Page 146 of Vicious Kingdom

Mladenov circled his prey, blood dripping from his blade onto the stained floor.

“Come, come,” he cooed. “Show our guests what you can do.”

The champion bellowed and charged, abandoning technique for brute force. It was a mistake. Mladenov sidestepped, slicing the man’s shoulder as he passed. But the champion had anticipated this, pivoting so it was the barest of knicks.

“Impressive!” the Bulgarian scoffed.

For a moment, it seemed the champion might actually have a chance. That flicker of hope died the instant Mladenov’s expression hardened, his eyes going flat and cold.

The Bulgarian moved like liquid shadow. The first thrust went under the champion’s guard, the blade sinking deep between his ribs. Before the man could even register the pain, Mladenov withdrew and struck again, this time finding the soft hollow beneath the sternum, angling upward toward the heart. Blood bubbled from the champion’s lips as Mladenov twisted the knife before extracting it with surgical precision.

The champion dropped to his knees, hands clawing uselessly at his leaking torso. With a vicious surge, Mladenov delivered the final blow—this time piercing directly through the man’s throat. Blood sprayed in an arc that caught the light like rubies, spattering across the front row. I felt the warm wetness hit my cheek, right under the mask, but I didn’t flinch.

To me, it seemed a waste. If this fighter was worth his salt, why kill him? Mladenov wasn’t known to be merciful, although he didn’t kill all his opponents, as Dante was testimony of.

I rose with the crowd, but my lips were silent, forming no cheer or shout of victory at seeing the leader smite down one of their own. If it had been an enemy, that might have been worth celebrating. But these mobsters were more akin to wild folk than civilized businessmen.

Mladenov wiped his blade on his sleeve as he walked over to us. “Did you enjoy the show?”

I pressed my lips tight and let Alessandro answer.

“Effective and brutal—two qualities we’re looking for,” he said smoothly.

The Bulgarian’s brow flickered. “We need privacy to discuss,” Mladenov said, blood still dripping from his hands. “Follow me.”

He led the way to an unmarked door in the back of the arena. The crowd parted for him, eyes alive with the display of violence their leader provided. They adored him, depraved as this display was. The blood on his chest had begun to dry, flaking off in rusty patches against his olive skin.

The door opened to reveal a tight corridor that plunged into the dark. The temperature dropped immediately, and the stench hit me like a physical blow—rot and mildew mingled with something more sinister. Alessandro’s face remained impassive beside me, but I noticed how he breathed through his mouth.

“Watch your step,” Mladenov called over his shoulder, seemingly unaffected by the putrid air. “The stones get slippery.”

He took a flashlight from the wall and pointed it up like a beacon against the dark. The mask did nothing to help my field of vision. Ten yards into the tunnel, something rumbled above.

We were under the road.

My shoes squelched against something I preferred not to identify as we traveled beneath the city. And then, suddenly, stairs appeared to the right. Our host guided us up, and we emerged into a sprawling, pristine office. It was at complete odds with the gaudy opulence of his gambling hall and the primitive fighting arena that I had to blink twice to really convince myself we were here.

“Take a seat, gentlemen,” he urged, going into a side room. The sound of running water filled the space. “I must ask, why the mask on your man?”

“Politics,” Sandro clipped out. “Which is exactly what brings us here tonight.”

Mladenov let out a dramatic sigh. “Always business. Come, comrade, can’t we sit back, enjoy a beer or two, and get to know one another?”

“I’m afraid bonding will have to wait for another time. There’s a pest at our door, and he’s coming for more of us.” Sandro’s words caught the king’s attention. “He wants to ‘clean up’ the city, which, as you know, is bad for business.”

He came out, patting his chest with a towel. His eyes glowed, reptilian and feral. “Who do I have to kill?”

The don’s lips tipped in a lupine smile. “I thought you would never ask.”

Chapter 52 – Annaliese

The Percolator wasn’t exactly glamorous, but it knew its place: a battered brick outpost straddling the no man’s land between law offices, yoga studios, and the canal with its brown scum of July thunderstorm runoff. Even from my corner table—prime real estate, marked by generations of pen-etched doodles and a memorial ring of ancient coffee—I could see the Monday regulars trickling in and forming their silent alliances: laptop tribes, newspaper hermits, preemptive lunchers with their BLT wrappers already peeled halfway.

I lived for these writing sessions. This was when the world and I agreed to ignore each other. The Percolator’s WiFi was slower than death, and its music—today, low brass and the kind of piano that sounded like someone was missing every fourth note—stayed on the right side of ignorable. The air was a comfort food of its own: the astringent perfume of espresso, yes, but also that damp, mineral scent you only get in cities where rain hangs around until the asphalt can’t absorb any more and gives up. They’d left the door open to catch the breeze, or maybe justbecause the barista was showing off her new ink to the delivery guy; either way, the place felt more alive for it.

I set my mug down—chai for the occasion, teeth-coating and sweet enough to remind me I was supposed to be celebrating something—and squared my focus on the laptop. Final chapter. The words glared up from the screen with the smugness of the nearly complete:

She took the key in her ruined hand, and for the first time in three lifetimes, she felt nothing but hope.