is, ready to jump into action. "We represent something they can never be. Legitimate power, respect."

"By undermining us, they think they can climb out of the gutters," Thayer finishes, his voice low and steady. "They're wrong."

I absorb their words, feeling the gravity of our conversation pull at me. The café, with its warm lights and the smell of coffee beans, feels like a sanctuary for what awaits outside its doors.

My mind races as I piece together what they've shared, understanding that Crestmont's ivy-covered walls are just a fa?ade for the battleground it has become. This is no ordinary college rivalry; it's a war fought in the shadows, and somehow, I'm right in the middle of it.

"They play dirty, and they play for keeps." Harrison's jaw is set as he watches me closely with those eyes that probe into my soul. He sees everything, and there is nowhere to hide.

Picking up the cup again, I take a slow sip of my tea, feeling it scald my tongue. The heat is nothing compared to the burn of realisation that sets in. These guys aren't just spouting paranoia; they're talking about real threats, tactics used by people who have no moral compass.

"Great," I mutter. A new kind of fear creeps in, coiling around me like a cold chain. It's clear to me that my ties to The Crowned Syndicate, however tenuous they once seemed, have drawn me into a world where danger is currency, and everyone is spending big except me.

"Staying on the sidelines isn't an option anymore," Quentin says carefully, gauging my reaction. "It's not just about being caught in the crossfire. You're in the game, whether you want to be or not."

He's right, and every instinct I have tells me he's right. Alone, I'm vulnerable, but within the fold of The Crowned Syndicate, at least there's the semblance of safety.

Right?

"So, I'm in too deep to back out now." It's not a question. It's an acknowledgement of the reality that's been thrust upon me without my consent.

"Looks like it," Thayer confirms, his voice low. "But we've got your back."

"Thanks." The word feels hollow. Gratitude isn't enough to cover the cost of what's at stake.

The weight of my situation settles on my shoulders, heavy like an anchor dragging me down. I realise that for all the independence and resourcefulness I've honed over the years, it might not be enough. Aligning with The Crowned Syndicate isn't just a choice—it's a necessity. It's survival.

My fingers fiddle with the to-go cup, the tea inside long gone now. Joining The Crowned Syndicate isn't just signing up for some campus club; it's stepping into a legacy of blood and shadows. My mother's face flashes before me, her tired smile after long hours at work—this wasn't the life she wanted for me. But she lied, and now I'm in this up to my neck.

"Vogue, you good?" Quentin's voice cuts through my thoughts. His eyes are sharp, trying to read me.

I nod, but it's automatic, unconvincing. "Just thinking."

"About what we told you?" Callum asks, his gaze steady on mine.

"About everything." My voice is a whisper, lost in the chatter around us. The risks of joining them are high and not just about dodging bullets or looking over my shoulder. It's about changing who I am, letting go of the part of me that believes in a normal life—a life outside of this madness.

"Hey," Harrison leans in, his brow furrowed. "You don't have to decide anything right now."

But the thing is, I do. Time isn't a luxury I own anymore.

"Maybe not," I murmur, "but waiting won't change the facts. If I'm in danger because of my father, because of my blood, then sitting on the sidelines won't keep me safe." Do I let the currents pull me along, or do I swim against them?

For a moment, silence wraps around our table, and I let it linger, let it give space to my racing thoughts. Aligning myself with the mafia is a dive into an abyss, but at least I choose when and how I jump.

"Okay," I finally breathe out, feeling my resolve harden like ice. "I'm not going to be anyone's target. And I sure as hell won't be a pawn."

"Then what will you be?" Quentin asks, his question hanging between us like a challenge.

"I'll be me," I say, the words carrying a weight of decision. "And I'll embrace whatever comes with that. My heritage, this protection—I'll make it mine."

There's a shift in their expressions—respect and something else, something like recognition. They see it, the choice I'm making. It's not just acceptance; it's a claim.

"Alright then," Callum says, his voice low. "Welcome to the fold."

"Remember," Harrison adds, "it's not just about taking control. It's about keeping it."

"Control," I echo. The word tastes like power, like possibility. Even though the path ahead is shrouded in uncertainty, I feel a flicker of excitement, a dark thrill that washes over me and will probably sweep me away.

"Understand this," Callum says, each word deliberate, "your life isn't your own anymore. It belongs to The Syndicate."

"It was never mine anyway, was it?" My response is immediate, almost reckless.

"Good." Quentin leans back, arms folded. "Because once you're in, there's no out."

The implications echo through me, but my determination doesn't falter. I chose this. I need this.

"Then I'd better be worth the trouble," I counter, meeting his stare.

"Oh, you are," Thayer murmurs, his tone lighter, teasing the edge of the tension around us.

"Welcome to the dark side, Vogue," Harrison says with a grim smile on his lips.

Their words are like a contract signed in blood, etched into the air between us. This is real now, and a shiver of fear runs through me—but it's edged with that dark thrill I can't deny.

"Here's to the dark side," I murmur, lifting my empty tea cup in a mock toast.

As we leave the café together, I feel the pull of my choice. It's a descent into a world rife with shadows and danger. No turning back. But there's also a sense of stepping into my power, claiming a birthright I never asked for but was maybe always destined for.

I walk alongside these guys of power, not behind or in front, my steps matching their confident strides. My heart races, adrenaline mingling with a sense of purpose. Fear, yes, but excitement, too—because this is my life now. I'm ready to face down anyone who thinks they can use me as their chess piece.

Yes, Aaron McGowan, I'm talking about you.

We move as one unit across the quad. Callum walks with a confidence that's both reassuring and terrifying. He doesn't look back; he doesn't need to. His world is one of forward motion, consequences be damned.

Quentin moves in beside me, his presence a silent reminder of the strength that now surrounds me. "Your instincts will sharpen in time," he says, his tone matter-of-fact but not unkind. "You'll learn to read the signs, anticipate moves."

"Like chess?" I ask, half-joking, but my heart isn't in it.

"Exactly like chess," he confirms. "Only the pieces are real, and they bleed."

Thayer's laugh cuts through the tension, low and dangerous. "And some of us enjoy playing more than others."

"Focus on survival first," Harrison advises, his words almost lost to the wind. "The rest comes later."

Survival.

Well, if there is one thing I know how to do and do well, it's survive.

Callum pauses as we reach the main building, turning to face me. "First rule of The Syndicate," he says, his voice a low growl that commands attention. "Never let your guard down."

"Second rule," Thayer says, his grin sharp, "enjoy the ride."

I draw in a deep breath, letting the cool air fill my lungs, steadying my racing heart. My mind races with possibilities, with dangers lurking in every shadow. This new life is a maze, and I'm at the entrance without a map. But I have something better—I have allies, strong, powerful, take-no-prisoners allies.

"Third rule," Quentin adds, his hand coming to rest lightly on my shoulder, a gesture that feels oddly comforting, "trust us to watch your back."

"Fourth rule," Harrison concludes, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that leaves no room for doubt, "never lose sight of who you really are."

I'm guessing he means my father's daughter, not just plain old Vogue Jameson from the wrong side of the tracks.

"Get to class," Callum says. "Soon, everyone will know you're one of us."

His words sound like a harbinger of doom.

Maybe they are.

Maybe this will work in my favour, and I'll be left alone to get on with my MBA.

Or maybe I'm fooling myself, and I'm going to have to get my hands dirty just to stay alive.

I guess, as always, time will tell.

And in this case, blood will out.