It was still early when the black car rolled up to the gates of St. Augustine’s, the kind of private school built for children of judges, diplomats, and old money. The guards knew the car; they always stepped back a little farther when they saw the Morreti crest on the hood. I stepped out, jacket sharp, expression bored. Sixteen, but I’d learned how to wear power long before I ever wore a uniform.

The courtyard was quiet except for the echo of shoes on stone and the low murmur of students who pretended not to stare. Everyone here knew the stories—five Morreti brothers before me, each one leaving behind a rumor or a scar. Our family didn’t just come from money. We came from something older, darker, the kind of wealth that didn’t fade with the markets because it was built on fear and control.

Classes were a formality. The teachers looked at me like they wished they could fail me, but none of them ever would. My father donated half the science wing. My mother handled the rest—smiles, checks, favors owed. At lunch, I sat alone under the shade of the old oak, scrolling through messages from my brothers. Business. Always business.

The other students laughed too loud, lived too soft. They didn’t understand what it meant to have a last name that could stop a man’s heartbeat. I wasn’t here to learn from books. I was here to learn how to keep the family’s power polished—how to wear civility like a suit over steel.

When the bell rang, I adjusted my tie and headed inside. For them, it was another school day. For me, it was another rehearsal for the empire waiting outside the gates.