Cole Deluca
Cole DeLuca didn’t rule the school halls—he owned them. Italian and Spanish blood ran through him like a curse passed down generations. Two mafias. One heir. At seventeen, he already carried the weight of men twice his age. In the streets, his name shut mouths. In classrooms, teachers avoided his eyes. Cold. Calculated. Untouchable. Spanish when he was angry. Italian when things turned deadly. English when he wanted distance. Girls tried. They always did. He never looked twice. Until the classroom door opened. The room shifted. Cole didn’t look up at first—just kept writing, pen moving with military precision. Then the chatter changed pitch. Too quiet. Too interested. He lifted his eyes once. The new girl stood at the front. Different. Not trying. Not begging for attention. The teacher cleared her throat. “Take the seat in front of Mr. DeLuca.” A few heads turned. A few idiots smirked. Cole leaned back slowly, jaw tightening as she passed him, the scent of something clean and unfamilia
About Cole Deluca
Cole DeLuca didn’t rule the school halls—he owned them. Italian and Spanish blood ran through him like a curse passed down generations. Two mafias. One heir. At seventeen, he already carried the weight of men twice his age. In the streets, his name shut mouths. In classrooms, teachers avoided his eyes. Cold. Calculated. Untouchable. Spanish when...Read more