Her Bully, His Badass (Vincitore Academy 1)

Margherita Pescatore swallowed her fear like bait. She stepped through the gilded, wrought-iron gate of Vincitore Academy. No one would recognize her, hopefully. She cranked up the volume of Manåskin’s “Io Vengo Dalla Luna” in her headphones for borrowed courage.

See, the media’s heroes are ranked by clickability. Bravery is irrelevant if the story is preposterous enough and could have happened to anyone—but it had happened to Margherita Pescatore, now dubbed the “Laundry Angel.”

She had been helping with her parents’ dry cleaning business by collecting dirty laundry from the academy. Her father had been waiting in the van, parked sideways between a bollard and a tree, blinkers on. Her rolling bin full of splattered art smocks and stinky sports uniforms had saved the life of Mauro Arcani, a third-year student at the academy. When Margherita had hoped for a cute boy to fall for her, she hadn’t meant from the top of a building.

“Laundry Angel! Guys, here she is!”

One of her new schoolmates sneered, placing an invisible limelight on Margherita’s distinctive Korean features, her no-name gray hoodie, jeans, and knock-off white combat boots ensemble.

The phenotype of the Italian population had transformed in the past twenty years, but not within the ivy-clad wall of the academy, not inside the imposing brick buildings encroached by ancient wisteria vines. Here, only the spawn of the Milano Bene thrived, their blood tied to the nobility of centuries past through the bombastic last names of dukes and princes.

Margherita faltered, then waved her middle finger in acknowledgment, a gesture common at her old public high school. Here, raised eyebrows and malicious chuckles confirmed that she did not belong. Her neighbors in Sesto San Giovanni might have bought the Laundry Angel story, but the academy students knew that her full ride was only a distraction from the toxic environment that had caused the accident at the most prestigious high school in the country.

Designer dusters, clicking heels, and invisible makeup: the teenagers around her had the time and means to groom daily for the occasional TV appearance: no friend in sight within the throngs of students ahead.

Margherita, feet fused to the cobblestones, pulled up her hoodie, sun baking her shoulders.

The clanging trams and zipping scooters of downtown Milan hollered behind her in the frenzy of the morning commute. In the distance, a haze of smog faded the Alps like some Insta filter, but the stink of exhaust was overpowered by blooming lilacs and Coco Chanel. (Actually, Baccarat Rouge 540, but what did Margherita know?)

She pushed forward.

“Margherita?” A familiar hazel-eyed boy with wild blond hair smiled at her. His kindness soothed Margherita’s soul. “Welcome to the shark pool. I’m Mauro Arcani. You saved my life. Thank you.”

Margherita’s hesitation turned into excitement. “Oh my god, how are you?!” Her eyes traveled to Mauro’s cast, and her knees weakened as she recalled the sickening crunch of his right leg breaking against the edge of the plastic bin.

“I’m alright.” He smiled. “Clean break. The cast comes off in two weeks. Which section are you in? I can show you around.”

“For real? Thank you!” Margherita double-checked on her phone. “2F, and…How come no signatures?” She pointed at the immaculate cast, dirty at the bottom but otherwise unmarked.

“I’m in 3F! Right beside you. And…” He ran a hand through his surfer hair. “It’s not easy to make friends, here.” He looked away, hobbling on his crutches.

Margherita had one best friend and many acquaintances at her old school, but hundreds would have signed her cast.

At fifteen, she was finishing her second year of high school, which put Mauro at sixteen. She’d transferred in mid-March so that she’d have two and a half months to get the lay of the land and decide if she would return to the academy for her third year. The course of study in most Italian high schools is five years, and students are divided by years and sections, sticking with the same classmates for the entire time.

As Mauro and Margherita entered the main high school building, a whisper leaped across students like a flying fish, “The P2! The P2 are here!”

The student body bounced backward toward the entrance like a wave off a sea wall.

“What’s happening?” She asked, flattening herself against the hallway.

Students pressed against the open windows, cellphones up high, taking videos and pictures of four guys strutting through the gate as if they owned the place.

Mauro sighed. “All hail, the P2.”

“The P2?! For real?” Margherita squinted at the window. She was curious, but not enough to squash her way through the unfriendly crowd.

The four members of the Posh-Posse, or P2, were the most popular teenagers in the country, born to the wealthiest families. Vincitore Academy was the obvious choice for their education. Actually, wasn’t the leader of the P2 Luca Vincitore himself?

Mauro exhaled. “Yep, they come to school whenever they please, and even more rarely all at once. People would kill for a good shot of them together. Don’t hold back.”

Margherita scoffed. “No way; that’s ridiculous.”

A girl squealed and hopped up and down, pushing her way out of the crowd with her eyes glued to her phone. “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod!”

Her friends followed her, looking over her shoulder at the picture on her phone. Margherita glimpsed an image of the four model-like teenagers as she walked by. All four of them glanced away with the boredom of people used to be gawked at, in designer outfits and perfect hair. Vincitore glowered in the front, with his impressive stature, dark skin, and hypnotic amber eyes. Beside him the angelic—

“You could have fooled me.” Mauro teased, sarcastic.

Margherita pried her eyeballs from the photo and resumed down the hallway. “I’m more of an underdog type of person…” Mauro blushed, slightly. “…But my best friend has had a crush on the player, what’s his face?”

“Bellocchio—Samuele Bellocchio.”

“Exactly! She has liked Sam Bellocchio forever, but I’m no fan.”

All four P2 had been born in the same year—Mauro’s year—to the most prestigious families in Milan. Inseparable from a very young age, they’d caught the eye of the press since becoming teenagers, given their exaggerated clout and good looks. Vomit.

Mauro whispered, “Keep the jabs down. This place is a dictatorship. Vincitore is unhinged and does not take kindly to criticism—or anything, actually.”

The House of Vincitore, one of the wealthiest families in the world, had built an empire upon designer glasses.

Margherita raised her hands in a teasing surrender. “Lest I besmirch the idols of the wealthy. I come in peace.”

Mauro beamed at her. “I like you, Margherita Pescatore. Wanna be friends?”

Marghe grinned. “Aren’t you afraid to catch poverty?”

Mauro shook his head. “I was born with the condition.”

Marghe conceded that his red, zipper sweatshirt might be a Saturday market find. “Whose life did you save to get in here?”

Mauro darkened. “It’s a long and ugly story. Maybe for our second date?”

Margherita opened her mouth to protest, but the bell rang, calling all students to class.

***

The math teacher introduced Margherita to the class among giggles and whispers of “Laundry Angel.” Her last name, Pescatore, which in Italian translates as “fisherman” added fuel to the fire. Margherita did not belong among the resounding, ancient last names of her classmates—names that spoke of inbred nobility, fashion, and red carpets.

Margherita walked to the only empty desk, at the front of the class. No one made an effort to talk to her.

Yet, the teachers were competent, and the materials, which she had received promptly and for free, informative. Far behind in all subjects, Margherita scribbled notes as fast as her pen allowed for three hours, ignoring the clickety-clack of everybody else’s keyboards.

Fuck these brats.

Her mom had been excited for Margherita to improve her life through connections and better education, but the only reason Margherita had accepted the scholarship at Vincitore Academy had been the Olympic-sized pool. Swimming was Margherita’s passion, but her public high school did not have a pool, and her parents could not afford a swimming club. She’d swum in the summer, at the seaside, during the two weeks her family spent with her paternal zia in Liguria, in the tiny fishermen village where her dad had been born. Now, she’d be able to swim every day, possibly joining the school’s team and qualifying for nationals.

A girl could dream.

***

As soon as the recess bell rang, Mauro rushed to the hallway to intercept Margherita. He leaned against the wall, in his best casual pose, hands in pockets, gaze cast off in the distance with dignified disinterest.

“Mauro!” Margherita’s smile caused him to tingle from his toes to the tips of his extremities—all of them. Margherita was beautiful, genuine, and warm. Finally, karma had taken notice of his existence. Maybe he could have a friend—or a girlfriend, even?—at this god-forsaken, demon-ridden high school.

“Hi, Marghe! How was it?”

He led her outside as she gushed about struggling, sucking at math in general but more so here, where she was months behind.

“I can help you if you like. Math is my strong suit.”

“For real? Thank you! Actually, can you take me to the administrative office?”

Mauro learned that Margherita was a swimmer. He did his best to listen to her negotiations with the administration while imagining her narrow hips in a swimsuit. However, the school had no swimming team. Margherita’s disappointment evaporated when she learned that she could use the pool anytime, as long as she wrote her name on some sign-in sheet.

“I’ll train by myself and register for the solo competitions. Wanna join me?”

Mauro hated swimming. “I’ll…cheer you on?”

He offered a tour of campus: the fancy cafeteria, which was more like a high-scale bakery, and the athletic facilities she was already familiar with. They had just left the primeval library and were strolling through the gardens, spring obvious in every blooming shrub of forsythia, when Mauro stopped abruptly, an arm holding back Margherita, doing his best to become invisible.

Margherita frowned, perplexed. Then she noticed the P2, approaching from the left. “Are you okay?” She asked Mauro who shook his head, pale.

Mauro’s reaction seemed exaggerated even before he stepped back, pulling her by the hem of her hoodie, but the encounter was inevitable.

Margherita’s first glimpse of the P2 was disconcerting. She immediately recognized Luca Vincitore, Re for short, which conveniently translated as “king,” as if his full last name, which translated as “winner,” hadn’t been pretentious enough. His family owned the academy, an obvious conflict of interest that god had not objected to. No one else would have dared.

Re walked upfront, hands in the pockets of his black jeans, tall and dark, and not just by complexion; anger billowed off him. Curly black hair tumbled down his forehead above narrow eyes of an uncanny light brown, almost yellow with long lashes that contradicted his morose expression.

Unnerved by his intensity, Margherita felt as if she’d been hit by an invisible wave. How could all four P2 be beautiful on top of being wealthy? Life was not fair.

As Re passed the green garbage can at the edge of the path with his luxury gaggle in tow, he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and tossed it backward; it hit the edge of the can and littered. One of the guys behind him, muscular and bulky, laughed at him. Margherita scoured her memory for the name of Giuliano Faitari, the bad boy of the P2. Giuliano said, “Re, you missed! How unlike you.”

Re turned in a blur and threw an unjustified punch at Giuliano, who ducked, unalarmed. Re grinned and, for no reason at all, threw a left hook at the bottom of the garbage can, which swung around its hinge with a squawk, coming to rest at an odd angle. He showed no sign of pain. The two guys behind him—bad boy Giuliano Faitari and Margherita’s best friend’s crush, Samuele Bellocchio, the womanizer—laughed and hollered.

Idiots.

The fourth guy, who’d been hanging behind, rolled his eyes, sullen. Skinny, the only one not particularly athletic, he had the face of an angel, with intense blue eyes and long brown hair, tied back and partly falling into his eyes. Margherita recognized him as Re’s best friend, the musician, Lorenzo Tristante. How could someone so melancholic be friends with such obnoxious show-offs?

Tristante straightened the garbage can and nodded silently at Mauro and Margherita who’d been frozen in place, a few meters away. Mauro didn’t move, but Margherita nodded back. Once the P2 were out of sight, Mauro relaxed.

“What the fuck?” Margherita uttered.

The four kids were heirs to some of the biggest companies in the world—not just in Italy—from fashion to eyewear, confectionery, and even law. Their clique was so exclusive that they were not in a section with all the other students but enjoyed their own lounge room and office with specialized, private tutors visiting them when convenient.

Mauro dragged Margherita by the sleeve to the bench beside the abused garbage can. He slumped on the seat, resting his leg. “That’s nothing. You have no idea.”

Margherita fanned herself. “Well, they sure are hot.” Had she blurted that out loud?

“Word of advice: steer clear.” Mauro lowered his voice to a whisper. “Re is untouchable, and a mad dog.”

That seemed over the top. “I mean a spoiled brat, for sure…” Margherita picked up the crumpled paper Re had tossed and smoothed the wrinkles. Mauro looked around nervously. It was a love letter.

“How terrible!” Margherita frowned. “Someone poured their heart out to him, and he tossed their declaration in the garbage?” She threw the letter into the can and sat beside Mauro.

Mauro stretched his lips into a tense line, pondering how much to say. Margherita gestured at his cast, sadly devoid of friendly signatures, and asked, “May I?”

Mauro nodded and offered her a black permanent marker. He had to talk; Margherita shouldn’t inadvertently get in the line of fire. “The more you know, the safer.”

She covered the cast in an intricate jungle of flowers and graffiti. “What do you mean?”

“Wow! You’re talented!” Then he swallowed, ill at ease. “My brother—“ His voice cracked. He inhaled deeply. “My older brother was dating Vincitore’s older sister. Re and his friends didn’t like it, so, three years ago, they ambushed him at night and beat him to a pulp, four to one.”

Margherita’s mouth dropped open. “But they got charged for that, right?!”

Mauro nodded. “The House of Vincitore paid my family a minimal settlement—half a million euros—and gave me a scholarship here.”

“And his sister said nothing?”

“To mitigate the scandal, they married her off to some American big wig, deaf to her pleas.”

Margherita was bewildered. “And your brother?”

Words like icebergs. “Carlo…He’s never been the same. He was an athlete, but now he can’t walk without a cane, not to mention the trauma. I’m telling you; the P2 can get away with anything.”

The horrifying story wasn’t over; Re was the reason why Mauro had fallen off the roof. “I confronted him about my brother in the courtyard, and he ignored me…” He paused to make sure no one was around to hear. “…I was prepared to get one of his stupid red cards—“

“Wait, like in a soccer game?”

“Exactly. It’s a game he likes to play with his fanatic followers.” The red card caused everyone to ignore the victim until they quit school. “He must have known I wouldn’t care about a red card, since everyone ignored me already. So he cornered me on the roof and…you know the rest.”

Italy was a corrupt country, but Margherita could have never imagined the rot traveling down to teenagers. “I’m so sorry all this has happened to you and your brother.”

Mauro nodded. “I’ll never give Re the satisfaction to quit, but you should avoid him.”

Margherita signed her artistic handiwork. “I won’t bother him as long as he doesn’t bother me.” And why would he?

***

The pool was luxurious: heated to the perfect temperature and surrounded by lounge chairs. An Olympic swimming area was adjacent to a round shallow pool with built-in seats and floats. An entire wall of mirrored glass let swimmers enjoy the courtyard while preventing obtrusive glances from distracting the athletes—had there been any. Much to Margherita’s delight, her name had been the only entry on the sign-in sheet.

Her first week at the academy was coming to a close. It was mid-March, and she had her sights on next spring’s qualifiers for individual races, determined to swim at least one hour every day to make it happen. It wasn’t easy, given that she already helped with her parents’ business and worked two shifts at a pizzeria, but she was happy.

Margherita jumped out of the water, her muscles sore from the first few days of training. She gasped when, on the other side of the glass, Vincitore strutted by in a leather jacket that would have paid her family’s rent for a couple of months. (At least, according to her assessment. In fact, the jacket would have paid for a lot more). The rest of the P2 were one step behind the king, as usual. She had observed that the quieter, angel-faced one, Lorenzo Tristante, was the only P2 who demonstrated any redeemable quality.

Re came to an abrupt stop in front of a girl with long chestnut hair cascading in elegant waves over her shoulders. Stunning, she was as tall as Margherita but feminine and graceful, with huge blue eyes and glossy lips. A flowery dress hinted at curves Margherita could only dream of.

Margherita recognized her from her class. Her name was Laura, Laura Beltagna. Invisible, Margherita enjoyed the standstill; she was the unseen, drab vertex of this otherwise fancy triangle.

From behind the mirrored glass, she could get a good look up close at the infamous P2. Re was obnoxiously glorious in an indigo t-shirt with a spray of yellow paint in the front. Tristante, seemingly distracted, had his blue eyes on the moody sky. The other two, whom Marghe had pinned down as the player and the bodyguard, were talking to each other about some models they’d met the previous night at a club.

Unceremoniously, Re said, “Scram.”

His voice was level but cold. His comment ceased his friends’ chatter. So far, Margherita had observed that Re did not speak often, but when he did everyone else quieted.

Flustered, the girl avoided eye contact, staring at an indistinct spot in the middle of Re’s wide chest. “You—I…” He side-stepped her. ”Please, wait!” Re looked at her for the first time, nonplussed.

Every word cost her as, wringing her hands, she blurted, “I really, really like you! I’ve liked you for a long time! Since I was a kid I—”

“Get a life.” He walked around her, his face expressionless.

What a heartless psychopath! Mauro hadn’t lied. Margherita wished she could give the guy a lesson in etiquette—weren’t young scions supposed to have princely manners? However, her survival came first; she’d better keep invisible. The girl remained where Re had left her, tears rolling down her beautiful face.

Margherita shrugged; heartache is inevitable if you fall for an asshole.