So, yeah. I keep mouthing off.
I roll my neck like I’m not sweating through my shirt, glare up at both of them like I’m not dying inside. “Nice little setup you’ve got here,” I say. “Lemme guess—underground fight club for washed-up mobsters? Or is this just your weird way of collecting hockey players like Beanie Babies?”
The guy from yesterday—tall, dark, and definitely dangerous—still hasn’t moved. Not a twitch. Just staring at me like he’s imagining how deep he’d have to dig to bury my body. I grin at him, sharp and twitchy. “What? Not gonna throw me into a wall again, big guy?”
He moves. Steps up close, taller than I remember, and puts a hand on the back of my neck. It’s big, warm, heavy, and it sends afuckingshiver right down my spine, which issoannoying. Then he presses enough that my knees buckle like a puppet on cut strings. I hit the chair behind me without even realizing it was there, and he keeps his hand on me the whole time. Just resting on my shoulder, but it might as well be a chain.
I tense, glaring up at him, but he doesn’t look at me. Just watches the older guy like I’m already handled.
The other man smiles now. That slow, measured kind of smile that says he’s never once had to raise his voice to ruin someone. “Welcome to Fiamma Nera, Julian,” he says smoothly. “I’m Don Leonardo Bellini.”
I stare at him. Then I laugh. Ilaugh—cracked, sudden, a little manic, becausewhat?!“Don?” I wheeze. “Like actual mafia Don? That’s—oh my god, that’s so cliché I might die. Are you kidding me?”
I look at the guy still gripping my shoulder. “AndBellini?Are you the guy from the car who brought me here? Cool kidnapping, by the way. Very old-school. Loved the blindfold. Real romantic.”
The Don smiles tighter now. “Mm… no, dear boy. That was Damiano. My right hand.”
“Oh,” I say, grin sharpening. “He suck you off often, or just on weekends?”
The hand on my shoulder tightens. Hard. Sharp heat shoots down my arm, and I hiss through my teeth. My head snaps around—reflex—and I meet the guy’s eyes for real this time. Cold. Storm-gray. Still not angry, just...donewith my shit. He smirks and hakes his head once in warning.
Okay, so no blowjob jokes. Noted.
“Here’s the deal, golden boy,” the Don says calmly, like we’re negotiating brunch. “Your little stunt cost me five million dollars. Throwing that game like that, when everyoneknowsyou were more than capable of winning it with one hand tied behind your back? That didn’t just hurt your reputation. It hurt my pocket.”
He pauses. and gestures lazily toward the brick wall of a man still pinning me in place. “So, now, you have two choices. Play for me until you win the money back… or I let Rafe off you.”
Ah.Rafe.Cool. So the mafia dog has a name. No wonder he’s scary. Built like a goaltender, talks like a ghost, moves like a fucking executioner.
I look back up at him, still silent, still holding me down like it costs him nothing. And I think—I’m probably fucked.
I glance fromone to the other—Don Suity McMob Boss and his silent enforcer with murder in his hands—and flash my sharpest, cockiest grin, the one I used to give reporters when they asked about my “discipline issues.” I tilt my head back just enough to make it clear I’m not scared. “What do I get out of it?” I ask sweetly, even though I’m still pinned in place like a petulant child in time-out.
Leonardo raises a brow, slow and unimpressed. “You live.”
I laugh. “Not very tempting,” I say, voice dry. “Got any drugs?”
Rafe’s thumb digs into the meat of my shoulder—not hard, not enough to bruise—butveryclearly a warning. A don’t-fucking-push-it pressure point. My jaw clenches under the weight of it, but I don’t back down. I just grin wider.
“Julian,” Leonardo says, almost patient, almost kind, like he’s explaining colors to a child. “You’re on a compound full of criminals, drug dealers, and murderers. Honestly, you’re the fluffy one here. I’m sure if you asked nicely, someone would be happy to fix your little problem.”
“Fuck you and your junkyard full of murderers!” I bark, twisting in the chair hard enough that it scrapes against the floor. “You think you can keep me here,makeme play, parade me around like some broken NHL trophy—”
Rafe moves without a word. He slaps a hand over my mouth, tape already in his palm like heknewthis was coming. Cold, rough black tape—hiskind—tight over my lips in a second.
I let out a furious groan, muffled and ragged, jerking my head but not hard enough to break free. My eyes burn holes into him, and he just looks down at me like I’m amusing.
“He’ll play,” Rafe says calmly to Leonardo.
I make a sound behind the tape, something halfway betweenfuck youandyou’re not the boss of me, but it comes out a muffledmhmmghff!that doesn’t exactly land the way I want. I roll my eyes so hard I swear I see stars.
Leonardo chuckles, already turning to leave. “Excellent. Get him cleaned up. Practice starts tomorrow.”
Rafe’s hand lingers just long enough to make sure I stay seated.
And all I can think, as the door closes and my fate is sealed, is that I’m going to kill someone before this is over.
Probably him.
