2
Alessio: Present Day
I pull up to Satana’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’s was my first casino, the one my old man passed down to me, and my go-to for this.
But Demoni’s needs to stay clean, at least on the surface.
Satana’s is 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 are scratched 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 .
The ones who don’t know me, mostly new blood, think I’m just another asshole trying to act tough.
They run their mouths, calling me a pretty boy because of my sandy brown hair and blue eyes, saying I’m too clean-cut to fight.
They don’t see the blood I’ve spilled, the bruises I’ve worn, or the scars carved into me.
They don’t know I was taught to throw a punch before I could even spell my name.
Meanwhile, the ones who know me hang back, smirking, staying quiet, placing their bets.
They already know how this ends.
Respect is silent.
Fear is loud.
I spot Kota near the cage.
He’s easy to find, being 6’1” and towering over most of the crowd, just an inch shorter than me.
His jet-black man-bun adds a little height, but the scruffy beard gives him that rugged lumberjack look.
If lumberjacks wore custom suits and carried Glocks instead of axes.
The guy looks like he belongs chopping wood, not working as my second-in-command for La Cosa Nostra, but somehow, it works.
I need to get my head straight before I step into that cage.
Not because I’m worried about losing, I just won’t let some asshole land a cheap shot.
Instead of using the locker room with the other fighters waiting their turn in the cage, I have my own private space.
It’s an old office that I turned into my security hub.
The door sticks before it creaks as I push it open, and I’m hit with the scent of stale leather and faint sweat.
A single oak desk sits against the wall, the security monitors flicker with grainy footage of the mayhem outside.
In the corner, a beat-up chocolate brown suede couch slouches under the weight of time, an old chair abandoned next to it.
I should’ve replaced them by now, but I don’t give a shit.
I sink into the couch, the cushions giving way slightly under my weight.
I lean back and stare at the ceiling, trying to push out the noise and rage boiling in my veins.
My fingers rake through my hair, but the tension in my shoulders doesn’t ease up.
I exhale slowly, but it doesn’t take the edge off.
The fight’s already in me.
I can already taste the adrenaline.
The door swings open, and Kota strolls in, grinning like he knows something I don’t.
“Took you long enough,” I mutter, lifting a brow.
“What, were you counting the fucking stars?”
“Sorry, Boss,” he says, plopping down in the chair across from me.
“Had to handle something. And I was making sure the bets were rolling in. You know how it is.” He taps his fingers against his knee, barely containing his amusement.
“Up to $1.5 million on you to win. ”
I don’t fight for the money, but I can’t help the evil grin that tugs at the corner of my mouth.
“Good. I like it when they bet on a sure thing.”
Kota leans in, eyes full of mischief.
Money makes him giddy like a kid on Christmas Day.
“So, what’s the game plan? You gonna toy with him a bit, or just go straight for the kill?”
I crack my knuckles.
“Depends on how stupid he is.”
Kota chuckles, shaking his head.
“I mean, who doesn’t love watching you break a few bones?”
The crowd outside gets louder, telling me the current fight is over and it’s time.
I rise from the couch, rolling my shoulders.
I move through the door, with Kota right behind me.
We move past the eager spectators, their shouts ring out around me, eyes glued to my every step, but I keep my focus locked on the cage.
I pull off my rash guard right before I step into the cage.
This isn’t just a fight.
It’s a fucking execution.
My opponent stands on the other side with a cocky grin plastered on his face.
This stronzo thinks he’s already won.
The light reflects off his bald head, and his brown, unblinking eyes zero in on mine.
He’s trying to psych me out, but I’m not phased.
He’s fit, I’ll give him that, but those muscles?
Probably juiced up to his eyeballs on steroids.
I can spot the signs—his arms look bloated, his C-cup pecs that shouldn’t even be there, and the stiff way he holds himself.
I’ve seen guys like him break down when the real fight begins.
He thinks his bulk makes him strong and dangerous.
It makes him slow.
“Ready to get your ass handed to you?” I taunt, my smirk widening.
He’s nothing special.
Just another overconfident idiot who’s about to be smacked around like my little bitch.
“Bring it on, pretty boy,” he sneers.
But there’s doubt in his eyes.
I can smell it—fear, hidden beneath his fake bravado.
Fucking pussy.
We slap hands and square up.
The bell rings, and he lunges at me.
But he’s too fucking slow.
I sidestep, letting his punch sail right past me.
Useless.
“That it?” I quip, tilting my head.
His jaw tightens, and his face twists with irritation.
Making him hesitate for just a second .
I drive my fist into his jaw.
A sickening crack follows.
Blood splatters from his nose, down his chin.
He stumbles back, blinking through the shock.
He wasn’t ready for that, and I don’t let him recover.
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 to Demoni’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.