Aleksander packed his laptop, gave Jughead a final nod, and walked out of the library.
When he reached the front parking lot, he found Veronica and Betty just finishing up.
Betty was flushed but smiling, having clearly survived the Vixen tryout routines.
After a quick exchange of goodbyes, Betty headed off to catch her bus.
Aleksander walked over to his matte-gray Ducati and swung his leg over the saddle.
Before he could even reach for the ignition, Veronica stepped up and smoothly climbed onto the seat right behind him.
Aleksander looked back over his shoulder, raising a questioning eyebrow.
“Didn’t you have a driver waiting to take you home?”
Veronica smiled, entirely unapologetic.
“I texted Smithers.
I told him I’d be late and that I was getting a ride with a friend.”
Aleksander let out a quiet, amused smirk.
“Is that so?”
Veronica nodded, wrapping her hands lightly around the edge of his jacket.
“The Pembrooke apartment building, please.”
Aleksander nodded.
He handed her a spare helmet, pulled on his own, and kicked the heavy engine to life.
As he accelerated out of the school parking lot, the force of the bike pushed Veronica forward.
Without hesitating, she wrapped her arms tightly around his torso, hugging him close against the chill of the damp Riverdale air as they tore down the streets.
A few minutes later, Aleksander pulled up to the luxurious, towering entrance of the Pembrooke.
He parked the bike near the curb, and Veronica hopped off, taking off the helmet and shaking out her dark hair.
“Do you want to come upstairs and meet my mother?” Veronica asked, her dark eyes looking up at him expectantly.
Aleksander rested his hands on the handlebars and politely declined.
“I will next time, Veronica.
It is bad form to meet a host empty-handed.”
“Oh, you really don’t need to bring any—” Veronica started, waving the formality away.
“Next time,” Aleksander cut her off gently, his firm but charming smile leaving no room for argument.
“Have a good evening, Veronica.”
“You too,” she replied softly, stepping back onto the sidewalk.
She stood by the entrance and watched the Ducati roar back to life, waiting until Aleksander disappeared around the corner before finally heading inside.
The gilded elevator took her up to the penthouse.
As soon as Veronica opened the heavy front door and stepped into the living room, she froze.
Hermione Lodge was sitting by the large bay windows, sipping a glass of sparkling water.
A highly satisfied, knowing smirk was plastered across her face.
She had clearly been watching the street below.
Veronica sighed, instantly knowing what that look meant.
She tried to make a quick detour down the hall toward her bedroom, but there was no escaping.
“Not so fast,” Hermione called out, setting her glass down and standing up.
She walked over, gently but firmly pulling Veronica toward the plush sofa.
“Sit.
Tell me absolutely everything.”
Veronica dropped her designer bag onto the armchair with a defeated sigh and let her mother pull her down onto the plush velvet sofa.
“The CEO of Apex Industries acting as your personal chauffeur,” Hermione began, her eyes gleaming with undisguised ambition.
How did you manage that on your first day?”
“I didn’t manage anything, Mom,” Veronica replied, crossing her arms defensively.
“We share some classes, we ate lunch together, and I asked for a ride.
That’s it.”
“Just a ride?” Hermione raised an elegant eyebrow, leaning in closer.
“I saw the way you were holding onto him, Veronica.
And I saw him park that multi-million-dollar machine right outside our building.
Why didn’t you bring him up?”
“I asked him to,” Veronica admitted, a slight flush creeping up her neck.
“But he declined.
He said it was bad form to meet a host empty-handed.
He told me he’d come up next time.”
Hermione’s smile widened, thoroughly impressed.
“Impeccable manners.
Old-world discipline combined with absolute, untouchable wealth.
He truly is in a league of his own.” She reached out, gently squeezing Veronica’s hand.
“You have to bring him to dinner this weekend.
I will have catering set up, we can—”
“Mom, stop,” Veronica cut in sharply, pulling her hand back.
She looked at her mother, her expression completely serious.
“Listen to me very carefully.
You cannot scheme your way into his inner circle.
You can’t treat him like one of Dad’s business associates.”
Hermione waved a hand dismissively.
“Veronica, it is just dinner—”
“He reads people, Mom,” Veronica interrupted, emphasizing every word.
“I mean it.
At lunch today, he was analyzing people’s micro-expressions.
He broke down Cheryl Blossom’s entire psychological profile in five seconds.
He does mentalism.
If you try to manipulate him, or if you push too hard, he will see right through you in an heartbeat.
And he will walk away.”
Hermione paused.
The calculating light in her eyes flickered as she processed the warning.
A boy with that level of psychological training and intellect was indeed a rare, dangerous breed.
Clumsy ambition would ruin everything.
“Alright,” Hermione conceded smoothly, leaning back into the sofa cushions.
She smoothed her skirt, projecting an aura of total innocence.
“You are right.
We will let it happen entirely naturally.
You take the lead, Veronica.
Just…
keep me updated.”
Veronica narrowed her eyes, not entirely trusting her mother’s sudden surrender, but she accepted the victory.
“I’m going to take a shower and do my homework,” she muttered, standing up and heading down the hall to her room.
She looked down at the street where the matte-gray Ducati had been parked just moments ago.
A slow, highly predatory smile touched her red lips.
He reads people, she thought to herself.
How fascinating.
Meanwhile, halfway across town, the heavy steel gates of the Fox Forest estate parted seamlessly.
Aleksander rode the Ducati down into the subterranean bunker, the roar of the engine cutting through the sterile silence.
He parked the bike, removed his helmet, and walked over to his central workstation.
“Welcome back, Aleksander,” Cortana’s voice hummed through the lab.
“How was your first day of standard education?”
“Informative,” Aleksander replied simply, pulling off his tailored jacket.
“The academic curriculum is obsolete, but the social dynamics are highly volatile.
Bring up the files on Jason Blossom, Alice Cooper, and Fred Andrews.”
Instantly, the dark room was illuminated by towering, cyan-blue holographic screens.
“I have also compiled the psychological profiles you requested on Archie Andrews and Betty Cooper,” Cortana added.
Aleksander swiped his hand through the air, expanding the network of secrets, lies, and connections that fueled Riverdale.
As the holographic files on the residents of Riverdale populated the room, Cortana’s voice cut through the hum of the servers with a sudden shift in tone.
“Aleksander, bypassing local networks.
We have an incoming high-priority contract from the underworld channels,” Cortana announced.
The cyan-blue screens displaying the Blossom and Cooper families instantly collapsed, replaced by a single, massive dossier glowing in a stark, clinical white.
A photograph of a distinguished, older woman with sharp features and professional attire materialized in the center of the room.
“Target: Floriana Campo,” Cortana stated, feeding the data directly into the volumetric displays.
“Public profile: Spent fifteen years working for the United Nations, stationed primarily in Eastern Europe and North Africa.
She was instrumental in passing the Victims of Trafficking and Violence Protection Act of 2000.
Subsequently, she founded a highly publicized non-profit human rights organization that has raised over thirty-five million dollars to fight human and sex trafficking.
In 2010, her husband was reportedly assassinated by the Eberhardt Cartel, a notoriously ruthless trafficking syndicate.”
Aleksander looked at the floating image, his expression entirely unreadable.
On paper, the woman was a saint.
A global crusader against the very worst of humanity.
But Aleksander knew better than anyone that the brightest public facades usually cast the darkest shadows.
“And the client’s intelligence?” Aleksander asked, his voice cold and analytical.
“The client is a private party,” Cortana replied as secondary, encrypted files began to overlap the public dossier.
“He have provided actionable intelligence proving that Campo’s non-profit is a front.
She is secretly operating as a high-level broker for the same smuggling rings she publicly condemns.
The client placed the hit because they have concrete evidence that Campo personally orchestrated the kidnapping and smuggling of the client’s sister.”
Aleksander swiped his hand through the air, pulling up the financial ledgers the client had provided.
His mind rapidly cross-referenced the charitable donations with offshore shadow accounts, tracing the laundered thirty-five million dollars directly back into the pockets of the Eberhardt Cartel.
She hadn’t been fighting the cartel that killed her husband; she had taken his place and was using the UN and her charity as the ultimate, untouchable cover.
It was a brilliantly evil piece of misdirection.
“The hypocrisy of the elite is always so predictable,” Aleksander murmured quietly, staring at Campo’s philanthropic smile on the screen.
“Shall I accept the contract?” Cortana asked.
“Accept it,” Aleksander confirmed smoothly, turning away from the glowing screens to head toward his armory.
“Track her current location, map her private security detail, and prepare the necessary loadout.”