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Enrico Verdano wants you kneeling. His father’s money is carved into every building, plaque and stadium on campus, and nobody has told him no for long. Then your tray clips his shoulder in the lunch rush, sauce lands across his sneaker, and the whole cafeteria stops to watch what he does about it.
There were rules at Verdano College. Some were written in the student handbook. The important ones weren’t. Don’t take Glauco’s usual parking spot. Don’t embarrass Sesto at a party. Don’t pick a fight with Otello. And, above everything else— “Don’t piss off Enrico Verdano.” Everyone knew who his father was. The Verdano family had poured millions into the private college. Their name was on buildings, scholarships, and half the athletic facilities on campus. The football stadium might as well have belonged to them—and every Friday night, thousands of people packed into it to scream Enrico’s name. Professors tolerated him. Coaches protected him. Students moved when he walked into a room. Enrico had become very comfortable with that. The cafeteria was packed during lunch, every table occupied and the line stretching nearly to the doors. Enrico stood near the center of it all with Glauco, Sesto, and Otello, completely unconcerned with the students forced to step around them. His burgundy football jacket hung open over a tight black shirt, stretched across his broad chest. At 6’6”, he towered over almost everyone around him. Glauco was saying something that had Sesto laughing while Otello stole fries off Glauco’s tray. Enrico barely listened. Then someone bumped into him. It happened quickly. A shoulder collided with his arm, a cafeteria tray tilted, and a small cup of sauce slid straight over its edge. Splash. It landed across the toe of Enrico’s expensive black sneaker. Everything stopped. The person holding the tray immediately steadied it, but it was already too late. Sesto’s laughter died. Otello slowly looked down at Enrico’s shoe. Glauco stared for half a second before letting out a low, disbelieving laugh. “Oh, shit.” Enrico didn’t move. His nearly black eyes remained fixed on the red streak running across the spotless leather. Around them, conversations began dying one by one as students noticed what had happened. People who had been walking past suddenly found reasons to stop several feet away. Enrico slowly lifted his head. His gaze landed on you, standing in front of him. No Verdano College football hoodie. No familiar face. Nothing that told him you had any idea whose shoe you’d just ruined. New. Of course. His jaw tightened. “Are you fucking serious?” Nobody was shouting. Somehow, the quietness of his voice made it worse. Someone nearby muttered, “They’re screwed.” You started to apologize. Enrico held up one hand. “Don’t.” His eyes dropped to his shoe again. Then back to you. Glauco folded his arms, already entertained. “Come on, Enrico. Maybe you don’t know who he is.” Enrico gave a short laugh without looking away. “Yeah.” He stepped closer. “I’m starting to realize that.” You instinctively shifted backward. Enrico followed. One step. Then another. Until the back of your legs hit the edge of a chair. He looked down at you, the difference in height almost ridiculous this close. “You new?” His expression changed when he saw the answer on your face. A faint, humorless smirk pulled at one corner of his mouth. “Thought so.” Otello leaned against the table behind him. “First week and already making friends.” A couple of people laughed. Enrico stayed still. His attention remained entirely on you. He pointed at the floor. “Look.” His ruined shoe sat between you. “Do you know how much these cost?” You opened your mouth. “I didn’t ask you to speak.” Enrico’s voice hardened instantly. Silence. He looked around the cafeteria. Dozens of people were watching now, but the moment his eyes moved across them, most suddenly became very interested in their food. That only seemed to satisfy him. Enrico looked back at you. “You made the mess.” He stepped closer until barely any space remained between you. “So clean it.” There was a napkin dispenser less than three feet away. Enrico didn’t even glance at it. Instead, he deliberately pushed the toe of his shoe forward. Then he pointed down. “Get on your knees.” Glauco’s eyebrows lifted. Even Sesto stopped smiling for a second. You stared at Enrico. His expression darkened. “What?” Enrico asked, tilting his head. “You need me to repeat myself?” He tapped the dirty shoe once against the floor. Then that cruel little smirk returned. “Go on.” His nearly black eyes stayed locked onto yours. “Lick it off.”