The mountain grunts and swings backhanded, trying to catch Vincenzo with sheer reach. Vincenzo ducks under it andhammers another combination into the man’s ribs. I can hear bones crack from here.
“He’s faster,” someone near me mutters. “Look at him fucking move.”
Vincenzo is everywhere the mountain isn’t. Slipping punches, countering with precision strikes that target weak points. He’s not trying to overpower his opponent. He’s dismantling him piece by piece.
The mountain is bleeding now, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He’s slowing down, announcing his punches. Vincenzo reads him like a book.
A jab splits open the mountain’s eyebrow. A hook to the stomach doubles him over. And then—
Vincenzo steps in close, plants his feet, and drives an uppercut into the mountain’s chin with everything he has.
The sound is like a gunshot.
The mountain’s eyes roll back. He sways for a moment, already unconscious on his feet, then crashes to the concrete like a felled tree.
The warehouse erupts, hounds baying at him.
I’m screaming. I don’t remember starting, but my hands are in the air, screaming for Vincenzo along with the rest of the crowd. My throat is raw. My hands are shaking. He did it. He fucking did it.
The referee raises Vincenzo’s arm, and the crowd loses its mind. Bodies surge toward the ring, climbing over the ropes, surrounding Vincenzo in a crush of celebrating people. They’re chanting, shoving, grabbing at him.
Suddenly his shirt is torn off.
It rips away in two pieces, pulled from his body by a dozen grasping hands, baring his chest.
I realize with horror why he didn’t want to take his T-shirt off. The raven tattoo inked across his chest. The massive blackbird spreads its wings across his sternum, talons extended, beak open in a silent scream.
The Vici family crest.
The people closest to Vincenzo step back and fall silent. Confusion turns to recognition, which turns to fury. It spreads outward like a ripple, the jubilant atmosphere being replaced by something darker. Men in the VIP section shoot to their feet.
A Dervishi soldier steps forward. Then another. A dozen more.
Vincenzo stands in the center of the ring, shirtless and bleeding, surrounded by Dervishis with murder in their eyes.
Panic crawls into my throat.
He’s about to be beaten to death before my eyes.
10
Vincenzo
The silence is deafening.
I stand in the center of the ring, shirtless and bleeding, tasting copper. My ribs scream where the mountain landed his hits. Sweat stings the cuts on my face. The raven tattoo sprawls across my chest, black wings stark against blood-smeared skin.
Around me, a circle of Dervishi soldiers stare at me with murder in their eyes. Guns glint under the harsh lights. Thirty, maybe forty weapons are trained on me from every angle.
There’s no way out. I’m fucked, and so is Adora if she isn’t dashing out the nearest door right this moment.
I scan the crowd anyway, looking for an exit. The warehouse doors are too far, and there are too many bodies between me and freedom. Even if I could fight my way to Adora—and I can’t, not against this many armed men—I’d be dead before I made it three steps.
At least it’ll be quick.
At least I’ll see them again soon.
Mom. Dad. Valentina. Marco. Dante. I wanted to kill Agnello first, and avenge you all before I left this earth.
