"Nobody is allowed between these pretty little thighs but me....and if anyone tries...𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦."
~
They call him The King-a ghost who rules the world's most powerful mafia from the shadows. No face. No mercy. No mistakes.
And beside...
- "The best way to trick a fool is to let the fool think that he is tricking you" -
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Cars were pulling over.
The Italians watched out the window how taxis and people moved over to the curbs as if they were emergency services. It was incredible, incredible, and unnerving. These people worshipped the King like he was a God.
It was disgusting.
Did no one have a backbone? Just because armored, blacked-out SUVs were coming through, they pulled over like it was some royalty driving through New York City. A look of pure appallment and disgust took over Luca's face. No one should be treated like this --no man should be treated like a God.
The second he got the chance, he was going to take the King off his pedestal and show him what it meant to suffer like everyone else. Just the thought had all disgust vanish, being replaced with satisfaction.
A moment later, the car came to a stop.
Luca didn't speak. Neither did Matteo or Antonio. The three Italians stepped out into the night and stared up at the sight before them—something no photograph or whisper could have prepared them for.
It was a dome—massive, gleaming, and obscene in its precision. The shape was reminiscent of a football stadium, but three times the size and none of the joy. Constructed entirely of obsidian glass and brushed black steel, the structure looked less like a building and more like a monument to something ancient and unforgiving. Light poured from its seams—surgical beams of red and gold that pulsed like a heartbeat.
The buildings surrounding it had no lights, no signs of life, just dark silhouettes, emptied and abandoned as if the entire district had been sacrificed to build this single structure.
And above it all, branded in the sky by the way the arena's lights bent through the clouds, was the unmistakable shape of a capital K.
Luca's jaw tightened.
This was not a stadium.
It was a statement.
They called it the Arena, but it wasn't just one. There were others scattered across the globe—each one reserved for punishment, spectacle, and cleansing. But this was the original. The crown jewel. The final stage. The most notorious execution ground in the world.
This was where the Right Hand ended those who thought they could outlast the King.
Those brought here were the strongest. The survivors. Prisoners, enemies, and traitors who had clawed their way through blood and bone for the illusion of freedom. They were told that they'd walk out clean after one last fight and one last opponent. Reborn.
