At the table across from me, Leonardo leans back in his chair with the slow, calculated posture of a man who hasn’t yet decided whether to clap or kill something. “I take it Grant is dead,” he says, voice soft. Almost bored.
“Mmm,” I murmur, not looking away from the screen. “Had help from a knife and a wall. Didn’t take long.”
Damiano huffs beside him, sipping espresso like it’s wine, his dark eyes flicking from the monitor to me with practiced indifference. “Clean?”
“No,” I say, still watching Jules drop his shoulder and dangle past Corso like he’s toying with a fucking mannequin. “But permanent.”
Viktor doesn’t speak. He just watches, breathing quietly, one leg crossed over the other like a man who collects debts with a smile and wears silk to a funeral.
Leonardo finally turns his head toward me. “That’s not what you brought to the table.”
I glance at him—just one second, one look—enough to let the weight settle. “I also found out something very interesting,” I say, voice smooth as a blade sliding free of its sheath.
Leonardo raises an eyebrow.
I lean forward slightly, elbows on the table, hands folded, tone flat and deliberate. “Grant wasn’t blackmailed. Not really. He was paid.”
Damiano’s brow lifts. Viktor shifts in his seat. The room tightens like a wire pulled taut.
“Paid by who?” Leonardo asks, eyes narrowing just a fraction.
I smile—small, sharp, a threat wrapped in amusement. “Belladonna Syndicate.”
Leonardo’s face remains still, but I catch the faint twitch of his fingers against the armrest—one single, controlled tap. His tells are subtle, refined. I’ve learned them all. He hates being touched without consent. He hates being outplayed even more.
“They paid Grant to throw the game?” Damiano says after a beat, voice low. “And let the Reaver kid take the fall?”
“Mm.” I nod, easing back in my chair. “Paid him to throw it. Let Jules catch the ban. Let the league devour its scapegoat. Let the public call it a gambling scandal.”
“And Grant sold him out,” Viktor mutters, tapping ash into the tray beside him. “Took the cash and smiled for the camera.”
“And now,” I add, eyes flicking back to the monitor where Julian has just toe-picked, spun, and scored again—this time with no helmet, hair flying, jaw clenched like he’s ready to bite through steel—“he’s ours.”
Leonardo leans back slowly. The light catches the ring on his finger; it glints like a promise of violence held in check. “How sure are you about Belladonna?”
“He confessed,” I say, voice flat. “Right before I took his ring finger off.”
The screen buzzes. Jules checks someone into the wall so hard the camera jolts.
“He’s dangerous now,” Viktor says softly, a note of admiration in his tone. “You fixed him.”
“No,” I correct, gaze still locked on the screen. “I unleashed him.”
Leonardo says nothing, just watches as Julian flies down the ice again, all teeth and tape and grace like sin. Like hunger in motion. And I know what Leonardo’s thinking. He’s not worried about Belladonna right now. He’s thinking about how tokeepJulian Reaver from turning his entire fucking racket into a spotlight.
Leonardo turns to me fully now. Legs crossed, one hand lazily stroking the gold serpent ring on his finger, the other poised near his temple like he’s about to sermonize. His voice is velvet and venom. “The Belladonna pissed on my turf,” he says, each word wrapped in disdain. “How are we going to repay the favor, dear boy?”
I meet his eyes. “You know that former NHL rink they’ve had their eye on?” I ask, voice calm.
Leonardo’s mouth curves. “The one they’ve been courting city council over? That little attempt at legitimacy?”
“Mm.” I lean forward. “Let’s organize a game over it.”
That gets his attention.
“A game?” Viktor asks, tone dry. “What kind of game?”
“A filthy one,” I say, sitting back again, letting the words settle. “Make it big. Make it public—underground public. Pull in every syndicate, every rich bastard who likes blood with their beer. Let Belladonna bring their best. We’ll bring ours.”
