He gave it to me.
Ezio’s jaw flexes again—wrong, strained, ruined. I bet it aches. I hope it aches. I want every word that leaves his mouth to rattle inside the space where my stick shattered his bite. He opens his mouth again—another mistake. “You think you’re better than me?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “I know I am.” I step forward. Toe to toe. “You play like you’re owed the rink,” I whisper, “but I bled for it.” I tap the C on my chest. “You were born a prince,” I say. “I was made a king.”
His eyes flick to Rafe—just once, a quick, searching glance to see if this is allowed, if the man who actually holds the power will step in and pull the rug out from under me.
And Rafe?
He leans back against the lockers, arms crossed over his chest, eyes locked on me like I just fucking crowned myself in front of the entire room. No words. No nod. No gesture. Just yes written in the silence, in the steady way he watches me, in the faint, almost proud curl at the corner of his mouth that no one else would notice but I do. It’s permission. It’s ownership. It’s trust.
Ezio exhales sharp through his nose. His jaw clenches so hard the tape creaks, the faint click of misaligned bone echoing in the sudden hush. His eyes go black—fury and something worse, something deeper: envy, raw and corrosive, the kind that eats through pride and leaves nothing but ash. And then he sits at the back of the bench.
Thehallway smells like blood and bleach as I step out, the scent clinging to the air like the aftermath of something violent and necessary.
Old arena tunnels never forget the violence. Doesn’t matter how many NHL banners used to hang from the rafters, how many endorsements bled through the boards, how many anthems played before faceoff—once the league abandons a rink, it belongs to the underworld. And tonight, that world’s full. Every seat packed. Every box claimed by men who kill in silence and cheer in code.
It’s not a crowd out there—it’s a fucking mafia parliament. Betting slips pass hand to hand like currency, knives glint in boot tops whenever someone shifts their weight, and weapons sit heavy under tailored coats, ready but not yet drawn. Syndicate tags are carved into the concrete risers—old scars of territory claimed and defended with broken bones and quieter deals. Belladonna holds the west box, all sleek black leather and venomous smiles, while La Fiamma Nera claims the east, red accents bleeding through dark suits, their energy hotter and hungrier, waiting for the first spark to set the whole place ablaze. And the middle? Ours.
Behind me, the team rustles with pre-battle noise—snapping laces, quiet breathing, someone whispering a prayer that sounds more like a curse. Vlad cracks his neck. Misha thumps his stick once against the wall. Luca is whistling something from a horror movie. Finn is foaming like he might bite the first face that makes eye contact. Rafe’s at the back—still, silent, all-black, arms crossed, eyes on me like he doesn’t blink anymore.
The announcer doesn’t even bother trying to hide what this is. His voice rings out, distorted through ancient speakers, halfway between a carnival barker and an executioner. “Tonight’s featured event… La Fiamma Nera versus Belladonna’s blackline.” No teams. No city names. Just syndicates.
“Skating first… the captain.” My boots hit the ramp.
Ezio shifts on the bench as I pass. I don’t look at him until I’m right beside him—then I lean down, smile real slow and real sharp, and whisper it soft enough that only he hears: “Hope you brought a phone. This time you’ll want to record it.”
He stiffens. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. His jaw clicks once—pain, sharp and involuntary. I keep walking.
The moment my blade touches the ice, the world explodes.
Spotlights slam down on me—blood-red and molten gold. No music, just raw light and noise. The crowd roars—feral, unhinged, screaming for blood like it’s tradition, like they’ve been waiting years for this exact sound. Syndicates chant names like battle hymns;smoke pours thick from the entrance tunnel; a Belladonna goon waves a flare in the stands, sending sparks raining over the blue line.
I skate out slow. No rush. This isn’t a debut. It’s a coronation.
The other team’s already on the ice—Belladonna’s blackline, men with scars and long memories, borrowed from other syndicates and stitched together like a hit list on skates. They’re armored, armed, watching me with the stillness of predators who know the kill is coming but haven’t decided who gets the first bite. I meet every gaze—head high, smile dangerous. YOU WISH YOU COULD FUCK THIS glints in the red spotlight across my throat, bold and unapologetic.
The rest of the team follows behind me—Finn yelling something obscene, Bishop howling, Vlad silent and lethal, Luca flipping someone off with both hands. Misha skates straight to the blue line and plants his stick like a war standard, blade buried in the ice. Rafe comes last—slow, unbothered, moving like the whole arena already belongs to him.
Because it does.
Because I do.
When I turn and face Belladonna’s captain, drop my glove, and drag one gloved finger down my own throat—over the tape, over the words—I don’t do it to taunt. I do it to promise.
This time, the tape is mine.
30
RAFE
The rink hums like it remembers violence. The kind that bleeds across city lines, gets traded like debt, ends up in body bags on neutral ground. This used to be a professional arena. Now it’s something else. A cathedral for bloodsport. A cage dressed in nostalgia. Syndicate flags hang where sponsors used to go. Gold-ringed fingers clutch betting slips stained with sweat. Every box is filled with a man who could order a war mid-period and have it finished before the puck drops again.
And all of them are watching Julian. He skates warmup like it’s foreplay. Like the ice should be grateful to feel him.
He doesn’t stretch. He doesn’t prep. He simply performs.
The blade of his skate cuts into the rink like it personally insulted him, each turn sharp enough to kick frost straight into the Belladonna box. His head stays high, that filthy smile curling across his face, jersey stretched tight over the shoulders I bruised last night. Black tape wraps his wrists; his throat looks even worse. I gave him the tape. I gave him the knife tucked in his sock too—short blade, easy draw, coated grip. His hands were still trembling from the orgasm when I slid it into place this morning. He kissed me afterward, tongue first, and called me “sir” without being told. That part was just for me.
