Page 57 of Vicious Kingdom (Dynasty of Queens #3)

I stood 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 men in 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 formed concentric 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, sparks flying 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.

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.”