Page 4 of Deadly Wrath

We’re moving really fast.

The car swerves, taking sharp turns that make my body slide against the seat and the hard thing next to me. My hands try to grip the scratchy fabric beneath me, trying to stay still, but it’s no use. The bag over my head smells weird, like old sweat and pennies. It’s too hot, too stuffy, making my breath come out quick and shaky.

My whole body freezes when the strap slides across my chest andclicksinto place. They buckled me in. Bad guys don’t care if kids wear seatbelts… right?

I try to peek under the edge of the bag, moving as slow as I can. If I can just see a little bit, maybe I’ll know where we’re going. Or who took me.

All I catch is a sliver of a big arm with dark ink. The tattoo stretches across tanned skin, and I squint, trying to make it out. The scary sword shape looks familiar, like the knife from that show Mommy says I’m too young to watch.

The man clears his throat, and I snap my head forward, swallowing hard. My fingers curl into my lap, trying to stay small and invisible. I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t know who they are. I don’t know if I’ll ever see Mommy or Daddy again.

The car jerks to a stop and everything goes really quiet. I feel cold air when the car door opens. The seatbelt is unbuckled and rough hands pull me out of the car. My legs feel shaky when my feet hit the ground, but before I can even stand, someone picks me up.

Everything is quiet except the sound of feet moving fast around me, like people are busy doing something, but no one speaks. The man holding me shifts, and for a second, the bag slips just enough for me to see it’s the same man who put the seatbelt on me. The man with the sword knife tattoo.

“This is for your own good,” he says. He doesn’t sound cruel, but not soft like how Mommy talks to me. Just cold.

I’m set on my feet, but my legs tremble so badly I can barely stand up straight. I hear a knock, and then a door creaks open with a groan. A rough hand grips my arm and pushes me inside. The cold air from outside disappears, replaced by a smoky, damp smell that makes my nose scrunch.

The rough hand lets go of my arm, and the door clicks behind me. Then, suddenly, the bag is yanked off my head, and I squeeze my eyes shut from the bright light. I blink fast, my breath coming out quick and panicky. My eyes are still trying to adjust when I see Detective Clover’s face, with his eyebrows lifted in surprise, walking toward me.

“Olivia,” he says softly.

Relief washes over me so fast, I nearly fall forward. My legs wobble, my body frozen between wanting to run to him and wanting to curl into a ball and disappear.

I look around the room, it’s small and dirty, with just a table and a couple of chairs. The walls are a dull, ugly gray, and the floor is scratched up and gross.

“Do you know who brought you here?” Clover asks, and I shake my head. My throat feels too dry to speak. His eyes flick toward the door, like he’s making sure no one else is coming.

“I want Mommy,” I cry out.

Clover kneels down in front of me, his hand resting on my shoulder, warm but heavy. “I’m sorry, Olivia. Your mom did everything she could to protect you. Now it’s my turn.”

2

Alessio: Present Day

I pull up toSatana’s, my newest casino. I toss my keys to the valet and head straight for the back, where the real action goes down—the Grotto. The casino’s still under construction, but this place already has a purpose. It was used for trafficking under the previous owner, a disgusting fucking business I want no part of. So, I scrubbed it clean of that filth and turned it into something more useful—underground fights.

Demoni’swas my first casino, the one my old man passed down to me, and my go-to for this. ButDemoni’sneeds to stay clean, at least on the surface.Satana’sis where the blood will spill now.

From the outside, the Grotto looks like an exclusive VIP lounge—plush, private, dripping with wealth for high-rollers. But step inside, and it’s a whole different story. The cage sits dead center of the room, a metal beast that’s seen its fair share of fights. The thick bars arescratched and dented from bodies crashing into them. Blood’s been spilled here. Some fresh, some old that seeped into the concrete, permanently staining the ground. The whole place reeks of sweat, blood, and violence.

Chains dangle from the ceiling, rattling with every slammed punch and every body hitting the floor. There’s no space to run in there, no chance to dance around your opponent and play defense. You fight or you fall. Kill or be killed.

Around the cage, rich bastards in their custom suits sit back in luxury chairs. With a drink in hand, they watch men break each other apart like it’s the fucking ballet. These aren’t regular gamblers; they’re the type who pay five grand to set foot in here. Some come for the thrill, others because they like watching grown men bleed for sport. I show up to collect my cut of the house, and occasionally to feel the violence under my knuckles.

The Grotto is packed tonight, bodies pressed close, the whole room reeks of cigarette smoke and liquor. People are screaming at the fighters in the cage, shouting bets, slamming their fists against the metal like animals. Some lean in too close, eyes wide, thirsty for carnage. Others sit back, casually drinking whiskey while two men try to knock each other’s teeth out.

I push forward, heading to my security room with my fists shoved deep in my pockets. Every muscle in my body is coiled, ready, and waiting. The beast inside me paces, restless. I need an outlet, and I need it now.

The first idiot who bumps into me gets shoved aside like trash. The second catches my glare and backs off before I decide if he’s worth my time. Good. I’m not here to waste energy on people who don’t matter. I’m here for one thing.

A body snaps forward, a spray of blood hitting the cage, and the crowd goes wild. Half the room cheers; the other half curses as they watch their money disappear.

I don’t give a shit about the bets or who’s currently getting their face smashed in. I want the impact, the sting vibrating through my arm, the sharp crack of bone breaking beneath my knuckles. I want someone to look me in the eyes and realize they’ve just made the worst mistake of their life.

The black rash guard keeps my ink covered, helping me blend in. But as I move through the crowd, a few heads turn, some nod in recognition, others whisper just loud enough for me to catch. The ones who know me don’t make a big deal of it. That’s not how it works here. Inside the cage, I’m not Alessio Gualtiero, head of the Philly Commission. I’m just another fighter.

---