King's of St Bartholomew

 As the illegitimate daughter of one of Ireland’s fiercest mafia families, no one took bets on Sorcha Gannon. I didn't come to St. Bart’s Academy to make friends. I came to build an empire. My Red Reapers were making waves, but I'm here to start over. Build from the ground up. Until I crash the wrong hazing and come face to face with The Cerberus Order.

Three heads, three heirs, three men who think they own this university.

Ciar MacMahon: Irish mafia heir whose tattoos aren’t art. They’re kill counts.

Axl Rhodes: English aristocrat who smiles while deciding which parts to keep as souvenirs.

Cillian Sullivan: Irish enforcer who appears without warning and leaves brutality in his wake.

But when outside threats circle like vultures, I find myself relying on the Order, and they are the only ones who can help me. What they don't understand is that Gannon girls don't break—we burn everything to the ground.

I didn't expect the heat between us. I didn't expect to crave their touch as much as I crave their destruction.

At St. Bart’s, power isn’t taught. It’s taken, and I’m claiming what’s mine.

 They say keep your enemies closer, but no one warned me how addictive it would be.

Three months since the Cerberus Order reluctantly made me their fourth head. Three months of uneasy alliance with Ciar, Axl, and Cillian—men who would have killed me last semester but now share my bed, my blood, my secrets.
Our control over St. Bart's is precarious. The Scottish family advancing from the north threatens everything we've built, infiltrating not just territories but the university itself. Every shadow hides a traitor, every whispered word could be our downfall.

I've learned to find beauty in brutality, to take pleasure alongside pain. But as we fight enemies on all sides, I see cracks forming in our fragile alliance.

Power becomes an aphrodisiac. Trust becomes a weapon. Loyalty becomes a weakness.

When ancient blood feuds resurface and university politics turn deadly, I feel the foundations crumbling beneath us. Someone is playing a long game—and I'm no longer certain where the betrayal will come from.

They're about to learn why they call me the Red Reaper. Wrath isn't just my emotion—it's my promise.

 They say after betrayal comes ruin. They weren't wrong.

St. Bart's lies fractured, much like the bonds between us. Once we were four heads of a beast that ruled this university's underworld. Now we're wounded animals, licking our injuries and plotting vengeance.

I trusted them—Ciar, Axl, Cillian. Welcomed them into my body, my organisation, my heart. The betrayal cut deeper than any blade.

Now ancient secrets emerge from the university's foundations. The artefact we fought over is merely a key to something darker, older, and more powerful. Our enemies circle, thinking us weak in our division.

They've underestimated what I'm capable of when I have nothing left to lose.

Beneath crumbling gothic arches and blood-stained pages of forgotten texts, we face an impossible choice: destroy each other completely or forge something unbreakable from our ruin.

They've seen my sin. They've felt my wrath. Now they'll witness my rise from the ashes.

This isn't just about survival anymore—it's about legacy. And at St. Bart's, legends are written in blood.

Bodies fall like autumn leaves when you wear the Corbyn-Hale crown, and I’ve run out of white dresses to bleach.

After an attempt on my life, my dad ships me to St. Sebastian's at Cravenmoor Academy. With its Gothic arches and enough mafia heirs to staff a small army, he gifts me a shadow: Viper. Twenty-five, tattooed with sins, answering only to himself.

But I hate cages, even the breathing kind. So I make my own rules...

The first strike against my new reign wasn't a whisper; it was an explosion.

I seized the throne of St. Sebastian’s, but the shadowy organisation that runs this academy wants it back. They’ve declared war, turning our campus into a gilded cage surrounded by mercenaries and watched by drones. They think they can break me, scare my new court into submission, and reclaim their training ground...

Rival syndicates have laid siege to our walls, bribed half the porters, and trained rifles on every stained-glass window. The Sanctuary Statute still holds—and my Court, now owns every staircase.

So we weaponise the curriculum.

The enemy has been granted “diplomatic access” to the Garden Party, certain that British decorum will keep the croquet lawn blood-free...