Chapter 30 Rafe #4
Julian’s face is inches from the man’s—snarling, teeth bared, jaw clenched so tight I can hear the grind of it from a stride away. Blood spatters across his cheek. His arms tremble with the sheer force he’s using to pin the man to the boards, holding him upright by the weapon buried in his leg.
When I reach them, I wrap my arms around Julian’s waist and yank him back hard, but he’s locked on like an animal that believes letting go would betray the pack. Because that’s exactly what this is.
Finn is his pack—his idiot, feral, loudmouthed brother-in-violence. And someone dared touch him.
“Julian!” I roar again, hauling with everything I have, but holy hell—he’s strong.
He digs his skates into the ice, legs braced, shoulders refusing to budge, hands still white-knuckled around the stick buried in the man’s thigh. The Belladonna bastard tries to pull away—but he’s literally hanging from Julian’s grip.
Kai’s over Finn, shouting for space, barking orders at Misha, at Luca, at the crowd pressing too close. The stands are losing their minds. Half cheering, half screaming.
Leonardo stands in his box again, laughing—actually fucking laughing, the sound rolling out deep and unrestrained. He claps once, sharp and deliberate, like he’s applauding a street execution instead of watching his son’s teammate get impaled on the ice by the rival syndicate’s new captain.
Julian snarls into the man’s face, voice raw and shredded, tearing straight from his wounded ribs. “Touch my boys again—and next time I won’t fucking miss.”
I freeze.
Because I know. I know for a fact he didn’t miss.
He hit exactly where he intended—deep enough to terrify, shallow enough not to kill.
A warning shot delivered with bone and pain instead of bullets.
He meant for the stick to burst clean through the other side.
He meant for the man to live, screaming and bleeding and remembering.
He meant for every eye in this arena to witness it.
He did this for Finn. For the team. For me.
I finally yank hard enough to break his stance, pulling Julian backward off the man, who collapses to the ice gripping his thigh and screaming for someone to pull the weapon out. Blood spreads fast across the ice, streaking like an abstract painting under the lights.
Julian spins in my grip, chest heaving, eyes wild enough to burn holes in the boards. His hands drip blood—some his, most not. His curls are plastered to his forehead. Sweat mixes with the smear across his cheek. He’s panting like an apex predator interrupted mid kill.
He looks at me like he’s not sure if I came closer to stop him—or to join him. And I look at him like he’s the most dangerous, loyal, perfect mistake I’ve ever made.
The moment Finn starts moving, the breath I’ve been holding finally drops.
Kai and Misha are the ones who get him off the ice—Kai on one side, muttering something clinical and clipped under his breath while Misha lifts him like a bodyguard ferrying a bloodied prince.
Finn’s not even conscious for the first few strides, but by the time they reach the edge of the boards, his head lolls, and he gives the dumbest, cockiest, barely-there grin like he just got laid in the back of a truck instead of fucking murdered mid-shift.
Kai turns toward me just before he disappears down the tunnel, giving a single thumbs-up—simple, sharp, and enough. Finn’s fine. He’ll live. He’ll chirp again soon enough, and if Kai allows it, he might even be back skating in the third with a toothpick taped to his spine for extra attitude.
But Julian’s not fine. He shakes off blood like it’s nothing more than water clinging to his skin.
His gloves are still slick and dark with the Belladonna guy’s scream, the fabric soaked through.
His eyes burn molten, pupils blown wide with something beyond adrenaline—something primal and unspooling.
When the puck drops again, he’s the one planted at center ice.
No one volunteers to line up against him.
Someone gets shoved forward. Poor bastard.
Julian leans low over his stick and snarls loud enough for the crowd, the rafters, and the fucking dead to hear: “Who the fuck is next, huh?!”
Nobody answers. Because the answer is obvious. No one.
Julian’s gone rabid now—teeth bared, jersey pulled tight across his chest like armor stitched from pure vengeance.
The puck hits the ice, and Belladonna doesn’t even get a chance to touch it.
Julian claims it instantly, spins off the line, and moves like a man possessed.
There’s no pattern, no strategy—just raw, blistering speed and spite.
Every stride is a dare. Every shot is a punishment delivered with interest.
I don’t even bother standing in the crease anymore. I stay there, sure—but it’s ceremonial now. A shadow in black pads, watching from the mouth of the net. Because Belladonna never gets the puck long enough to reach my zone. Julian makes damn sure of that.
He and Luca turn the second period into a fucking blood feud.
The first goal is pure showmanship. Julian toe-drags through three defenders like they’re cardboard cutouts, flips the puck behind his back to Luca, and Luca taps it in with a wink so filthy it should come with a censor bar across the ice.
The second is chaos wrapped in skill. Luca gets tripped mid-stride, flips into a full somersault in the air, lands hard on his ass, and still manages to launch the puck across the rink to Julian.
Julian picks it up, spins into a fucking pirouette—what the hell—and slaps it bar-down so viciously it shatters the Belladonna goalie’s stick on impact.
The third goal is just mean.
They don’t need it. They just want it.
Julian drags the puck behind the net, takes a lazy half-lap like he’s choreographing a humiliation ballet, then feeds it to Luca with such casual indifference it’s practically an insult.
Luca doesn’t even shoot properly—he flicks it in, effortless and disrespectful.
The Belladonna goalie doesn’t flinch anymore.
He just stands there, broken stick dangling from numb fingers.
Their bench has gone silent. Their captain looks pale under the lights. One of their defenders actually turns his head away when Julian skates past, as if eye contact might ignite something he can’t survive.
Julian chirps them the entire time.
“Thought you guys had teeth?”
“Is this your A team or your retirement squad?”
“You got that puck for sale, or just renting it every three seconds?”
By the third goal he’s not even shouting anymore. He’s whispering—real close, right behind their ears as he glides by. One of them blushes. Actually fucking blushes, cheeks flaming red under the helmet.
The entire Belladonna bench starts shifting away from the boards every time Julian passes, like proximity alone might mark them as the next target.
I stay in net. Because Julian isn’t playing hockey anymore. He isn’t even trying to win. He’s burning the entire fucking house down and daring them to say thank you for the ashes.
And I love him for it.
The scoreline doesn’t even matter anymore. It ends somewhere between chaos and comedy—Fiamma up by fuck-knows-how-many to a humiliating zero. They don’t even announce the final count. They just blow the horn and let the syndicates scream over it.
The rink detonates. The crowd surges to their feet, fists pumping, money raining down in thick stacks—credit slips, high-stakes bets, black-envelope bonuses—falling onto the ice like confetti at a mob wedding.
It drifts in slow motion, as if the entire underworld has collectively decided that yes, that display was worth every drop of blood it cost.
Belladonna doesn’t even look angry anymore. They look wrecked—hollowed out, humiliated, left staring at the open grave of whatever ego they dragged in here tonight.
Up in the rafters, Leonardo Bellini rises to his feet, coat hanging open, cigarette forgotten and burning low between his fingers.
For once he isn’t performing. He claps—sharp, deliberate, genuine applause that rolls through the arena like thunder.
Not polite. Not performative. Applauding.
Like the show just ended, the curtain dropped, and he’s crowning someone new.
Like the whole city better fall in line behind him right now.
Because we didn’t just win the game. We won the rink. The bets. The power shift.
And Julian?
Julian doesn’t take a fucking bow.
He skates past the Belladonna bench—slow, deliberate—blood dried stiff on his jersey, tape still clinging stubbornly to his throat.
He hisses. A real sound, sharp and feral, teeth flashing in a quick, dangerous glimpse.
He doesn’t bother with words. He just bares his canines and dares one of them to meet his eyes. No one does.
Then he turns.
Gloves drop. Helmet’s already gone. Stick abandoned on the ice behind him.
He barrels straight across the rink—toward me.
I’m still planted in the net, half-braced for a last-minute desperation play or some idiot’s revenge attempt.
But all I see is Julian—hair wild and sweat-matted, eyes blazing gold under the lights, jersey riding up to expose the bruises I left on him, sprinting with every ounce of energy left in his body like someone who just conquered Rome and now wants to claim the war god who made it possible.
He launches himself without a second’s hesitation.
Skates lift off the ice. His shoulder slams into my chest, arms loop tight around my neck, thighs clamp around my hips. I catch him on pure instinct—hands locking around his waist, pads grinding hard against the boards as his full weight crashes into me like he was born to end games this way.
His forehead presses to mine.
His mouth follows.
No one’s watching the rest of the team celebrate anymore. They’re all looking at us.
And Julian’s grinning into the kiss—breathless, laughing against my lips like the devil just won the lottery and set the winning ticket ablaze.
I slam him back—hard—into the post of the net.
The clang echoes over the roar of the crowd like a warning shot fired directly into the throat of heaven.
The force knocks the breath out of Julian in a gasp that ends in a laugh—head tipped back, throat bared, blue eyes burning like a god who just remembered he used to be feared.
I keep him pinned there, one hand gripping the tape at his throat, the other spread across his ribs like I’m holding something divine in place.
The crowd’s still losing its mind. Syndicate men are climbing the fucking boards, throwing stacks, screaming slurs, howling bets for who bleeds next. But none of it touches us. None of it dents what’s happening right here in the silence between breaths.
I lean in real close—close enough to taste the copper tang of blood still clinging to his smile—and whisper it like scripture, like prophecy carved into the air between us. “Did you enjoy being their god?”
Julian’s eyes flicker, lashes heavy with sweat and glittering at his temples under the harsh lights. Then that smirk returns—wicked, blasphemous, utterly unchained. He lifts his chin and doesn’t even blink. “Only when you watch.”
I see red, but not from rage. It’s worship, hunger, whatever feral thing inside me shaped him into this glorious, deadly creature and refuses to let him be anything else. Mine.
I drag my hand up his throat—slow, deliberate—until my thumb settles just under his jaw.
His pulse hammers wild against the pad of my finger, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away.
I dip my head, lips brushing the shell of his ear, voice dropping lower than sin.
“Do you know whose rink this is now, little halo?”
Julian blinks up at me, breath snagging in his chest. “Leonardo’s?”
I shake my head once. “Yours.”
The smirk dies. His mouth parts—just a fraction, just enough to reveal that behind the glitter and gore, behind the cocky swagger and the broken-toothed grin—Julian Reaver wasn’t ready for that.
Not really. He gapes, staring at me like I just pressed the matchbook to the world into his palm, struck the match myself, and dared him to burn it all down. And he will. He fucking will.
Because tonight he didn’t just win the game. He took it. And now he owns the goddamn rink.