I needed a strategy.
I’d pick off Costa’s men one by one, then go for Costa.
I yanked a small pocketknife from my belt, dual-wielding it with my dagger, and squared off against a towering brute—one of Costa’s biggest goons—a swarthy, thick-shouldered hulk of a man who cracked his knuckles in anticipation.
Costa smirked, arms folded, as he stepped back.
“You’re a fool, Alexander,” he mused. “This will be fun to watch.”
The goon bared his teeth.
A bolt of fear coursed through my bloodstream, my muscles locking for half a second. Costa was right. I was insane to think I had a chance here.
But then?—
Olivia’s face drifted into my mind.
She carried our child.
I could not let her down.
I’d faced too many men who had claimed victory before the fight had even begun—arrogant bastards who thought the coliseum belonged to them.
Where were they now?
Dead. Bones picked clean beneath the earth.
All it took was one mistake—one distraction, one cough, one misstep.
I summoned every ounce of gladiator instinct within me.
None of these men had faced what I had in the arena.
The goon charged.
I sidestepped, pivoting to the right, my footwork precise.
He growled, stumbling to regain balance. Sloppy. Slow.
This one would be easy.
We circled each other like wolves. I let my gaze flicker to the side, just for a second.
Instinct took over.
The goon’s eyes followed mine, idiot.
I lunged, slamming my dagger hard into his chest.
The satisfying crunch of bone and flesh echoed as the blade sank deep.
The goon staggered, a stunned wheeze escaping his lips as his hands clutched his ribcage. Then, with a strangled gurgle, he toppled to the ground.
Around me, the sounds of battle raged.
Grunts. Groans. The wet thud of bodies hitting the floor.
Costa hadn’t been exaggerating when he called Marcellious a savage.
