Page 6 of Deadly Wrath

I close the distance, a left hook slamming into his ribs, followed by a brutal right to his gut. He gasps, sucking for the air I just knocked out of him. His arms drop, and his legs start to wobble.

“C’mon,” I scoff, circling him. “That the best you can do?”

Panic flashes across his face before he throws a desperate punch toward me. It’s sloppy and doesn’t come close to hitting me. I duck under his arm, pivot, and send an uppercut straight to his chin. His head snaps back and his body follows, making a hard thud when his ass hits the floor. He’s knocked the fuck out.

The crowd explodes, a frenzy of cheers and curses. My focus stays on him, the sorry bastard blinking back to consciousness. His arms tremble as he tries to push himself up.

I crouch down, gripping his throat just tight enough to make my point. His eyes go wide when he realizes just how fucked he is. “Here’s your lesson,” I murmur, my voice deadly calm. “Don’t mess with the King.”

I let go of his throat, watching that flash of panic stuck in his eyes, just long enough to land one final blow. My fist connects with his face, snapping his head back before his whole body drops like a sack of shit, crumpling to the ground with a dead fucking thud.

The ref dives in, calling the match, but I barely register it. All I hear is the crowd losing their minds, screaming, stomping, fists hammering the cage like animals. And maybe I am one. I crack my neck side to side, barely winded. I’m not just a fighter; I’m a fucking force of nature.

Kota’s waiting for me outside the cage, his usual cool demeanor hiding whatever’s on his mind. He falls in step beside me as we head toward the locker room.

The second the door shuts behind us, he speaks. “We need to head toDemoni’s.” Kota exhales through his nose, shaking his head, like he’s already bracing for my reaction.

That thing he was dealing with before the fight must be worse than he let on. My brows furrow and I shoot him a look that’s half-annoyed, half-expecting him to say something that’s gonna piss me off.

Kota’s lucky. He’s the only person who can keep something from me and still walk away without feeling my wrath. Anyone else wouldn’t be so fucking lucky.

3

Alessio

Kota and I stand in Demoni’s underground prison, both leaning against the iron bars with our arms crossed, watching Chris squirm in the chair like a trapped rat. Kota’s silent, waiting for my move.

The single flickering bulb above us gives just enough light to see the sweat beading off his greasy forehead, the way it trickles down his temples, soaking into the collar of his cheap-ass suit.

This place was built for misery. There’s only two cells, but they’re identical, with cold concrete floors and stains from past lessons learned the hard way. These cells are rarely used, but when they are, it’s never for anything good.

Chris fucking earned his place in this chair. The dumbass thought he could pull some shit at my casino, sneaking in underage girlslikeDemoniwas some kind of trafficking ring. The sleazy bastard must’ve thought I’d turn a blind eye or worse, that I’d play along.

Big fucking mistake.

The Commission has a strict code: no women, no children. That’s non-negotiable.

When security told him to get the hell out, he got desperate and tried to make a run for it, grabbing chips off the blackjack table like a complete fucking idiot.

That’s when my guys restrained him and put him down here.

Now he’s here, strapped to a chair, bound by his wrists and ankles. He’s stuck in a small-ass cell that reeks of mold and the metallic stench of old blood.

His eyes keep darting to the table beside him, filled with my supplies—tools that have seen many men before him, tools that have stories to tell.

Then he glances around the room, like his men are about to burst in and save his sorry ass.

Aside from the main entrance leading into the casino, there’s a back door, but that’s mainly used for removal. Which is always guarded when the cell’s in use, like tonight.

I push off the cell and step forward, while Kota remains by the door with his arms still crossed. Chrisflinches, his breathing is coming out faster and more erratically. The ropes around his wrists bite into his skin, deep red marks already forming from his weak-ass attempts at struggling. Fucking pathetic.

“Let’s skip the bullshit. Why were you in my casino?”

His Adam’s apple bobs, his throat working hard to swallow, but he still doesn’t speak. He knows his time is running out, and he’s a dead man walking. Well, not walking, but more like sweating and twitching in a chair, waiting for me to decide how this ends. And depending on what he tells me, his punishment will go one of two ways: A quick death or an excruciatingly long, drawn-out session of pain and torture. Until he can’t take anymore, and his body finally fucking gives out.

“Alright,” I say, dragging my fingers along the edge of the small steel table beside him. The tools are lined up, stained, rusted, and well-used. I pick up the pliers, set them back down, and reach for the old wrench. “Let’s do this the hard way.”

Chris’s eyes widen more, watching me snap the wrench open and closed.

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