Didn’t need to.
Because fate pulled me right back anyway.
And now I wouldn’t last a week in civilian life. Not after the blood. Not after the rink turned red. Not after Julian.
“Leonardo.” My voice is flat as I step into the dining room, past the guards with blank faces and loaded rifles. No smile. No warmth. Just acknowledgment.
The table is already set—long, dark wood and high-backed chairs that make everyone feel like kings at a last supper. Crystal glasses, silver cutlery, wine poured, food untouched. A show. Always a show.
Damiano sits near the head of the table, sharp-eyed and silent. Ezio lounges with one leg hooked over the arm of his chair, dressed like a bored prince. And Viktor—ever the executioner—sits perfectly straight, knife already in hand, cutting into a piece of veal like it insulted his family.
I don’t sit until Leonardo gestures.
Then I do. Because we all follow rules. Even me.
Leonardo raises his glass before I’ve even touched mine, swirling the wine like it’s blood in a chalice, smiling like we’re celebrating a fucking wedding instead of dissecting a war. “To your rookie,” he purrs, voice silk-wrapped venom. “What a show.”
Ezio chuckles from his seat like he’s been waiting to speak. “I haven’t seen a crowd that bloodthirstyandhappy since the Bratva slit that man’s throat mid-period in ‘09.” He lifts his own glass in salute, barely hiding the delight curling at the edge of his lips. “Your boy has a flair for the dramatic. Knife in the thigh, goal in the net?Delicious.”
I don’t toast. I don’t smile. I don’t even blink. I just lean back, let the wood of the chair dig into my spine, and wait for the part where they stop pretending this is social.
Leonardo sets his glass down with a soft clink, steepling his fingers like a priest about to deliver absolution. “You raised him well, Rafe,” he says, and that’s when Idosmile—barely. The edge of a knife, nothing more.
“I didn’t raise him,” I mutter. “Itaped his mouth shut.There’s a difference.”
Viktor snorts. Damiano remains silent.
But Leonardo keeps going, as if I haven’t spoken at all. “He made us money. More than we expected. The bets were wild, unpredictable. A junkie on the ice? The odds weremouthwatering.” His eyes gleam, and I wonder how many zeroes are on the number he’s not saying out loud. “And yet, the little fucker won anyway.”
Ezio laughs again, low and lazy. “The whole rink was hard for him after that last goal. Blood flying, gunshots echoing, and he’sgrinningwith a knife in his hand. I saw the Reapers from Southside asking if he was for sale before the body was cold.”
I clench my jaw.
There it is.
The real reason I’m here.
They don’t care that Julian almost bled out. That Kai had to shove a hand into the wound. That I made a fucking tourniquet out of my own laces while Julian choked on pain andstill smiled at me.
No. They care about the money. The chaos. The show.
They care about how muchmorehe might make next time.
Andwho else wants him now.
Leonardo leans back in his chair, fingers laced over his stomach like a king contemplating which vassal to throw the jester to. “The Bratva’s offer came in first,” he says, almost bored. “But the Albanians doubled it this morning. Apparently they were very impressed with the theatrics. Said it was like watching ballet with blood.” He glances at Damiano, who’s already got his phone out, scrolling through messages like this is a stock market review and not a conversation about selling off a human being.
Damiano doesn’t lift his head. “Cartel wants a meeting. They’ll come with numbers.”
My fingers curl under the table.
Julian isn’t a fucking number.
Ezio shifts forward suddenly, the smile wiped off his face for once, eyes sharp and focused. “Idiots, the lot of you,” he snaps, planting his elbows on the table. “You sell him, you make money once. You keep him here, on our ice, bleeding in our colors? He’ll make us a hundred times that. Merch, syndicate betting, underground streams, loyalty wagers—hell, we already had someone offer half a million just to sponsor his fucking skates.”
Leonardo raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“It is,” Ezio says, and for once, I don’t want to put my fist through his face. “He’s not just good. He’s spectacle. He bled for this team in his first fucking game. He scored with a knife in his leg. You sell that, you’re selling our brand with it. You make him ours, and every syndicate in the western hemisphere will have to pay us to see him skate.”
