Page 61 of Luca

“Behave. We have somewhere to be,” I murmured against her ear before reluctantly pulling away and offering my arm.

“May I escort you to your carriage, my lady?” I teased, putting on a posh English accent.

Claire laughed, her joy infectious. “Yes, sir,” she replied, and I groaned as my cock jerked at the sound. Tonight was going to be filled with torturous fun and games.

The night thrummed with anticipation as we pulled up to Glitz. The neon lights glowed against the dark sky, casting the club in an almost surreal, electric haze. This wasn’t just any night; it was a private event designed to solidify the new alliance between the Bratva and the Irish Mafia—a gathering marked by power and skill. The evening promised something more than mere entertainment: a bare-knuckle fight between two fierce contenders—Vlad and Sean O’Brien—where pride and reputation were on the line, far exceeding any cash bet.

Claire slipped out of the car, her heels clicking against the pavement as she adjusted her slinky, dark green dress that hugged her curves and turned heads. The colour was a cheeky nod to the Irish, a playful dig at our rivals, and only Claire could pull it off with such understated audacity. I walked beside her, my hand resting possessively on her lower back, guiding her through the thrumming crowd.

Inside, the atmosphere was electric, buzzing with the tension of what was about to unfold. Smoke curled lazily towards the ceiling, intertwining with flashing lights and pulsing bass that reverberated through the walls. The room was packed—suits and designer dresses, high rollers and heavy hitters, all here to witness the kind of fight you couldn’t get on pay-per-view.Bets were already being placed, whispers of odds and payouts floating between clenched jaws and eager eyes.

“Luca,” Miki greeted me with a nod as we reached the VIP section. He lounged back in his chair, looking every bit the king surveying his court, a cigar in hand and a glass of whiskey resting on the table in front of him. The usual entourage flanked him—trusted men, lieutenants, and enforcers, each with a sharp eye on the proceedings.

I returned the nod, glancing at the crowd. “Good turnout.”

“It’ll be worth it,” Miki replied, his voice low and casual. But there was an edge to it, a hint of something darker beneath his calm exterior. “Vlad’s ready?”

I looked towards the corner where Vlad was warming up, fists clenched, muscles taut and gleaming under the overhead lights. His eyes were focused, every movement deliberate as he threw quick jabs into the air, loosening up, getting into the zone. I knew that look. Vlad was a wild bear, caged and waiting to be let loose. “He’s got this,” I said, confidence surging through me. “I thought Finn was going to be Vlad’s opponent?”

“Sean apparently wanted to see if he could take him instead,” Miki smirked.

As he spoke, Sean O’Brien’s laugh cut through the crowd, a sharp bark of amusement that drew eyes and turned heads. He swaggered over, bare-chested, muscles rippling as he shrugged off a leather jacket. His cocky grin was all bravado, but it hid the intensity that fuelled him. “Hope your boy’s ready, Luca,” he said, eyeing Vlad with a mix of respect and derision. “I’m in the mood to break something tonight.”

I met his gaze evenly, unruffled. “Better men have tried.”

Around us, the crowd swelled, pressing closer to the roped-off ring at the centre of the club. The noise was a low hum of anticipation, punctuated by the clink of glasses and the shuffle of feet as bets were exchanged. High stakes, high tension. This wasmore than just a fight; it was a display of dominance, a battle for respect that transcended the punches thrown.

The fighters stepped into the ring, and the room exploded in cheers and jeers. Sean bounced on his toes, his eyes locked on Vlad, sizing him up, looking for any hint of weakness. But Vlad was stone-faced, all business. He raised his fists, and the crowd went wild, a roar that shook the walls.

“Ten grand on Vlad,” Miki said to one of his men, tossing a thick roll of cash. I watched as the money changed hands, everyone around us getting in on the action. The energy was infectious, a heady mix of booze, bravado, and the promise of violence. I felt Claire’s hand brush mine, a silent connection amid the chaos, and I squeezed back, knowing she was watching, feeling every beat of the night.

The referee—a burly bloke with a no-nonsense look—gave the signal, and the fight was on.

Sean was quick, coming out swinging with a flurry of punches that forced Vlad to backpedal, but he blocked each strike with calm, calculated precision. Vlad’s style was measured, almost methodical, like a chess player setting up his pieces. He ducked under Sean’s right hook, coming up with a jab that connected hard, sending a ripple of impact that you could almost feel in your bones. The crowd erupted, the noise deafening as they reacted to each blow with shouts and groans.

“Come on, Vlad!” Trigger yelled, and I saw a few Bratva men on their feet, fists clenched as they cheered him on.

Sean regrouped, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip, his expression shifting to something darker, more feral. He charged again, his punches faster, more aggressive, but Vlad absorbed the hits, his body moving like water, fluid and unyielding. He was in his element, reading Sean’s moves, waiting for the right moment.

Vlad landed a brutal uppercut that snapped Sean’s head back, and the crowd gasped, a collective intake of breath as Sean staggered, barely catching himself on the ropes. For a second, it looked like he might go down, but Sean was tougher than that. He shook it off, spitting blood onto the canvas, his eyes blazing with renewed determination.

Sean rallied better than I’d expected and lunged at Vlad once more on the offensive. His blows rained down, a few meeting their target, others being deflected. It was obvious he was tiring, but he didn’t let up.

“Christ, he’s relentless,” I muttered, feeling the tension coil in my gut. But I wasn’t worried. Vlad was playing the long game, wearing Sean down, deliberately letting him tire himself out. It was only a matter of time before the Irishman broke.

Beside me, Claire was on edge, her eyes glued to the ring. I could feel the energy radiating off her, a mix of nerves and something else—admiration, maybe. She was seeing a different side of this world, the raw, unfiltered violence that defined so much of what we did. And yet, she didn’t look away. If anything, she was captivated.

The fight dragged on, each man trading blows with a vicious intensity. The crowd swayed with every punch, caught up in the brutality of it, drinks sloshing and cheers ringing out. Miki was on his feet now, bellowing encouragement, while the O’Brien brothers watched with grim faces, their confidence slipping with every punch Vlad landed.

Sean swung wildly, missing by a mile, and Vlad capitalised, slamming a hook into his ribs that made Sean double over, gasping for breath. The impact echoed through the room, and Sean dropped to one knee, his face contorted in pain. The referee moved in, starting the count, but Sean pushed himself up before it reached five, refusing to stay down.

Vlad’s eyes narrowed, and he went in for the kill, feinting left before delivering a right cross that hit with a sickening thud. Sean crumpled, hitting the canvas hard, and this time, he didn’t get up. The referee’s count felt like an eternity, each number dragging out the inevitable, and when he hit ten, the room erupted in a deafening roar of victory.

The Bratva erupted, men jumping to their feet, fists in the air, shouting Vlad’s name as if he were a conquering hero. Drinks were spilled, money exchanged hands, and the tension that had gripped the room all night finally released in a wave of triumphant chaos. Vlad raised his arms, bloodied but victorious, a grin splitting his face as he soaked in the adulation.

“Fucking brilliant,” Miki laughed, clapping me on the shoulder. “I knew he’d do it.”

I grinned back, adrenaline still pumping. “Never doubted him.”