Then Luca shatters it. “Yo, King Chaos!” he shouts across the ice, voice cutting through the tension like a snapped rubber band. “You gonna actually play, or just reenact The Purge?”
The words barely land before the puck is in motion—flicked high across the neutral zone with the same reckless, cocky energy Luca pours into everything he does. The arc is perfect; the timing is trash. It shouldn’t matter. But Julian catches it anyway.
He traps the puck mid-air with the unbroken stick, blade snapping down in one clean, effortless motion, never once loosening his grip on the splintered half still clutched in his other hand. Then he surges forward, skates digging in, carrying both weapons—one for the game, one for whatever comes after—like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He’s still bleeding. Still smiling. Still holding death in one hand and the game in the other.
And now he’s toying with them.
He dances past one defender—a tight little toe drag that makes the man stumble—and flicks the puck backward to Finn, who grins like a psychopath and immediately startslaughing as he takes off down the wing. Finn fake passes once, twice, taunts the goalie with a “look left, bitch,” then sends it across to Bishop, who catches it in his glove, flips it up, kicks it with one skate like it’s soccer, and chucks it—illegal, violent, borderline disrespectful—back to Julian.
Julian traps the puck on the blade of the broken stick without even blinking. He spins—one full, fluid body rotation, fast enough to send an arc of his own blood spraying across the ice like it was choreographed for the spotlight—and fires the pass backward through two sets of legs straight to Vlad.
Vlad, who hasn’t moved all game except to deliver punishment. Vlad, who doesn’t shoot unless it’s a kill shot. This one is.
Clean. Low. Post in. The goal horn screams. The crowd detonates. Money flashes through the air like confetti, and somewhere in the stands a warning shot cracks into the ceiling.
And Julian skates a lazy, taunting circle in the Belladonna zone, one and a half sticks still in his hands, blood drying dark on his jaw, that same grin carved deep across his face like a signature he refuses to erase. I don’t breathe again until he glances back at me—just once, just long enough for the message to land: He’s fine. He didn’t kill. But he could have. And every single person in this building knows it now.
Belladonna snaps exactly the way I knew they would—messy, impatient, strategy gone to ash. They don’t target Julian. They don’t chase Luca. They go for Finn.
Because Finn is easy to underestimate. Small, wiry, chirping nonstop like a feral raccoon someone taught to skate, but lightning-fast and vicious when cornered. So Belladonna does what cowardice always does: they hit him from behind. Not a shove. Not a clean check. A fucking blindside ambush.
A tank of a defenseman barrels across the ice at full speed and slams Finn into the boards so hard the impact echoes like a crack splitting the foundations of the arena. Finn’s body goes loose in an instant—collapsing downward as if his strings were severed. He hits the ice face-first. And doesn’t move.
Everything in me stops for one long, frozen breath.
Kai hits the ice before anyone else can react—vaulting over the bench with a knife already flashing in one hand and the first-aid pouch clutched in the other. He’s at Finn’s side in a heartbeat, two fingers pressed to the pulse at Finn’s neck while his other hand checks pupils, chest, ribs in rapid, practiced succession.
But Julian screams. Not fear. Not pain. Rage. Pure, unfiltered, war-born fury that rips through the arena like a blade. “KAI—MOVE!” He doesn’t mean help him. He means get the fuck out of my way.
And I see it—I see it before anyone else does. Julian’s eyes lock onto the man who hit Finn—the Belladonna bastard still standing over the spot, chest heaving, breathing hard with the smug pride of someone who thinks he just did something impressive. And he lunges. Straight-line. No hesitation. Blood still soaking his ribs, both sticks gripped tight in his hands—one whole for the game, one broken and jagged for murder.
I’m out of the crease before my brain even registers the decision. I vault the net, gun already out, safety off, skates carving deep, desperate grooves across the ice as I sprint after him, shouting—“JULIAN!!”
“JULIAN—STOP!”
But he doesn’t. He reaches the bastard first. And the scream that tears out of him isn’t human. It isn’t sanity. It’s loyalty weaponized into carnage. He drives the broken stick forward with both hands, shoving the jagged end straight into the man’s thigh just above the knee. The sound is wet, ugly, sharp—cartilage and muscle giving way. The man howls, loud and panicked, hands flying to the wound as Julian slams him back into the boards and shoves harder. The stick bursts clean through the other side. A full impalement.
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
Julian’s face is inches from the man’s—snarling, teeth bared, jaw clenched so tight I can hear the grind of it from a stride away. Blood spatters across his cheek. His arms tremble with the sheer force he’s using to pin the man to the boards, holding him upright by the weapon buried in his leg.
When I reach them, I wrap my arms around Julian’s waist and yank him back hard, but he’s locked on like an animal that believes letting go would betray the pack. Because that’s exactly what this is.
Finn is his pack—his idiot, feral, loudmouthed brother-in-violence. And someone dared touch him.
“Julian!” I roar again, hauling with everything I have, but holy hell—he’s strong.
He digs his skates into the ice, legs braced, shoulders refusing to budge, hands still white-knuckled around the stick buried in the man’s thigh. The Belladonna bastard tries to pull away—but he’s literally hanging from Julian’s grip.
Kai’s over Finn, shouting for space, barking orders at Misha, at Luca, at the crowd pressing too close. The stands are losing their minds. Half cheering, half screaming.
Leonardo stands in his box again, laughing—actually fucking laughing, the sound rolling out deep and unrestrained. He claps once, sharp and deliberate, like he’s applauding a street execution instead of watching his son’s teammate get impaled on the ice by the rival syndicate’s new captain.
Julian snarls into the man’s face, voice raw and shredded, tearing straight from his wounded ribs. “Touch my boys again—and next time I won’t fucking miss.”
I freeze.
