DAMON ALESSANDRO BELLAFORTE

CHAPTER I

The Boy Who Had Everything

Early June. Monday. 8:17 AM.

The beginning of summer had arrived with a peculiar gentleness that morning. The sky above the little town was pale blue, almost colourless near the horizon, whilst the first rays of sunlight stretched lazily across the rooftops, illuminating the dew upon the grass and the dusty windows of the old school buildings. It was one of those mornings when the world seemed determined to be beautiful, entirely indifferent to the misery of those who inhabited it.

A faint breeze stirred the leaves of the trees lining the school entrance. Somewhere beyond the iron gates, a delivery truck rumbled along the road, and a handful of students hurried towards the building, their backpacks hanging loosely from one shoulder.

And there stood Damon Bellaforte.

Six feet and five inches of expensive upbringing, wounded pride, and barely restrained fury.

His hands were clenched so tightly that the tendons stood out beneath the skin. His broad shoulders were rigid beneath his dark, perfectly fitted shirt, and his jaw had been locked for so long that a dull ache had begun to settle beneath his cheekbones. A few unruly strands of golden hair fell across his forehead, stirred by the morning wind. His blue-green eyes followed a woman who was presently making her way towards an ancient yellow automobile parked beside the pavement.

Miss Mariana.

A woman he had once addressed with the courtesy ordinarily reserved for adults, teachers, and people whom one had no particular reason to dislike.

How absurdly generous he had been.

The woman opened the driver’s door of her little yellow car. It made a rather unpleasant metallic noise, as though protesting against the prospect of being asked to perform yet another day’s labour. She placed her belongings upon the passenger seat, adjusted her coat, and glanced briefly towards the school entrance.

Damon did not look away.

To hell with this woman.

The thought passed through his mind with such violence that he almost smiled.

She was leaving. Taking her position elsewhere, taking her younger sister with her, taking away the one person Damon had ever considered indispensable. And all because of one evening. One miserable, wretched evening.

His nostrils flared.

He could still remember the sound of the slap. The burning sensation across his cheek. The humiliating splash of cold water when he had fallen backwards into the swimming pool, followed by the laughter, the whispers, and the countless little black rectangles of mobile phones pointed in his direction.

Damon Bellaforte, captain of the football team, heir to a fortune, the boy whose name alone could make half the college reconsider an argument, had been left standing in a swimming pool like some ridiculous fool.

But the humiliation was nothing.

Nothing compared with what had followed.

He had lost her.

And, God help him, he still did not know how to exist comfortably in a world in which she was absent.

The old yellow automobile finally started after two rather desperate attempts. Its engine coughed, shuddered, and settled into a tired mechanical rattle.

Damon’s lips parted slightly.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered.

The car rolled away.

He watched until it disappeared beyond the corner of the street, then lowered his gaze towards the pavement. His fingers opened and closed once, as though he were trying to rid himself of the sensation of having held something that no longer belonged to him.

He drew a long, unsteady breath.

Yesterday.

⸻

Twenty-four hours earlier.

Sunday evening. 11:46 PM. The Bellaforte Penthouse.

The penthouse was alive.

Music thundered through the enormous glass-walled living room, vibrating through the polished floors and the furniture imported from Italy. The rooftop swimming pool reflected the scattered lights of the city, its surface trembling beneath the colourful reflections of the party. Expensive champagne stood neglected upon marble counters, and the air was thick with perfume, laughter, and the peculiar recklessness that belongs to young people convinced that the night will never end.

It was precisely the sort of gathering Damon Bellaforte was accustomed to hosting.

There were people everywhere. College students, football players, fashionable girls, boys whose fathers owned half the businesses in the city. Someone had brought a ridiculous amount of alcohol; someone else was attempting to climb onto the outdoor bar. Marcus had been arguing with a fellow football player for the better part of twenty minutes, whilst Leah was seated near the pool, laughing at something on her telephone.

Damon, however, had found something considerably more interesting than the party itself.

He was dancing.

And not with just anybody.

His hands rested around the little waist of the girl he loved, his tall frame inclined towards her to compensate for their considerable difference in height. A genuine smile, one of those rare and almost boyish expressions, had settled upon his handsome face.

He had warned her about the alcohol earlier.

More than once, actually.

He had explained that she ought to take it slowly, that drinking for the first time at a crowded party was hardly an intelligent decision, and that he would rather she spent the evening enjoying herself without attempting to compete with people who had considerably more experience.

Naturally, the warnings had accomplished very little.

Damon had found the entire situation amusing, although he was beginning to suspect that he ought to have been somewhat more insistent.

He laughed, lowering his head until his lips were near her ear.

“Jesus, sweetheart. I told you to take it easy.”

His voice was warm, almost drowned beneath the music.

He moved with her, one hand remaining at her waist whilst the other briefly adjusted a loose strand of his golden hair. There was something remarkably uncomplicated about his happiness at that moment. No football, no arguments, no ridiculous displays of authority, no need to prove himself to anyone.

Just her.

He lowered his head further, his mouth close to her shoulder, and whispered something that would have sounded embarrassingly sentimental coming from almost anybody else.

“I love you.”

He said it naturally.

Not as a joke, not as an attempt to impress her, and certainly not because he expected anything in return.

For Damon, those three words had become as familiar as breathing.

A little later, however, he began to notice that the evening was becoming rather less amusing.

She had been drinking considerably more than he had anticipated. Her balance was unsteady, and the noise of the party seemed to have become an increasingly unpleasant obstacle.

Damon glanced towards Marcus, who was passing nearby with a drink in his hand.

“Oi.”

Marcus turned.

“What?”

“Keep an eye on everything. I’m taking her upstairs.”

Marcus looked towards the couple, then raised his eyebrows.

“Already? It’s barely midnight.”

“Congratulations. You can tell time.”

“You’re a miserable bastard.”

“Good night, Marcus.”

Marcus laughed.

Damon turned his attention back to his companion, and his expression softened almost immediately.

“Come on, pretty girl.”

He slipped one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back, lifting her into his arms with astonishing ease. At six-foot-five, he made the gesture appear almost effortless.

He pressed a kiss against her forehead.

“Let’s get you some sleep, sweetheart.”

She wrapped her arms around him.

And Damon, being Damon, smiled.

He began climbing the wide marble staircase towards the private bedrooms, occasionally glancing down to make certain that she was comfortable.

What he did not know was that someone had been watching.

A student standing near the upper landing had taken out a telephone. The camera had captured Damon carrying the girl upstairs, her arms around his neck, his face lowered towards hers.

It was a brief recording, poorly framed and entirely lacking in context.

Nevertheless, it was enough.

The video was sent to Mariana.

And within minutes, the evening took a turn from which none of them would easily recover.

⸻

The bedroom was quiet compared with the pandemonium downstairs.

Heavy curtains framed the enormous windows, behind which the city glittered in the darkness. A lamp cast a soft golden glow across the bedside table, illuminating a collection of expensive watches, a half-open book, and a glass of untouched water.

Damon carefully lowered the girl onto his bed.

He removed the decorative cushions, pulled the duvet back, and made certain that she was comfortably positioned. He placed a glass of water nearby and checked that she was breathing normally. His movements, so often careless and impatient elsewhere, were surprisingly deliberate.

“Bloody hell,” he murmured, brushing his hair backwards. “You’re going to kill me one day.”

He sat beside her.

For a while, he simply watched her, his expression losing its usual arrogance. There was an almost painful tenderness in his eyes, something that would have astonished anyone accustomed to seeing him in the college corridors.

He gently stroked her hair.

“Such a troublemaker,” he whispered.

His telephone vibrated upon the bedside table.

He ignored it.

He leaned closer, intending to leave a gentle kiss upon her forehead before allowing her to sleep.

And then—

The bedroom door flew open.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!”

Damon straightened so abruptly that his shoulder struck the headboard.

Mariana stood in the doorway.

Her face was pale with fury, her breathing uneven, one hand gripping the doorframe whilst the other held her telephone. She looked from Damon to the bed, and whatever uncertainty might have remained in her expression vanished.

For a moment, Damon did not understand.

“Miss Mariana?”

The woman’s eyes widened.

“You disgusting little—”

“Wait, what?”

She crossed the room before he could finish the sentence.

The slap landed across his left cheek with a sharp, startling crack.

Damon’s head turned to one side.

Silence.

His expression became entirely blank.

It was not merely the pain that astonished him. It was the extraordinary audacity of the woman standing before him, striking him inside his own bedroom.

“What the fuck—”

“Don’t you dare!” Mariana cried, reaching towards the bed. “Get away from my sister!”

“Miss Mariana, listen to me.”

He rose immediately, one hand raised in an attempt to stop her from misunderstanding what she had seen.

“She’s drunk. I brought her upstairs because she could barely stand. I was just—”

“Don’t touch her!”

“I’m not doing anything!”

His voice had risen. The familiar sharpness was returning to it, although beneath his anger there was something considerably less dignified: panic.

Mariana gathered her sister’s belongings and moved towards the doorway.

“You’re all the same. You wealthy little boys think you can do whatever you please!”

“Are you fucking listening to me?!”

She turned.

Another slap.

This time, Damon stumbled backwards.

His heel caught against the edge of the thick carpet, and before he could regain his balance, he struck the glass door leading towards the private terrace.

The door had been left open.

There was a sudden, enormous splash.

Cold water swallowed him.

For several seconds, Damon disappeared beneath the illuminated surface of the swimming pool.

When he emerged, his blond hair was plastered against his forehead, his shirt clung to his chest, and water streamed down his face. He gripped the edge of the pool and looked towards the terrace.

The world seemed to have stopped.

Then he heard it.

Laughter.

A great many voices, followed by the unmistakable sound of mobile phone cameras.

Students had gathered around the terrace. Some had been drinking, others had merely followed the commotion. Several were openly laughing. One boy had his telephone raised, recording everything.

Damon stared at them.

At the people who, only minutes earlier, had been laughing with him, drinking his champagne, and enjoying the hospitality of his home.

His cheek burned.

His shirt was soaked.

And Miss Mariana was already leaving.

“MISS MARIANA!”

He hauled himself out of the water, nearly slipping against the wet tiles.

“YOU’VE GOT IT WRONG!”

His voice echoed across the terrace.

“She was drunk! I was putting her to bed!”

But Mariana did not turn back.

Damon stood there, dripping onto the expensive stone flooring, his chest rising and falling with furious breaths.

Marcus had appeared near the staircase.

“Damon...”

“Don’t.”

“Dude, what the hell happened?”

“I SAID DON’T.”

The telephone cameras remained pointed towards him.

Damon looked around.

For the first time in his life, he felt something much worse than anger.

Humiliation.

⸻

The following morning.

Monday. 8:31 AM. Bellaforte Residence.

The breakfast table was laid for three.

Richard sat at the head, dressed in a charcoal suit, reading something on his tablet whilst his espresso cooled beside his hand. A member of the household staff had placed a plate of eggs, fresh fruit, and toast before Damon.

Damon had not touched any of it.

He sat with one elbow on the table, his damp blond hair still somewhat untidy, a faint redness remaining upon his cheek.

His telephone lay beside his plate.

The video had already spread.

A group chat had been particularly enthusiastic about circulating it, and the comments were growing increasingly irritating.

Richard finally lowered his tablet.

“What happened?”

Damon did not look up.

“Nothing.”

Richard glanced at his cheek.

“That doesn’t look like nothing.”

“Can we not do this?”

“Damon.”

A long silence followed.

Then the younger brother leaned back, exhaling sharply through his nose.

“She took her.”

Richard’s expression changed.

“Who?”

“Mariana. She resigned. Took her sister and transferred her somewhere else.”

Richard placed his tablet upon the table.

“And what exactly happened last night?”

Damon looked at him.

For once, there was no immediate sarcastic response.

“Nothing happened. She’d had too much to drink. I took her upstairs so she could sleep. That fucking woman walked in and decided I was doing something to her.”

Richard studied his younger brother for several seconds.

“Did you explain?”

“I tried.”

“And?”

“She slapped me. Twice.”

Richard’s jaw tightened.

Damon looked away.

“Everyone filmed it.”

The older man remained quiet.

Then, in a considerably more measured voice, he asked:

“And what are you planning to do now?”

Damon’s eyes lifted.

There was something rather unpleasant about the expression that settled upon his face.

“I’m going after her.”

“Damon.”

“No.”

“You haven’t even considered—”

“I said no.”

Richard leaned back, regarding his brother with the weary patience of a man who had spent eighteen years attempting to prevent precisely this sort of behaviour.

“You cannot simply follow someone wherever they go because you’re unhappy with their decision.”

Damon gave a short, humourless laugh.

“Watch me.”

⸻

The New School.

Monday. 9:42 AM.

There were very few things in the world that Damon Bellaforte could not purchase.

A car, an apartment, a private jet, a place at a prestigious university, an introduction to a politician, a table at a restaurant that had supposedly been fully booked for months.

Money had a remarkable way of making inconvenience disappear.

And so, when he discovered the name of the school to which Mariana had transferred, he did precisely what any reasonable young man from an extraordinarily wealthy family might have done.

He bought himself an opportunity to enter.

Naturally, Marcus and Leah came with him.

The new school was a particularly depressing establishment.

The building was old, the exterior paint had begun peeling away in several places, and the windows appeared to have been cleaned sometime during the previous century. The entrance smelled faintly of disinfectant and damp plaster. A tired-looking noticeboard displayed faded announcements about examinations, school lunches, and an upcoming charity collection.

The corridors were narrow.

The lockers were scratched.

The floors had seen better decades.

Damon regarded the establishment through the tinted window of his black luxury sports car with an expression of profound disgust.

“Jesus Christ.”

Marcus, seated beside him, looked through the windscreen.

“Charming place.”

“Is that mould?”

“Could be.”

“Lovely.”

Leah, in the back seat, sighed.

“Can both of you stop acting like you’ve arrived in a third-world country?”

Damon glanced at her through the rear-view mirror.

“Have you seen the parking lot?”

“Yes, Damon. It is a parking lot.”

“There are bicycles.”

“How observant.”

Marcus laughed.

Damon opened the driver’s door.

“Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

The three of them stepped out.

Their arrival was not particularly subtle.

The expensive black vehicle, the designer clothing, the immaculate trainers, and the three young people who looked as though they had accidentally wandered out of an advertisement for private luxury education attracted immediate attention.

A few students standing near the entrance stopped talking.

One boy nudged his friend.

Another whispered something.

Damon ignored them.

He adjusted the cuff of his shirt and began walking towards the entrance, his hands slipping into his pockets.

Inside, the headmaster was waiting.

He was a rather nervous-looking man in his late fifties, wearing a slightly ill-fitting suit and an expression of strained professional enthusiasm.

“Mr. Bellaforte. Welcome.”

Damon offered him a brief glance.

“Morning.”

The headmaster smiled too broadly.

“We are very pleased to have you joining our institution.”

“Right.”

“And, of course, your brother has been most generous with the arrangements.”

Damon gave a faint smirk.

“He’s a generous man.”

The headmaster nodded hurriedly.

“Your records have been transferred. Your schedules are prepared. Miss Mariana has been informed of the new admissions.”

At the mention of the woman’s name, Damon’s expression changed.

“Has she?”

“Yes. She is currently teaching literature.”

“Wonderful.”

There was nothing remotely wonderful about the way he said it.

The headmaster cleared his throat.

“Shall we?”

⸻

9:56 AM.

Literature Classroom.

The classroom was considerably smaller than anything Damon had ever been accustomed to.

Old wooden desks stood in uneven rows. Some had names carved into their surfaces; others bore the remains of stickers and faded ink. A chalkboard occupied the front wall, and an old ceiling fan rotated with an irritating mechanical noise.

The windows were open.

A warm breeze occasionally disturbed the papers upon the teacher’s desk.

Miss Mariana stood near the board, holding a book.

She had been speaking about a literary passage when the headmaster appeared in the doorway.

“Excuse me, everyone.”

The conversation gradually subsided.

Mariana turned.

“Yes, sir?”

“We have three new students joining your class today.”

Her expression remained polite.

“Of course.”

The headmaster stepped aside.

Marcus entered first, looking around with undisguised curiosity. Leah followed, offering the room a brief, assessing glance.

Then came Damon.

And Mariana’s smile disappeared.

For one terrible second, the woman simply stared.

He was dressed in dark trousers and an expensive shirt, the sleeves casually folded to his forearms. His golden hair was slightly dishevelled, and his expression was composed in that particular way which generally preceded something unpleasant.

His blue-green eyes moved slowly across the classroom.

Not towards the headmaster.

Not towards the students.

He was searching.

The headmaster began the introductions.

“Everyone, these are your new classmates. I expect you to make them feel welcome. Mr. Bellaforte, perhaps you would like to introduce yourself first.”

Damon did not answer immediately.

His eyes continued moving across the room.

There.

His gaze stopped.

And everything changed.

It was almost imperceptible at first: the slightest alteration in his expression, a sudden stillness about his shoulders, the faint loosening of his jaw.

The emptiness in his eyes disappeared.

For a moment, he looked as though someone had restored the air to his lungs after an extraordinarily long time beneath the water.

There she was.

His girl.

His love.

The person for whom he had crossed an entire town, abandoned an expensive college, and willingly entered a building whose ceiling appeared to be held together by little more than optimism.

His heart gave one particularly violent beat.

He swallowed.

Then, slowly, the familiar arrogance returned to his face.

Mariana noticed where he was looking.

Her fingers tightened around the book.

“Oh, no.”

The headmaster glanced at her.

“Excuse me?”

She stepped towards him and lowered her voice.

“Sir, we need to speak. Immediately.”

“Miss Mariana, is something wrong?”

“Yes. Very wrong.”

Damon, meanwhile, had already begun speaking.

“Good morning, everyone.”

His voice was deep, confident, and almost offensively casual.

He did not take his eyes away from the same place.

“I’m Damon. You don’t need to tell me your names. I probably won’t remember them anyway.”

A few students exchanged uncertain glances.

Marcus lowered his head, concealing a grin.

Leah closed her eyes for a moment.

Here we fucking go.

Damon continued.

“And, frankly, there’s only one name in this room I’m particularly interested in.”

The words were delivered with such careless confidence that several students began whispering.

Mariana looked horrified.

“Mr. Bellaforte!”

He ignored her.

Instead, he walked further into the classroom.

His shoes made a quiet sound against the worn floorboards. He moved between the desks with the confidence of someone entering a room that already belonged to him.

A girl seated beside {{user}} looked up as his shadow fell across her desk.

Damon stopped.

He glanced at the girl.

Then at the desk.

Then back at her.

He placed one hand upon its wooden surface.

“Hey.”

The girl blinked.

Damon’s expression remained perfectly calm.

“Get up.”

She looked towards the teacher, visibly uncertain.

He tilted his head slightly.

“Come on. This is my seat now.”

The girl gathered her belongings in a hurry and rose, leaving the chair vacant.

Damon pulled it back.

Before sitting, he adjusted the sleeve of his shirt and glanced briefly towards Mariana, who was now standing in the doorway with the headmaster, visibly attempting to prevent the situation from becoming even worse.

His mouth curved into the faintest smile.

He had found what he came for.

And, for the first time since yesterday evening, Damon Bellaforte felt that perhaps the world had not entirely finished with him.

He lowered himself into the chair, leaned back, and rested one arm upon the desk.

His eyes remained fixed upon the same place.

“Well,” he murmured, almost to himself, “this should be interesting.”

Outside, the summer wind moved gently through the open windows.

Somewhere in the corridor, Mariana was already arguing with the headmaster.

And inside the classroom, the most expensive trouble the school had ever admitted had just taken his seat.