Page 39 of Venom (St. Sebastian’s at Cravenmoor Academy #1)

Venetia

T he next morning’s lectures blur together in a haze of academic pretence and barely concealed violence.

Professor Hartwell drones on about “Supply Chain Management in Global Markets,” but his examples are too specific and too detailed.

He describes trafficking routes with the precision of someone who’s walked them.

When he mentions “quality control measures for human cargo,” I feel Viper’s hand tighten on my thigh under the desk.

I’ve been taking notes, but not about economics.

Since last night, I’ve been mapping connections, drawing lines between seemingly innocent academic discussions and the very networks I’ve been hunting.

The pieces are falling into place with sickening clarity.

Something hasn’t sat right with me since I got here, and I’m starting to figure out what.

“The most efficient distribution networks,” Professor Hartwell continues, clicking to his next slide, “utilise existing educational and social structures. Academic exchanges, cultural programmes, student visas—all provide excellent cover for movement of... materials.”

Materials. Not people. Never people.

My pen stills on the paper. Around me, my classmates nod along as if this is normal academic discourse. Maybe for them, it is. Maybe they’ve been so conditioned to this language that they don’t hear what I’m hearing.

Or maybe they hear it perfectly.

The thought sends ice through my veins. I glance around the lecture hall, studying faces.

Sarah Chen, who mentions her gap year internship in Bangkok, loudly and relentlessly.

David Britton, who boasted about his family’s import business in Eastern Europe.

Helena Voss, whose charity work takes her to refugee camps across the Mediterranean.

How many of them know exactly what they’re being taught?

When the lecture ends, I remain seated as students file out, their chatter bright and normal. Too normal. Viper doesn’t move either, his body a coiled spring beside me. He feels it too—the wrongness that permeates this place like a sickness.

“We need to talk,” I murmur, gathering my things with deliberate calm.

“Not here,” he mutters.

We walk across the quad in silence, but I can feel his alertness, the way his eyes catalogue every face, every potential threat. The Gothic architecture that once seemed merely imposing now feels ominous, as if the stones are watching us.

He leads me to the library, where Blake is waiting, tucked away in a corner between the ancient texts and modern warfare sections. I glance at Viper, wondering if he set this up. Blake looks up as we approach, his expression immediately sharpening when he sees my face.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he observes, closing his book with a soft thud.

“Worse,” I reply, sinking into the leather chair across from him. “I think I’ve seen the truth.”

Rafferty appears as if summoned, and I know without a doubt that Viper called a meeting. Rafferty slides into the seat beside Blake, more shadow than man. “What truth?”

I lean forward, keeping my voice low. “The lectures. The professors. The way they talk about trafficking like it’s just another business model.

” I pull out my notebook, pages filled with observations I’ve been making, the dots I’ve connected.

“Professor Hartwell earlier with her ‘quality control measures for human cargo’ under the guise of supply chain management.”

Blake’s eyes narrow. “That’s not necessarily?—”

“Professor Keane,” I interrupt, flipping pages. “Discussed ‘recruitment strategies for vulnerable demographics’ in her Human Resources class. Professor Vance yesterday covered ‘psychological conditioning techniques for workforce compliance’ in his Psychology of Management lecture.”

The silence that follows is heavy with understanding. Viper’s hand finds mine, his thumb stroking over my knuckles in a gesture so gentle it’s almost jarring coming from him.

“They’re not just teaching us about criminal enterprises,” I continue, my voice low. “They’re teaching us how to run them. How to traffic people efficiently, how to break them psychologically, how to build networks that can’t be traced.”

“Jesus,” Rafferty breathes, and for once, his usual smirk is nowhere to be seen.

Blake steeples his fingers, his expression calculating. “If that’s true, then this entire place is?—”

“A training ground,” I finish. “For the next generation of traffickers. They’re not just educating future criminals—they’re creating specialists.”

The weight of it settles over us like a shroud. St. Sebastian’s, with its ancient traditions and noble facade, is a factory for human misery, and we’re all complicit, sitting in those lectures, taking notes, and playing along with the charade.

“We need proof,” Blake says finally. “Suspicions aren’t enough. We need to get into the administrative offices. If this is what we think it is, there will be records. There is always a paper trail.”

We .

That single word hits home, and I breathe a little easier. They don’t think I’m a paranoid maniac or delusional, or worse, someone out to get them. They believe me, with little evidence and only my suspicions and meticulous notetaking to go on.

Viper’s grip on my hand tightens. “That’s not happening. Too risky.”

“Everything’s risky now,” I snap, frustration bleeding into my voice. “We can’t just sit here and pretend we don’t know what’s happening. People are being sold while we debate the ethics of breaking into an office.”

“She’s right,” Blake says quietly. “If we’re going to move against this, we need evidence. Solid, undeniable proof.”

Rafferty leans back, his expression thoughtful. “When?”

“Tonight,” I decide. “After midnight. Most of the security will be focused on the perimeter, not the inside.”

Viper opens his mouth to argue, a low growl already forming in his throat, but Blake raises a single, elegant hand, silencing him without a word. My gaze flicks between the two of them—the brute force and the cold intellect, both vying for control, both bound by a shared purpose.

“The main administrative building,” Blake says, his voice a low, strategic hum that cuts through the tension. “The VC’s office is on the third floor, it’s alarmed.”

“And you know this how?” Viper asks.

Blake just smiles.

“Leave the alarms to me,” Rafferty says, a feral grin touching his lips for the first time since we sat down. “And the cameras. I can give us a fifteen-minute window, tops.”

“I’ll go in with you,” Viper states, not a request but a command. His eyes are fixed on me, a promise of protection so fierce it’s almost suffocating.

“No,” Blake counters smoothly. “Your skills are wasted on rifling through files. You’ll be our eyes, our overwatch.

Rafferty will get us in, then he’s on the ground, handling any physical security patrols.

Venetia and I will handle the records. We’ll know what to look for.

” He sees me as a partner, not a liability.

He’s not trying to sideline me; he’s putting me at the centre of the operation.

Viper’s jaw clenches, the muscle ticking furiously. “I’m not leaving her side. If anything happens to her?—”

“Okay,” I say, wanting to appease him. He will only come anyway, might as well make it upfront.

“I really don’t like this,” he grumbles.

“Tough,” I counter. “This is happening. I know I’m not wrong.

It’s all too… suspect. Why these lectures, why these subjects that seem to link so closely?

The students here are heirs to some of the most powerful mafia families in the country.

They don’t need to rely on two-bit trafficking jobs to make money and earn power.

In fact, probably none of the bosses are even doing it.

Headley’s family is low on the food chain?—”

“Were,” Blake interrupts me.

I smile. “Were. It’s easy money for someone with black morals. Are we all shady? Of course. We were born that way. Our families are not saints, but there is honour among the families. Some things, you just don’t fucking touch.”

Blake nods slowly, a gleam of cold approval in his eyes. “A line item that’s messy, attracts the wrong kind of attention, and offers low returns for the risk involved. It’s bad business. Uncivilised.”

“And anyone who crosses that line,” Viper adds, “gets put in the fucking ground.” He’s not talking about business ethics; he’s talking about a moral absolute, and the fact that he has one is a terrifying, reassuring revelation.

Rafferty just stretches, a lazy, predatory movement. “So, we’re agreed. We burn the whole fucking thing down.” His simplicity is refreshing.

“We storm the castle at midnight,” Blake instructs, already the general mapping out his campaign. He rises, his movements fluid and precise, a man who wastes nothing, not even a gesture.

We follow, the meeting concluded. We disperse without another word, a silent pact of conspiracy hanging in the air between us.

As I walk to my next lecture with Viper, a new kind of energy hums through my veins.

It isn’t the adrenaline of a fight or the thrill of a chase.

It is purpose, my purpose, and I have three killers at my back, ready to help me light the match with no questions asked.