I watch her leave the place with hurried steps, practically fleeing.

What the hell is wrong with her now?

I look at Jane, and she looks like she's regretting even being born in this world. She shakes her head and looks away from me with visible discomfort by Ciana’s behaviour.

Ezio Moretti, though, remains rooted in the same place, staring at the exit where Ciana disappeared. Then he shifts his burning glare toward me with unmistakable hostility.

He keeps his intense, scorching glare fixed on me for a few more seconds than necessary, before he storms off the auditorium with long, hurried strides.

I gesture to the others scattered around to leave. "Enough rehearsal for today. Go home."

They let out some tired hums and exasperated sighs before grabbing their bags and leaving one by one in a steady stream. The whole auditorium goes silent, the emptiness echoing around me.

"Want to drink?" Jane questions me, exhaustion holding her face captive, etched into every line.

"Who am I to refuse when alcohol calls my name?" I shrug my shoulders with resignation.

I drove her to the nearby club which was small but had an almost cozy atmosphere, dim lighting and worn leather booths. Jane was flying high in the air for a long time, right after the moment the alcohol hit her brain and loosened her tongue.

She started to ramble incoherently about her ex-husband and all male species in general, painting them all with the same bitter brush.

"Men are pigs. Every single one of them." Jane slurs and giggles without humor. Her chin is resting on the table while she holds the glass over her head.

"Right." I respond quietly and take a sip from my drink.

"Why are you not like them? You look…handsome, not like Alex was, but still you're somehow handsome. Did you get your dick chopped off when those thugs took you to their hideout?" She laughs out loud without restraint, that outburst makes some heads turn toward us with judgment.

"My manhood is perfectly secured under my pants, thank you for your concern. And thanks for considering me handsome, Jane." I don't look at her, just focus on the amber liquid swirling in the glass in my hand.

"I never thought Alex would cheat on me. You know how much I loved Alex? How much I gave him?" She looks at me with watery eyes. "But he left me for that brunette bitch without a second thought."

"You're still a professor, Jane. Keep your swear words in check."

"I'm not a professor in this bar. Though, I want to use these words on those brats too. They're torturing me, Adrian. I hate every single one of them with passion. God…that woman Ciana, she's still alive only because she's from the founding family. Or else, I would have killed her by now with my bare hands."

"Even if she's not from the founding family, you can't touch her, because she's still a billionaire and their parents would hunt you down for even thinking about touching their daughter. You'd disappear." I say the matter-of-fact.

A hiccup escapes her mouth and she looks at me with unfocused eyes. "And you're not? You're pretending to be not a billionaire. You're the heir, Adrian, but you're acting not like them."

"Because I'm not them, Jane. If you're done drinking, get up. I'll take you to your house before you pass out."

"I loved him, Ad. I loved Alex with my entire life, with everything I had." Tears streaming down on her cheeks. "He's not mine anymore. Why am I still here?” She looks up at the ceiling. “Please take me with you…what's his name, Adrian?" She looks confused.

"Jesus fucking Christ…" I sigh with exhaustion and get up to drag her out of here before she causes a scene.

"Yes! Him! Jesus fucking Christ!" She shouts at the ceiling with drunken enthusiasm.

I offer some apologetic mutters to the people around us watching this spectacle and haul her to her feet, dragging her stumbling form out to my car parked outside.

She clings to me desperately. "Fuck my life, why didn't I love you, Adrian? Why did I friend zone you years ago? Did you ever have a crush on me and never voice it out loud because I'm your friend?"

"Don't ask weird questions, Jane. You were and still are my friend, nothing more. Shut up and get your ass into the car." I open the door and push her gently into the passenger seat and secure the seatbelt around her.

After closing the door, I round the car and slide behind the steering wheel. "Sleep if you want but please don't puke. I can't take my car to another wash this week."

She huffs with an offended look plastered on her flushed face. "If I told you I wanted to date you back then, what would be your response, Ad?"

I rub my temple and lean back against my seat. "I would have told you that you'd find a better man than me."

"Typical male response, avoiding everything." She huffs and throws her head back against the headrest.

A small smile creeps unbidden on my lips and I start the car engine.

By the time I reached her apartment building, she's a second away from passing out completely, her breathing heavy and slow. I had to scoop her up and carry her dead weight to her apartment on the third floor.

Her neighbors gave me some weird, suspicious looks as I passed them in the hallway.

I left Jane safely in her place, sprawled on her bed, and drove back to my house through empty streets.

The same old house invites me in with the same coldness, yet I can feel the contentment here. The lone house who always embraces me and protects me from the fake world out there, from the people who want things from me.

"Is it too much to ask to be loved?"
"You're not enough."

The words echoed in my head all of a sudden as the memory hit me like a freight train barreling through my skull.

Why can't I just move on? Why can't I just leave the past behind and look ahead of me toward some semblance of a future? Why can't I just see the people in front of me instead of questioning why they're approaching me, what they want from me?

I'm so tired of this existence. So damn tired of fighting. 

I turn on the TV, shedding my jacket off and letting it fall to the floor before I flop back on the couch with exhaustion. Changing the channels without purpose for a few minutes before it stops on the news channel.

They are telecasting a live crime scene with yellow tape and flashing lights. The dead body is blurred but I can see what they did to that…old man? 

Do killers now target old people to get the vent out of them?

The reporter is describing what's happening there and about the gruesome crime scene with barely concealed excitement. According to the reporter, the old man's manhood was severed completely from his body and crushed under a boot, because the shoe prints are visible on the flesh, stamped into the remains.

His hands are cut off cleanly and they are missing from the scene.

Then they show a graffiti drawing near the wall where they discovered the dead body. A thick red filled circle and a black claw tore through the red…maybe blood, still wet and dripping.

What does it mean? Some kind of message?

A new gang raised from the shadows? It's not even Chicago, though. What's happening out there in the city?

My phone buzzes on the table in front of me, breaking my focus. I take a glance at it.

Lynn: Your nephew drew you.

A text message appeared on the screen with a picture attached to it.

I click open the chat and see how Ryan drew me…a genuine chuckle leaves my lips despite everything.

The drawing was awful in the best way. I was fat and wore round glasses with a stick in my hand because I'm a professor. I texted Lynn back with amusement.

Me: Tell Ryan that he's going to be a tough competitor even for Picasso himself.

Lynn: Will convey your sarcasm, brother.

Me: I'm being serious, Lynn. You'll see how successful of an artist he becomes one day.

Lynn: Haha! Very funny.

Me: I'm screenshotting this conversation and I will show him after he receives his first award how his mother didn't trust his artistic abilities.

Lynn: 😆

With a smile lingering on my face, I put the phone down and focus back on the TV. The channel still shows the crime scene in all its gory detail. The police and the crowd surrounded the cordoned-off place. The teenagers are taking videos and photos of the scene for their social media.

My eyes zero in on the graffiti drawing on the wall behind the body. 

I've seen it somewhere before.

Three days pass and Jane is losing her mind over the play they chose for the gala. Everything is arranged except one of the main characters. Persephone, aka Ciana.

She didn't show up to class for three days after she stormed off the auditorium. And Jane tried to contact her through various means, but the people who answered the calls were always the servants. Each time a different one with different excuses. 

How many servants does Ciana have in her house?

And Jane tried to get Ciana's personal number through her classmates, but surprisingly no one has or knows her number. And Ezio refused to give Jane her contact details and told her that it's her problem to deal with, not his.

"Why does that girl have to be so stubborn to answer a damn phone?" Jane paces around my office while biting her nails off for half an hour now, wearing a path in the carpet.

"Sit down, please. You're making my head spin watching you." I'm grading first years' papers with a red pen, like I expected, finding nothing worth grading. "Ciana's sister is studying here, try to reach out to her, Jane."

"I tried that too. She's not helping either, just gave me cold looks." Jane throws her hands up in frustration. "Why is her family like this? It's not like I'm going to demand their fortune. I just want her to show up to the rehearsals and do her job. God, why are they like this? And these private fucking numbers are killing me inch by inch."

"And the other one? Leo DeLuca?"

"No. No! None of them are opening their mouths about anything."

I exhale long through my nose and set down my pen before looking at her. "Give me the number you've been contacting for two days. I'll give it a try myself."

Jane's face brightens up with hope and hands me her phone with trembling hands. I noted the number down and dial the landline number, listening to it ring.

No one picked up until I called for the third time.

Then the line connects with a click. "Who's this?" A small trembling voice answers the call with fear lacing every word.

Definitely not Ciana's voice. Another servant? "Is Ciana there?" I keep my tone professional.

"Who are you?" That woman questions me with suspicion.

"I'm her professor. She didn't show up to her classes for three days, so I'm checking up on her. Can you please hand her the receiver?"

The line goes silent for a long second. I look at my phone's screen to see if that woman hung up on me. But no, the call doesn't disconnect, just silence.

I waited for what felt like forever but then I heard a loud crashing sound of glass shattering, reaching my ear through the phone, followed by muffled shouting.

Then the woman speaks again with barely controlled panic. "You can't talk to her right now. Don't call this number again." With that sharp dismissal, the line goes dead.

I blink several times and look up at Jane. "Ciana's there but she doesn't want to talk because she was busy throwing tantrums and breaking things."