Chapter 12 12
Chapter 12 12
The first thing I noticed was the sound. Not his voice. Not his laugh. The sound.
It was the very specific, very irritating sound of a leather sneaker squeaking across polished floor tiles—repeatedly. On purpose.
I looked up from my biology book, narrowed my eyes, and locked gaze with the boy sitting across the detention room. He was leaning his chair back on two legs, arms crossed, foot tapping lazily against the desk leg like this was a goddamn drum solo.
“You’re going to fall,” aku berkata datar.
He glanced at me, unfazed. “Then I guess you’ll have front-row seats.”
Arrogant. Smug. Tan.
He had the kind of face that fashion brands built ad campaigns around. The kind that made girls forget how to spell their own names. Tousled dark hair, cheekbones sharp enough to slice air, and lips—well, I wasn’t going to think about his lips. I wasn’t.
He looked like he belonged on a yacht off Capri, not in a dusty classroom with broken blinds and someone named Ms. Godfrey who reeked of menthols and despair.
“Why are you even in detention?” I asked, already regretting it.
He smirked. “Why are you in detention?”
“I corrected the history teacher.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“She said Napoleon died in 1832.”
He whistled. “And he didn’t?”
“He died in 1821.”
“Tragic,” he said, eyes dancing. “Imagine being that passionate about dead short guys.”
I glared. “And you?”
He shrugged. “Punched someone.”
Of course he did.
Of course this boy—this smug, golden, Italian-accented trouble magnet—was in detention for violence.
“Let me guess,” I said. “Someone looked at you wrong and you lost it?”
“No,” he said, calm. “Someone touched a girl who didn’t want to be touched.”
My lips parted. Not in shock. Not in admiration. But… something flickered.
Before I could respond, he stood and walked to the front of the class. Still balanced on two chair legs, he spun it around and dropped it in front of my desk. Sat facing me, chin resting lazily on the backrest.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Not interested.”
“Not what I asked.”
I sighed. “Vicky.”
“Full name.”
“Victoria Alvarez.”
His brow lifted. “You sound rich.”
“And you sound like a walking headline.”
That made him grin. “I’ve been worse.”
“Where are you from?” I asked, despite myself.
“Italy. But I grew up mostly in Monaco.”
“Figures,” I muttered. “You scream tax haven.”
He laughed. Loud, open, the kind of laugh that got you both in trouble and out of it. The kind that made Ms. Godfrey glance up but not say a word because God forbid anyone interrupt the new transfer kid who was probably backed by seven lawyers and a family name engraved on oil rigs.
“Rafael De Luca Ricciardi,” he said, holding out a hand.
I stared at it. “That’s… a lot of name.”
“I contain multitudes.”
I didn’t shake his hand. “What do you want, Rafael De Luca Whatever?”
“I’m bored,” he said simply. “And you look like the only person here whose IQ isn’t in the negatives.”
“That’s the worst compliment I’ve ever received.”
“I can try harder,” he offered, deadpan.
“Please don’t.”
But I was smiling. Just a little. Which was a problem. Because boys like him—charming, dangerous, too pretty for their own good—came with expiration dates and heartbreak warnings. And I didn’t have time for that.
I was three months away from applying to Columbia. I had debate club, three AP classes, a mother who measured worth in gold medals, and a father who thought feelings were for poor people.
I didn’t need Rafael De Luca Ricciardi and his reckless smiles.
“So, Vicky,” he said, eyes scanning my desk. “Why Columbia?”
I blinked. “How do you—”
He tapped the folder peeking from my bag. “Essay draft. Top right corner.”
“You read it upside down?”
“I’m gifted.”
I rolled my eyes. “Columbia has the best international relations program on the East Coast.”
“And you want to rule the world?”
“No,” I said, leaning back. “I want to fix it.”
He tilted his head, as if reassessing me.
“What?” I asked.
“You don’t look like someone who wants to fix the world.”
“Oh yeah? What do I look like?”
He grinned slowly. “Someone who’d burn it down if it got in her way.”
For a second, we just stared at each other. Not speaking. Not moving. Just the buzz of fluorescent lights and the sound of my pulse hammering in my throat.
He stood again, grabbed his chair, and dragged it back to his desk like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just said something that would live rent-free in my brain for the next decade.
Ten minutes later, detention ended.
As I walked out, I heard him call after me.
“Hey, Alvarez.”
I turned.
“You can fix the world if you want.” His smile softened. “But don’t let it fix you.”
And just like that, he became a problem.
Not just the pretty-boy problem.
Not just the rich-kid problem.
But the kind of problem that shows up in your life like a storm and leaves you wondering if it was all worth it—even after the wreckage.
Rafael De Luca Ricciardi wasn’t just unforgettable.
He was dangerous.
And the worst part?
I already knew it.
And still—I wanted to know him anyway.
::
It started with library hours.
Not study dates. Not anything remotely romantic. Just two students, always ending up in the same back corner of the same dusty library at the same stupid time every Tuesday and Thursday. And pretending it meant nothing.
“Let me guess,” I said, glancing up from my laptop. “You’re here to research how to make your jawline more symmetrical?”
Rafael dropped his backpack on the chair across from me. “That hurts, Alvarez. This jawline has won awards.”
“I bet it’s insured too.”
He smirked, digging out a notebook and pen. He never brought a laptop. Claimed he “liked the way real ink bleeds on paper.” Pretentious? Sure. Hot? Unfortunately, also yes.
I turned my eyes back to the spreadsheet I was editing. “If you’re gonna sit here, no talking. Some of us are trying to get into college and not, I don’t know, become a professional heartbreaker.”
“Bold of you to assume that’s not a full-time job,” he muttered, flipping open his notebook.
For fifteen minutes, there was silence. Comfortable, annoying, charged silence. He tapped his pen twice every time he wrote something. I hated that I started counting it.
“So what’s your actual dream?” he asked out of nowhere.
I didn’t look up. “You don’t care.”
“Try me.”
I sighed. “UN diplomat. Maybe strategist. I want to change things. Influence how countries talk to each other. How decisions get made.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Of course. Alvarez, ruler of the free world.”
“And you?” I asked, against my better judgment.
He paused. “F1 driver.”
I blinked. “Seriously?”
He nodded. “I’ve been racing since I was five. Go-karts, Formula 4, now karting in Italy. My dad’s… invested.”
“Oh, so this is a family business.”
He chuckled. “Something like that.”
“And what if you fail?”
“I don’t fail.”
Of course he didn’t. That was the most Rafael thing I’d ever heard.
“I think failure’s necessary,” I said, clicking my pen. “It builds character.”
He smiled lazily. “You say that like you’ve never failed.”
I didn’t answer.
Because I had. More times than I liked to admit. Just not in ways people could see.
The first time he kissed me, it wasn’t planned.
It wasn’t a movie scene. No candlelight. No sweeping music. Just cold air, late November, and an argument outside the dorms about whether or not I could take care of myself.
“Stop acting like you’re invincible,” he snapped, his accent thicker when he was mad. “You think just because you’re smart and fast with words, nobody can hurt you?”
I crossed my arms. “I don’t need you to protect me.”
“I’m not trying to protect you, I’m trying to—” He exhaled hard, jaw tight. “God, you’re impossible.”
“Then walk away.”
He stepped closer. “Maybe I can’t.”
I felt the heat between us before I felt his hand on my jaw. Rough, calloused from racing gloves. My breath caught.
He kissed me like he was angry.
Like he hated that he wanted to.
And I kissed him back like I hated that he was right.
When we broke apart, I was shaking. So was he.
“I’m going to regret this,” I whispered.
“Me too,” he said. “But I’m not done.”
We became a secret.
Not the cute kind. The messy, we-can’t-get-caught, this-is-stupid kind. Midnight meetups in the greenhouse. Quiet hands under cafeteria tables. Long glances across the quad that meant everything and nothing at once.
It wasn’t love. Not yet.
It was obsession. It was fire and adrenaline and fear and God, what if someone finds out?
And through it all, I kept my guard up.
Until the night he showed me the photo.
It was an old one, folded in his wallet. Him at seven years old, in a tiny kart. Helmet too big. Smile too bright.
“My mom took that,” he said softly. “Before she got sick.”
I looked at him. Really looked.
“You don’t talk about her.”
“No.”
“Why?”
He shrugged, but it was tight. “Because every time I do, I remember that she’ll never see me win anything.”
My chest twisted. “She’d be proud of you.”
“You don’t know that.”
I touched his hand. “I do.”
We didn’t kiss that night. We just sat in silence, knees touching, breath synced.
And maybe that’s when I really started to fall for him.
Not for the smile. Or the sharp wit. Or the body that made girls stare.
But for the boy behind all of it.
The boy who’d lost something and still wanted to race like the world owed him a finish line.
Then came the letter.
Columbia. Full ride. Early acceptance.
I didn’t tell him right away. I didn’t know how. Because part of me hoped he’d come with me. That he’d pause racing for a year. That he’d want me enough to do that.
But that was never Rafael.
The night I told him, it was cold. We were sitting on the bleachers, overlooking the empty track.
He didn’t say anything for a long time.
Then: “When do you leave?”
“June.”
He nodded. “You’re really doing it.”
“I have to.”
“I know.”
Silence.
Then he stood. “Well. Congrats.”
“That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say, Vick? That I’ll drop everything? That I’ll chase you across an ocean? That I’ll give up the one thing I’ve trained for my whole life just because you’re leaving?”
I flinched.
“That’s not fair.”
“No,” he said. “It’s not.”
I stood too. “So what are we?”
He didn’t answer.
So I did the one thing I promised I wouldn’t do.
I walked away first.
.