Chapter 153 The Salvatore Shadow
Chapter 153 The Salvatore Shadow
Nate’s POV
The courtyard behind the Alverstone science building was practically deserted by mid‑morning, the biting wind sweeping dry leaves across the frozen cobblestones. It was the kind of gray, miserable day that made the gothic limestone architecture look less like an institution of higher learning and more like a mausoleum holding the ghosts of old endowments.
I spotted him near the corner of the west wing, huddled deep inside a cheap, fleece‑lined jacket that looked entirely out of place against the million‑dollar backdrop of the campus. Duane Feeks. The pathetic little parasite who had been leaking forged photos, trading whispers with corrupt board members, and acting as a blunt instrument for people who played games far, far above his weight class.
My boots clicked rhythmically against the stone, a steady metronome against the wind. I didn’t rush. There was no adrenaline spike, no hot surge of blind rage. That belonged to amateurs who lost control of their pulse. What I felt was a cold, absolute stillness — the dead calm my mother spent my entire life perfecting, drilling into me until it was second nature.
I didn’t try to flank him. I just walked straight into his line of sight, planting my feet squarely to block his path before he could slip around the corner toward the parking lot.
Duane flinched back instinctively, his pale eyes darting toward the empty walkways as if looking for an escape hatch. When he saw it was just me, a nervous, defensive sneer tried to crawl onto his pinched face. He puffed out his chest, trying to look bigger than he was, wrapping his fingers tighter around the strap of his messenger bag.
“Nate,” Duane said, his voice gratingly high, trying for a casual edge he didn’t possess. “Looking for your girlfriend? Or did you finally realize what kind of family she comes from? Because everyone on this campus is talking about—”
I wanted to hit him.
God, I wanted to. One clean shot to wipe that smug little curl off his mouth. My fist actually twitched — a small, involuntary jerk of muscle memory. But breaking his jaw wouldn’t fix anything, and it would hand the board exactly the spectacle they were praying for. So I held the impulse where it burned hottest, right behind my teeth, and stepped closer instead.
I invaded his space until he had to tilt his chin back to look me in the eye. I lowered my voice, forcing him to strain to hear it over the wind.
“You think you’re a player in this, Duane,” I said, the words smooth, flat, and completely devoid of inflection. “You think because someone handed you a high‑end camera and a stack of untraceable cash to plant envelopes on windshields that you’ve finally graduated to the big leagues.”
Duane’s sneer faltered, the corners of his mouth twitching downward. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“Save it,” I cut him off, my gaze locking onto his shifting eyes. “You’re a delivery boy. A stray dog performing tricks for scraps. But what you haven’t figured out yet is whose kitchen those scraps are coming from.”
The wind whipped around us, carrying the bitter chill of the quad, but Duane looked suddenly slick with sweat, his skin taking on a greasy sheen.
“Let’s trace the line for a second,” I continued, my voice dropping another octave, carrying the exact cadence my mother used when she was quietly destroying a business partner over a mahogany boardroom table. The Salvatore Shadow. It wasn’t about shouting or threats of broken bones; it was about making the other person realize, syllable by syllable, that they had already lost the board game before they even moved a piece. “You take the photos. You leak them to the board. You drop them on my car. But let’s look at the mechanics of it. Who authorized your access to the secure archive keys? Not the dean. Not the board president. They’re too cowardly to touch physical stalking themselves. That requires administrative clearance you don’t possess.”
Duane’s eyes widened a fraction, the color leaching out from around his irises. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“My mother,” I murmured, watching the blood drain completely from his face, leaving him chalky and gray. “Alexandra Salvatore doesn’t leave her fingerprints on anything lower than a federal indictment. She found you crawling in the margins of this university, gave you just enough rope to hang yourself, and pointed you at Mila.”
“I—she didn’t—” Duane stammered, his bravado evaporating into the freezing air, his knees locking up.
“And while my mother is using you to tear down a bloodline she despises,” I went on, my tone unyielding, pressing the advantage, “there’s another shadow moving behind her. A man named Vane. Ever hear of him, Duane? Probably not. Men like that don’t introduce themselves to pawns. But he’s the one waiting at the very end of this chain. He doesn’t want a campus scandal, nor does he want a headline in the student paper. He wants completion.”
Duane’s breath hitched.
“And when people like Vane are done utilizing a delivery boy to tie up loose ends, they don’t hand out a severance package or a letter of recommendation.”
I paused for a beat, letting the dead weight of the words settle deep into his bones.
“They erase the liability.”
Duane staggered back half a step, his heel catching awkwardly on the uneven stone. The color was entirely gone from his cheeks, his chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths as the terrifying reality of what he had stumbled into finally caught up with him. He wasn’t a mastermind executing a clever campus vendetta. He was standing right in the dead center of a crossfire between a ruthless corporate dynasty and an underworld cleaner, completely unprotected and entirely disposable.
“You’re… you’re lying,” Duane whispered, though his voice shook so badly it sounded less like an accusation and more like a child begging for a comforting lie.
“Am I?” I tilted my head slightly, my expression remaining completely blank. “Drop the camera, Duane. Stop leaving envelopes on cars. Stop whispering in hallways. Because the next person who comes looking for you won’t stand here and talk.”
I stepped closer again, just enough for him to feel the heat of my breath in the cold air.
“And unlike my mother or Vane,” I said quietly, “I won’t give you a warning.”
I stepped back, breaking the suffocating proximity, and casually adjusted the cuffs of my coat.
Duane didn’t move. He stood frozen against the cold limestone wall, looking smaller, paler, and infinitely more terrified than he had been a minute ago when he thought he held all the cards. He finally understood the geometry of the trap he had walked into.
And as I turned my back on him and walked away across the frozen courtyard, my boots crunching on the frost, I knew he wouldn’t be a problem for us much longer.