(Marco POV)
The black SUV idles in the circular driveway like a hearse waiting for a funeral. Vito stands beside it, arms crossed, looking like he could bench press a small building. His eyes track every movement as Izzy and I approach, backpacks slung over our shoulders.
"Morning, kids." His voice sounds like gravel in a blender. "Ready for school?"
"Thrilled," Izzy mutters under her breath.
I shoot her a warning look. Antagonizing Vito on day one isn't going to help anyone. She catches my expression and rolls her eyes, but doesn't say anything else.
Vito opens the rear door with exaggerated politeness. "After you, Miss Isabella."
She climbs in without a word, sliding to the far side of the bench seat. I follow, leaving a careful two feet of space between us. The leather is cold against my back, and the tinted windows make everything feel like we're trapped in a tomb.
Vito adjusts the rearview mirror, and I realize it's positioned to give him a perfect view of both of us. Subtle.
"So," he says, pulling out of the driveway. "Your dad tells me you're both good students. No trouble."
"We're angels," I say flatly.
"That's what I like to hear." Vito's eyes find mine in the mirror. "Because I'd hate for there to be any... misunderstandings."
Izzy stares out the window, her jaw set in that stubborn line I've come to recognize. Her hands are folded in her lap, but I can see her knuckles are white.
We hit traffic on the FDR Drive, and the silence becomes unbearable. I risk a glance at Izzy, and she's already looking at me. For a split second, her mask slips, and I see the same fear and confusion I'm feeling. Then she looks away, but not before I catch the slight shake of her head.
Not here. Not with him watching.
I understand perfectly.
"Music?" Vito asks, reaching for the radio.
"No," Izzy says quickly. "I mean, no thank you. I need to review my notes."
She pulls out a notebook and flips it open, but I can see she's not reading. She's sketching, her pencil moving in quick, angry strokes. From my angle, I can make out the rough shape of a cage.
Twenty minutes later, we pull up to the campus entrance. Students stream past the SUV, laughing and talking, and I feel a stab of envy. They have no idea how good they have it.
"I'll be right here when you're done," Vito announces. "Both of you. Together."
"We have different schedules," I point out. "Different classes."
"Then you'll figure it out." Vito's smile is all teeth. "Your dad was very clear. You stick together. Like family should."
Izzy's pencil snaps in half.
"What time should we be back?" she asks, her voice carefully neutral.
"Three-thirty. Sharp." Vito taps his watch. "I don't like to be kept waiting."
We climb out of the SUV, and I can feel dozens of eyes on us. Great. Nothing says "totally normal college student" like arriving with a bodyguard who looks like he eats concrete for breakfast.
"Jesus Christ," Izzy whispers as we walk toward the main building. "Could he be any more obvious?"
"Keep your voice down," I murmur. "He's probably got enhanced hearing or something."
Despite everything, she almost smiles. Almost.
We make it to the student center before the stares become too much to ignore. A group of girls near the coffee cart are whispering and pointing. One of them, a blonde with too much makeup, approaches us.
"Excuse me," she says, batting her eyelashes at me. "Is that your driver?"
"Something like that," I say, trying to keep moving.
"That's so cool! Are you guys like, rich or something?"
"Or something," Izzy says dryly. "Come on, Marco. We're going to be late."
She grabs my arm, and the contact sends electricity shooting up to my shoulder. Her fingers are warm through my sleeve, and for a moment I forget about Vito, about Antonio, about everything except the way her touch makes me feel alive.
Then she lets go, and reality crashes back.
"I have American Lit in Morrison Hall," she says, loud enough for anyone listening. "Where are you headed?"
"Philosophy. Same building." I check my watch. "I can walk you."
"How sweet," the blonde coos. "Are you guys dating?"
"We're siblings," Izzy says, the words coming out like broken glass. "Step-siblings."
The blonde's face scrunches up in confusion. "Oh. Weird. You don't look alike at all."
"Different mothers," I say quickly. "Come on, Izzy. We really are going to be late."
We escape the student center and head across the quad. The morning sun is bright, and students are sprawled on the grass, studying or just enjoying the weather. It looks like a postcard of college life, perfect and untouchable.
"This is insane," Izzy says when we're far enough from the coffee cart gossips. "People are going to talk."
"Let them talk."
"Easy for you to say. You're not the one who just got branded as the weird step-sister who arrives with a bodyguard."
I want to tell her she's not weird, that she's perfect, that I don't give a damn what anyone thinks. But the words stick in my throat. Because we're not alone. We're never going to be alone again.
"It'll blow over," I say instead. "People have short attention spans."
"Do they?" She stops walking and turns to face me. "Because I'm pretty sure having a human mountain as a chauffeur is going to be memorable."
She's right, of course. But what am I supposed to say? That I'm sorry? That I wish things were different? That I'm going crazy being this close to her and not being able to touch her?
"We'll figure it out," I say lamely.
"Will we?" Her voice is barely above a whisper. "I don't see a way out."
I want to reach for her hand. Want to pull her close and kiss her until the world makes sense again. Instead, I check my watch and take a step back.
"We should get to class."
The hurt that flashes across her face is like a knife to the gut. But what choice do I have? Vito's probably watching us through binoculars. Rosa's probably got spies everywhere. And Antonio...
Antonio's threat from last night still echoes in my head. Family betrayal is the worst kind of betrayal.
"Right," Izzy says, her voice turning cold. "Wouldn't want to be late for philosophy. Very important stuff."
She starts walking again, her pace quick and angry. I follow, keeping that careful distance between us, hating every second of it.
Morrison Hall is a red brick building with ivy crawling up the walls. Izzy's classroom is on the second floor, mine on the third. We climb the stairs in silence, and when we reach her floor, she stops.
"See you at lunch?" she asks, and there's something hopeful in her voice.
"Yeah. Cafeteria at noon?"
"Okay." She hesitates, then adds, "Marco?"
"Yeah?"
"Be careful."
Before I can ask what she means, she's gone, disappearing into her classroom. I stand in the hallway for a moment, watching the door close behind her, then head upstairs to my own personal hell.
Philosophy with Professor Hendricks. The Nature of Free Will.
The irony isn't lost on me.
I slide into a seat near the back and try to focus on Hendricks' lecture about determinism versus choice. But all I can think about is the way Izzy's hand felt on my arm, the way she looked at me in the SUV, the way she said my name like a prayer.
Three hours. I have to sit through three hours of classes, pretending to be a normal student, pretending I don't want to burn the world down just to hold her hand.
The clock on the wall ticks forward with agonizing slowness. Every minute feels like an hour. Every hour feels like a lifetime.
At 11:45, I pack up my books and head for the cafeteria. I'm early, but I don't care. I need to see her, need to make sure she's okay, need to pretend for a few minutes that we're just two college students grabbing lunch together.
The cafeteria is crowded and loud, filled with the sound of conversations and clinking silverware. I grab a tray and get in line, scanning the room for any sign of Izzy.
I don't see her, but I do see something else that makes my blood run cold.
Vito. Sitting at a corner table, reading a newspaper and sipping coffee like he belongs here. Like he's just another student grabbing a bite between classes.
He looks up as I approach, and that predatory smile spreads across his face.
"Marco! There you are." He folds the newspaper carefully. "I was just thinking about grabbing some lunch. Mind if I join you?"
It's not a request.
"Sure," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "The more the merrier."
Vito's laugh sounds like a cement mixer. "That's what I like to hear. Family togetherness."
I sit down across from him, my appetite completely gone. Through the cafeteria windows, I can see students walking across the quad, free and happy and oblivious.
And I realize, with a sick certainty, that this is my life now. This is what Antonio meant by "supervision." Not just a ride to school and back, but constant surveillance. Every move watched, every word reported back.
The cage is closing around us, and I don't know how to break free.
All I know is that I have to try. Because the alternative, a life without Izzy, without hope, without the possibility of escape, is worse than death.
But first, I have to survive lunch with the human mountain who's been assigned to destroy my life.
"So," Vito says, unwrapping a sandwich the size of a small dog. "Tell me about your girlfriend."