The Competition
A few years later…
Sweat prickled down my spine, the air thick with the squeak of sneakers and the sharp tang of varnish rising from the court. My palms stuck against the rubber of the ball, heartbeat syncing with its heavy thud against the floor. Every bounce sent a shiver up my arms.
My lungs burned, my calves ached but none of that mattered. Not when he was in front of me.
Luca Donnell. The crown prince of the New York mafia’s most feared family and my rival since the first day I stepped into Westbrook High. The so-called golden boy with an annoyingly easy confidence, sun-warmed skin, and dark hair that somehow always looked artfully messy.
He had a perfect, sharp jaw, an infuriating smirk, and those stupid amber eyes that made teachers melt and girls trip over their own feet. No one at school had a clue who he really was. To them, he was just Luca, the charmed favorite who seemed untouchable.
To me, though? He was the enemy. The one who stole my class rank, my captain’s spot last year, and any shred of peace I could’ve had at this school. And right now, he was dribbling straight at me.
“You’re looking a little slow today, Lana Virelli,” he said, voice dripping with mock concern.
“I already told you to stop calling me that,” I shot back, pivoting left, only for him to read it instantly and block me.
I hated when he called me by my surname. It reminded me of the complicated relationship I had with my dad.
We collided, the solid heat of him pressing in, the faint scent of soap and sweat filling my head. My heart pounded harder from exertion.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” he murmured, grin widening as he stole the ball from my hands and bolted down the court.
God, I hated him.
God, I wanted to wipe that smug smile off his face so badly.
The ball hit the asphalt with a deep, hollow thud, over and over, like a heartbeat speeding up.
“Careful, Virelli,” Luca called, dribbling low and fast, his eyes locked on mine. “Wouldn’t want you breaking an ankle before tomorrow. Can’t campaign with crutches.”
I adjusted my stance. “Don’t worry, I’ll still be standing when I beat you. In the game and the election.”
His smirk deepened. “Bold. I like bold dreams. Makes winning more fun.”
I lunged for the ball, the rough leather biting into my palm for a second before he spun away, sneakers squealing against the court.
“You’re going to have to be quicker than that,” he said, just loud enough to make sure I heard.
He feinted left but I didn’t bite.
“Not bad,” he said. “You might end up not embarrassing yourself badly at tomorrow’s debate after all.”
“Please,” I muttered, darting in. This time, my fingers closed over the ball. He tightened his grip, and for a second, we were locked there neither willing to give an inch.
“You gonna let go?” I asked.
“Not a chance.” He answered quickly.
“Fine.” I yanked hard, spinning out of his reach. My sneakers slapped against the ground as I drove to the hoop. The ball rolled off my fingertips and swished through the net.
“That’s one,” I said, brushing past him. “Want me to start keeping score for you? I know numbers aren’t your strong suit.”
He snorted, retrieving the ball. “Enjoy it while it lasts. You’re good at fast starts… not so much at holding the lead. Kind of like your campaign flyers, flashy, but lacking depth.”
Like you’d know anything about depth.
The game sped up, with the ball smacking the ground, sneakers squealing, our shoulders colliding like neither of us cared who bruised first.
“Six–three,” he called after sinking another shot.
“Four,” I corrected.
His next move was lethal; he blocked me hard, stealing the ball mid-dribble. The smack of leather in his palm was almost smug. He spun once, twice, then launched it in a clean arc. The net whispered as the ball dropped through without touching the rim.
“That’s how it’s done,” he said. “Get used to watching me score.”
I caught the ball before it hit the ground. “Guess we’ll see who’s still standing tomorrow.”
The last point went to him, but neither of us said it out loud. We just stood there for a second, breathless, the election tension hanging between us like the scoreboard neither of us wanted to check.
“Next time,” he said, eyes glinting, “I won’t go easy on you.”
“You already weren’t.”
We walked off opposite ends of the court.
I snatched my bag from the bench, still breathing hard, and slung it over my shoulder. My phone buzzed in my hand — eight missed calls. All from one name.
Mr Vincent.
The blood drained from my face.
I hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. Then I pressed accept.
“Why did you only pick up now?” His voice was cold.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Vincent,” I said automatically, my tone switching to the one he expected. “I was… busy with a school project.”
“I already told you to forget about bothering with school.”
His words were harsh, like each one was slicing away any excuse I could give. “Listen closely… I’m sending you to retrieve some files. I’ll send you the details while you’re on your way.”
I tightened my grip on the strap of my bag. “I understand.”
“Good. Don’t waste time. Every second counts.” The line went dead.
**
I stood there for a moment, phone heavy in my hand, sweat cooling on my skin.
I shoved the phone into my bag and walked out. By the time I got out, a black sedan had already pulled up. One of my father’s men rolled down the tinted window, his gloved hand motioning me in.
The ride was silent except for the low hum of the engine, but my head wasn’t.
Thoughts churned, the same ones that always did. My father had been sending me to do his dirty work since I was fourteen. Drugs, money, I’d run them all without asking questions.
It was easier to pretend that every job was just another errand.
The car finally rolled to a stop. I pushed the door open and stepped into the night. The alley smelled of wet asphalt and cigarette smoke, neon buzzing faintly overhead. My footsteps echoed as I headed toward the meeting point.
The deal tonight was supposed to be simple. I’d meet Russo behind the Blue Lantern, collect the package, and walk away. It was just dirty business with an old associate of my father.
Russo was waiting with his usual smirk, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
“You keep growing bigger and bigger each time I see you,” he said, like we were catching up over coffee instead of standing ankle-deep in rainwater.
“Quit the long talk. Where’s the file?” I replied, holding out my hand for the case.
The smirk turned into something uglier. "That’s the problem.”
The first gunshot came from behind me.
Shit.