Page 145 of Vicious Kingdom

Chapter 51 – Leonardo

Istood before the unmarked door, ready to enter, but the bouncer accompanying me held me back. After decades, I finally had a consistent spot beside my brother. Although the mask pressed tightly against my face, it was a small price to pay.

“Mladenov requires your weapon, sir.” His accent was thick, the way his tongue curled over the words was low and menacing.

“Just do it,” Alessandro snapped. “We’re under the crown’s protection tonight.”

“You are,” the bouncer assured us.

Reluctantly, I gave over my piece. The bouncer let us in. Immediately, we were hit with a melting pot of scents. The air reeked of smoke, sweat, and desperation, with a strong tinge of something more powerful. Music throbbed faintly beneath the din of voices. The walls dripped with gold and grime in equal measure. Velvet curtains, cheap champagne, and the scent of money being lit on fire filled the underground club like incense in a cathedral of vice.

I moved through the crowd with practiced ease, my eyes scanning the room. The roulette tables were surrounded by menin silk shirts with nervous hands, women in glittering dresses draped over their arms like expensive accessories. Every corner shimmered with excess. The air was heavy with want—want of luck, of escape, of warm bodies and the promise of pleasure. They all came here to find something.

On his throne—a fucking sculpted seat made of black marble and hammered gold—sat the Bulgarian. Mladenov was the ruler of this part of the city, bloodthirsty and cunning.

He’d already spotted us. Nothing went on in his kingdom that he didn’t know about.

We approached, me standing at a respectful distance behind my brother, taking the place of his escort. Neither of us bowed. Our roots were in Rome; Caesar’s blood ran through our veins, and we bowed to no barbarian.

“Don.” He purred over my brother’s name. “Coming to my territory at long last. What a momentous occasion. I do hope you enjoy the show.”

His hair was slicked back, falling in waves to his shoulders. Thick rings graced his fingers. He looked rich, yet filthy at the same time. This was a proper criminal. The black sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, showing cuts on his arms from his favorite pastime.

Dante had been in a knife fight with him. Once. It only took one time for our enforcer to swear never to repeat the experience.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” my brother said with a small head bob.

“My pleasure. Now, follow me.” Mladenov rose from his gaudy throne, his movements fluid despite his imposing frame. “Tonight’s entertainment is about to begin.”

He led us through a parting sea of bodies, each person shrinking back as he passed. We descended a short flight of stairs into a lower chamber where wooden benches formedconcentric circles around a crude arena. The floor was stained dark with what could only be years of spilled blood.

Alessandro and I took our seats in what was clearly a privileged position—front row, where we’d miss none of the brutality. The crowd around us hummed with anticipation, money changing hands as bets were placed.

“Who’s the poor bastard tonight?” I asked, accepting a glass of amber liquid from a server who materialized beside me.

“My champion has been undefeated for three months,” Mladenov announced, shrugging off his silk shirt to reveal a torso mapped with scars. “But I like to keep my skills sharp.”

The crowd erupted into frenzied cheers as Mladenov stepped into the ring, his bare chest gleaming under the harsh lights. A man emerged from the shadows opposite him—tall, with shoulders like a bull and eyes dead as winter. The champion. His face bore the marks of countless battles, a roadmap of violence etched into flesh.

“Gentlemen,” a voice announced over the speakers, “tonight, the king tests his crown.”

Mladenov rolled his neck, muscles rippling beneath tattooed skin. An attendant approached, presenting a velvet-lined case containing twin blades—identical, wicked things with curved edges that caught the light like liquid silver.

“Choose,” Mladenov offered his champion with mock courtesy.

The champion selected without hesitation, testing the weight with practiced precision. Mladenov took the remaining knife, twirling it between his fingers with casual expertise that made it clear what the outcome of this fight would be before it began.

The first strike came without warning. Mladenov lunged forward, blade slashing through the air with deadly accuracy. The champion parried, metal screeching against metal, sparksflying between them like angry fireflies. Their bodies circled each other, a primal dance of death.

Blood appeared first on the champion's forearm—a thin red line that beaded and then flowed. The crowd roared its approval, the sound animalistic and hungry.

“Too slow,” Mladenov taunted, his accent thicker now, more feral.

The champion responded with a flurry of strikes, each one powerful enough to sever an artery if it connected. Mladenov wove between them, his movements almost balletic in their fluidity. He was playing with his opponent, drawing out the spectacle.

Then came the first real wound. Mladenov feinted left, then dropped to one knee as the champion’s blade whistled over his head. In the same motion, Mladenov slashed upward, opening a gash across his opponent's ribs that immediately painted his torso crimson.

The champion staggered back, his face contorting with pain and rage. The crowd’s roar intensified, the scent of blood heightening their frenzy. I felt Alessandro tense beside me, but neither of us showed a reaction. We’d seen worse. We’d done worse.