Chapter 3
JULIAN
I’ve been twitching in this goddamn box for what feels like a century.
In reality? Maybe thirty hours. I got food yesterday—shoved at me through the door by the chaos gremlin with blood on his shirt and a candy bar in his mouth who introduced himself as Finn, like we were roommates.
He talked too much, grinned like a maniac, told me I looked “less pathetic” than expected, and disappeared before I could throw the tray at him.
No drugs, pills, or even nicotine. Just food, water, and silence.
Now, I’m being dragged through the compound like a rabid animal, and my patience is bleeding out with every step. “I can walk, you know,” I snap, yanking at my arm, but Finn doesn’t let go.
“Yeah, but you’re a runner,” he chirps, like he’s taking a puppy to the vet. “And I’ve got strict orders not to let you bolt again. You got real feisty yesterday. Thought you were gonna start foaming at the mouth.”
“I will bite you,” I mutter.
“Hot.” He winks.
I hate him.
It’s bright outside, too bright. The compound stretches in all directions—stacked containers, some modified with steel doors or rusted vents, others tagged up with spray paint or dents shaped suspiciously like someone’s head.
People move in the distance—some carrying weapons, some dragging crates, none looking friendly.
Finn stops at a larger container, one of the black ones with reinforced siding and a polished handle. Looks newer. Less like a dumpster. He slaps the door twice, then yanks it open and shoves me inside without warning.
I stumble, catch myself on my palms, cursing under my breath.
Then I see him. The one from yesterday. The wall I slammed into.
His helmet gone now, chest pads off, but the same heavy silence draped over him like a second skin.
Broad shoulders, storm-colored eyes, tape still wrapped around his knuckles like he’s either about to train or kill someone.
He doesn’t move when he sees me, just watches.
Like he expected me to show up and is already bored with how it’s going.
And standing next to him is another man. Older, sharp suit, silver hair combed back, darker eyes that flick over me like he’s calculating my resale value. Power rolls off him so heavy I feel it in my fucking teeth.
I blink at both of them, pulse thudding, body aching. I’m angry, hungry, shaking, pissed, and this is not the time to walk into a mafia-looking business meeting with zero context and zero drugs in my system.
“What the fuck now?” I mutter, straightening up. I look at the monster from yesterday, then at the new guy. “Let me guess—good cop, bad cop? Or are you both just the same brand of asshole?”
The older man raises a brow. The younger one just smiles—slow, and familiar. Like he’s been waiting to watch me spiral.
I should shut up. I know I should shut up.
There’s a very clear vibe here—lethal quiet, barely concealed threat, an actual thug with taped fists and a face carved from concrete standing three feet away—but the thing is, I’ve gone over twenty-four hours without a fix, I’m starving, my skin itches like it wants to be peeled off, and the longer they expect me to sit here and behave, the more I want to burn it all down just to watch them blink.
So, yeah. I keep mouthing off.
I roll my neck like I’m not sweating through my shirt, glare up at both of them like I’m not dying inside. “Nice little setup you’ve got here,” I say. “Lemme guess—underground fight club for washed-up mobsters? Or is this just your weird way of collecting hockey players like Beanie Babies?”
The guy from yesterday—tall, dark, and definitely dangerous—still hasn’t moved. Not a twitch. Just staring at me like he’s imagining how deep he’d have to dig to bury my body. I grin at him, sharp and twitchy. “What? Not gonna throw me into a wall again, big guy?”
He moves. Steps up close, taller than I remember, and puts a hand on the back of my neck.
It’s big, warm, heavy, and it sends a fucking shiver right down my spine, which is so annoying.
Then he presses enough that my knees buckle like a puppet on cut strings.
I hit the chair behind me without even realizing it was there, and he keeps his hand on me the whole time.
Just resting on my shoulder, but it might as well be a chain.
I tense, glaring up at him, but he doesn’t look at me. Just watches the older guy like I’m already handled.
The other man smiles now. That slow, measured kind of smile that says he’s never once had to raise his voice to ruin someone. “Welcome to Fiamma Nera, Julian,” he says smoothly. “I’m Don Leonardo Bellini.”
I stare at him. Then I laugh. I laugh—cracked, sudden, a little manic, because what?! “Don?” I wheeze. “Like actual mafia Don? That’s—oh my god, that’s so cliché I might die. Are you kidding me?”
I look at the guy still gripping my shoulder. “And Bellini? Are you the guy from the car who brought me here? Cool kidnapping, by the way. Very old-school. Loved the blindfold. Real romantic.”
The Don smiles tighter now. “Mm… no, dear boy. That was Damiano. My right hand.”
“Oh,” I say, grin sharpening. “He suck you off often, or just on weekends?”
The hand on my shoulder tightens. Hard. Sharp heat shoots down my arm, and I hiss through my teeth. My head snaps around—reflex—and I meet the guy’s eyes for real this time. Cold. Storm-gray. Still not angry, just... done with my shit. He smirks and hakes his head once in warning.
Okay, so no blowjob jokes. Noted.
“Here’s the deal, golden boy,” the Don says calmly, like we’re negotiating brunch.
“Your little stunt cost me five million dollars. Throwing that game like that, when everyone knows you were more than capable of winning it with one hand tied behind your back? That didn’t just hurt your reputation. It hurt my pocket.”
He pauses. and gestures lazily toward the brick wall of a man still pinning me in place. “So, now, you have two choices. Play for me until you win the money back… or I let Rafe off you.”
Ah. Rafe. Cool. So the mafia dog has a name. No wonder he’s scary. Built like a goaltender, talks like a ghost, moves like a fucking executioner.
I look back up at him, still silent, still holding me down like it costs him nothing. And I think—I’m probably fucked.
I glance from one to the other—Don Suity McMob Boss and his silent enforcer with murder in his hands—and flash my sharpest, cockiest grin, the one I used to give reporters when they asked about my “discipline issues.” I tilt my head back just enough to make it clear I’m not scared.
“What do I get out of it?” I ask sweetly, even though I’m still pinned in place like a petulant child in time-out.
Leonardo raises a brow, slow and unimpressed. “You live.”
I laugh. “Not very tempting,” I say, voice dry. “Got any drugs?”
Rafe’s thumb digs into the meat of my shoulder—not hard, not enough to bruise—but very clearly a warning. A don’t-fucking-push-it pressure point. My jaw clenches under the weight of it, but I don’t back down. I just grin wider.
“Julian,” Leonardo says, almost patient, almost kind, like he’s explaining colors to a child. “You’re on a compound full of criminals, drug dealers, and murderers. Honestly, you’re the fluffy one here. I’m sure if you asked nicely, someone would be happy to fix your little problem.”
“Fuck you and your junkyard full of murderers!” I bark, twisting in the chair hard enough that it scrapes against the floor. “You think you can keep me here, make me play, parade me around like some broken NHL trophy—”
Rafe moves without a word. He slaps a hand over my mouth, tape already in his palm like he knew this was coming. Cold, rough black tape—his kind—tight over my lips in a second.
I let out a furious groan, muffled and ragged, jerking my head but not hard enough to break free. My eyes burn holes into him, and he just looks down at me like I’m amusing.
“He’ll play,” Rafe says calmly to Leonardo.
I make a sound behind the tape, something halfway between fuck you and you’re not the boss of me, but it comes out a muffled mhmmghff! that doesn’t exactly land the way I want. I roll my eyes so hard I swear I see stars.
Leonardo chuckles, already turning to leave. “Excellent. Get him cleaned up. Practice starts tomorrow.”
Rafe’s hand lingers just long enough to make sure I stay seated.
And all I can think, as the door closes and my fate is sealed, is that I’m going to kill someone before this is over.
Probably him.
Definitely him.
The door clicks shut behind Leonardo like a coffin lid, and I’m left alone with the gorilla in black tape—Rafe, apparently.
Enforcer, lapdog, whatever the hell he is.
The second the Don’s gone, he doesn’t move to drag me out or bark orders.
No. He just leans back against the table in front of me, crossing his arms like we’re about to have a nice little chat and not whatever the fuck this is.
I shift in the chair, tape still plastered across my mouth, fury simmering under my skin like acid. I curse at him immediately—loud, guttural, unintelligible. Probably sounded like a raccoon being strangled, but it was the effort that mattered.
“Mmm, yes,” Rafe murmurs, watching me with that smug, detached amusement that makes my blood boil. “You sound much better like this.”
I make another sound, more focused this time, pushing the words through gritted teeth. “Fffhhk you.” It’s garbled, yeah. But the message? Clear.
His smirk widens. Fucking predictable. Then he leans forward, lifts one hand, and pats my cheek.
Pats my cheek. Not a slap. Not a punch. A condescending, patronizing, insufferable little tap like I’m a misbehaving pet.
I groan furiously against the tape, thrashing in the chair, but he’s already straightening, already walking away like I’m not even worth the effort. Like he expected this exact reaction.