Chapter 5 Vincenzo
Vincenzo
The first day always starts in blood. Not spilled yet, or staining the floors in an obvious way. But the kind that is ripe with expectation and violence; the kind that starts wars with a glance.
Here, the first day is both a warning and a promise. It’s a dagger pressed against everyone’s throat with one question in mind: how far are you willing to go for your name?
The corridor outside Kassov’s classroom feels colder than it did when I walked in. The walls are carved from black stone flecked with gold, polished clean from decades of blood and legacy brushing past it. Every step I take echoes, but the sound in my ears isn’t my footsteps. It’s his voice.
You twitched, Vincenzo.
I don’t twitch. I don’t break. I don’t fucking flinch. And I sure as hell don’t let a feral Bratva stray with a pocketknife and a god complex pry under my skin before lunch like he was born to unravel me.
But he did, and it wasn’t even because of what he said; I’ve had worse thrown at me in boardrooms and at funerals. Not even the way he said it, either—cocky and casual.
No, he got under my skin because he looked at me like he knew something I didn’t.
As if he’d already seen what was behind the curtain and decided I wasn’t as untouchable as I thought I was.
Like he’d measured the distance between my crown and my throat and decided it wasn’t as far as I wanted it to be.
My boots echo against the stone steps as I walk into the lower training levels beneath the North Wing.
Everything smells faintly of oil and steel—here, violence is a scent you learn to breathe.
Nikolaj stands in the center of the sparring hall; his jacket is off, shirt untucked.
The white of his hair glows under the fluorescent lights, sweat curling it at the temples, his lips parted.
He doesn’t flinch when I enter; he doesn’t even blink. He just lifts his eyes and smiles.
I hate that motherfucking smile more than I’ve ever hated anything.
Today’s second lesson isn’t theory, it’s strategy. Tactics of elimination. A real-time combat simulation under the eye of three instructors and a dozen hidden cameras feeding straight to our families overseas.
Instructor Casella raises a hand, voice cold and clear as he begins the morning address.
“Today, you’ll demonstrate your approach to control-based confrontation.
You will be matched against a partner based on your known weaknesses and psychological oppositions.
You have until one combatant yields or one can no longer stand.
But as this is a sanctioned simulation, no weapons are allowed. ”
I don’t need to hear the rest, because I already know what’s coming next.
“Vieri. Dragovich.”
Silence follows.
And then, slowly, the smirk sharpens on his face. He tilts his head and rolls his shoulders back, muscles shifting beneath his black shirt.
“Well,” he drawls, stepping into the painted red ring without looking away from me. “Didn’t think they’d make it this easy.”
I strip off my jacket and toss it aside without a glance. My gloves stay on; smooth leather across knuckles meant for breaking bone. I don’t lose or bleed for anyone who hasn’t earned the right to touch me, and this alley dog hasn’t climbed high enough to lick at my boots.
“You talk too much,” I mutter as I enter the circle.
“And you scowl too much,” he fires back. “All that power and still no sense of humor. That must be exhausting.”
“Try me.”
“Oh, I intend to.”
Casella steps back. “Begin.”
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves while the air between us thickens, warping with heat and hate. His eyes search my face, and I hold my ground, body still but wound tight, breath shallow. Every inch of me is prepared because he doesn’t fight clean. He doesn’t fight with honor; he fights to win.
Then he moves fast.
His fist slices toward my jaw, and I duck, then pivot, bringing my elbow up to drive it into his ribs.
He twists, absorbing the blow with a grunt, then spins low to sweep my legs.
I jump back just in time, landing lightly, already reaching for the blade at my hip.
Not to use it—yet. Just to remind him that I can.
“You’re predictable,” he says, circling me. “Textbook form. Perfect posture. Do they teach you that in Sicily, or did you dig it out of your twin’s grave with the rest of your personality?”
The second the words leave his mouth, I lunge, and this time, I don’t miss. I slam him back into the wall with enough force to make the lights above rattle. My forearm crushes across his throat, my knee between his legs, pinning him in place.
“Say it again,” I tell him, voice low enough to cut. “Say it.”
He just grins through the pressure. “Did I touch a nerve, Prince?”
I step back with disgust curling in my stomach. Not at him, but at the heat rolling through my chest, the way I respond to him like I’m not fully in control of my own fucking blood anymore.
He recovers instantly, springing forward again, this time with a knife in his hand.
My blade’s out before I even think about it, steel flashing under the lights.
He slashes wide—I duck, then slam my shoulder into his gut, sending him staggering back.
We’re a blur now, strikes and feints and near-misses that draw cheers and gasps from the watching crowd.
I catch his wrist, twist it until his blade clatters to the floor, but he doesn’t pause—he headbutts me, and everything explodes in white heat.
I reel back, blood dripping from my nose, stars in my vision. He grins, eyes wild now. “You don’t get it, do you?” he growls. “This isn’t your kingdom anymore. You think your name still means something here?”
I spit blood onto the floor between us and slip my gloves off. “It means I get to bury you and still walk away praised.”
His nostrils flare. “Then do it, or shut the fuck up.”
We clash again, but this time it’s fists, raw and brutal, until my knuckles split and his mouth bleeds.
I don’t know how long it goes—minutes? Hours?
Time fractures around us, shattered by adrenaline and visceral fury.
Every move he makes is chaos; every counter I throw is precision. Fire and ice. Blood and strategy.
He lunges, and I take the throw wrong, back hitting the mats. He’s on my hips in a breath, weight pinning, heat across my chest. Another knife—where the fuck did that come from?—hovers a whisper from my throat. His breath skates across my mouth.
“You gonna yield, pretty Prince?” he pants.
“Not a fucking chance,” I rasp.
We stare at each other. Blood drips from his brow onto my collar. My fingers twitch, aching to grab him. To shove him off. To do something else entirely.
He leans in a fraction, just enough to whisper, “Then I guess I’ll have to make you.”
And that’s when the alarm goes off.
A sharp, grating sound that jolts through the room like a whip crack. Casella steps forward, his face stony.
“Enough,” he snaps, but neither of us moves. “Now.”
Dragovich slides off me slowly, the blade vanishing back into his sleeve. He doesn’t offer a hand, but I wouldn’t take it if he did. I rise on my own, wiping the blood from my chin, heart still hammering.
Casella’s gaze cuts between us. “Congratulations. You two just broke the no-blade policy on the first day. Again.”
Nikolaj grins, and I straighten my spine.
“Office,” Casella mutters.
We move in silence, side by side, not looking at each other. But I can feel everything; the heat radiating off him, the tension still thick between our bodies. We’re not done with each other… not even close.
Because this wasn’t just a fight, it was a promise.
And I intend to keep it.