"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...
-"I am not violent. I am not malicious. I am a result."-
_______________________________
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The doors groaned open with the weight of war.
Luca was the first one through. The darkness hit him like a wall—thick, suffocating, choked with smoke and the metallic sting of blood. The Arena's emergency lights had failed. No floodlights. No exits marked. Just the pulsing red glow of fire alarms and the stench of death.
Antonio was next. Then Blade, Oscar, Ida, and Matteo.
The air was damp with blood and gunpowder. The distant hiss of flame.
And gunfire.
Close.
Too close.
A scream cut through the black—shrill and animal. The kind of scream that split a soul down the middle. Then another. And another. Rapid-fire agony, followed by the echo of something heavy hitting the floor.
Then silence.
A silence that bled.
Luca's hand clenched tighter around his gun, his finger itching against the trigger. He didn't care who was watching. He didn't care who they had to mow down to get to her. If she was here—if Kaia was still somewhere in this tomb of blood—he was going to find her.
"Move," he barked.
The others flanked him without a word.
They stepped over the first body at the base of the stairs.
A Bratva soldier. Throat torn open. Still twitching.
Another body collapsed against the railing—one of theirs. Their guard. Face caved in from blunt force, a gun still clutched in his fist.
Ida cursed under her breath. "This wasn't a hit. This was a purge."
Luca didn't respond. Couldn't. His mind was buzzing. Hot and red and loud. He kept pushing forward, down the corridor that curved beneath the Arena's main stage. It was meant to be impenetrable. It had been designed by Kaia.
And now it was a war zone.
Doors hung open, some blasted off the hinges. Bullet holes scarred the steel walls. Blood painted the floors in dragging, smeared streaks.
Some of the guards were alive—barely.
They lay scattered across the corridors and stairwells, covered in soot and blood, clutching their weapons with trembling hands, refusing to die quietly. One of them, jaw broken and eye swollen shut, still raised his pistol at the flicker of movement before Oscar crouched beside him and whispered, "It's us."
They'd fought tooth and nail with what strength they had left—but the ground was littered with bodies. Not all were Bratva. Not all were theirs. Some bore no patch or crest at all. Mercenaries. Ghosts for hire.
