Chapter 37 – The Bullfight or Girls Fight

Chapter 37 – The Bullfight or Girls Fight

Zorak POV
“Keep your head high,” I growled against her ear, my hand gripping her waist hard enough to bruise. My thumb brushed the curve of her hip through the silk. “Every man in this room’s about to choke on envy knowing you’re spread only for me.”
Nolie stiffened, cheeks flushing, but I felt her lean closer, the faintest tremor in her body betraying that little shiver she couldn’t hide from me. Good.
The double doors opened ahead. Noise spilled out—voices, laughter, glasses clinking, the thick stink of cigars. Every family was already seated at their tables, power lined up like a damn firing squad.
And I walked her straight in.
Heads turned. I didn’t give a fuck. My grip never left her waist, and I made sure my fingers slid lower as we passed each table, daring them all to watch.
Lucifer Padrelli’s chair—my father’s throne—sat at the head. Empty. Waiting.
I smirked and pulled Nolie tighter as I led her straight to it.
 Every mafia family had their place, their banners, their chosen bulls waiting to be loosed into the ring.
But the seat that mattered most sat at the center. The throne-like chair reserved for the head of the Padrelli family. For Lucifer. My father. And it was empty
I had made sure of it. I’d sent my men out earlier, stirred a problem big enough to chain him down. He was probably knee-deep in blood by now, too busy cleaning up a mess I created. Let him rage later. For now, the seat was mine.
I walked straight toward it, head high, each step deliberate. Verlin flanked my side, his mouth tight, eyes darting around.
“Zorak,” he muttered low, “you’re really doing this?”
“Sit down, brother,” I told him. “Watch me.”
I reached the throne and sat. The leather groaned under my weight. A ripple of whispers spread through the crowd like wildfire. Some smirked. Some frowned. Some bowed their heads.
Across the ring sat the Aversos. Their people shifted, uneasy, and beside her father sat Arjona. All sharp cheekbones and poison lips. She tilted her head at me, a smirk curling slow, like she already saw ten steps ahead.
And then Mr. Averso himself rose. The old man carried himself with that dangerous kind of calm. The kind that belonged to men who’d buried too many bodies to count. His hair was white, but his eyes? Still sharp enough to cut steel.
He walked toward me. Each step deliberate, heavy steady, as if to test how far I’d go.
“A son,” he said when he reached me, voice carrying across the platform. “Sitting in his father’s chair.”
I leaned back, spreading my arms over the rests like a king. “Someone had to keep it warm.”
Laughter rippled through the families, but Averso didn’t laugh.
He studied me, face carved hard, then gave a small nod. “You remind me of Cristian. Sharp. Reckless. Deadly.”
My jaw tightened. Cristian. Always Cristian. My brother’s ghost never left.
“Cristian knew how to command,” Averso went on. “Not like a boy pretending to be a man.”
I leaned forward, voice low, but sharp enough to sting. “Old men talk too much about the past. Maybe it’s because their own time is running out.”
The murmur that followed wasn’t laughter. It was shock. Averso’s eyes darkened.
“What of your father?” he asked, chin lifting. “He tells me Cristian is in America. That he will return. Perhaps to take this seat from you.”
I smiled without warmth. “My father tells old stories to old men. He should think about retirement too. His time has passed.”
That one landed. Even Verlin shifted beside me, uneasy.
I straightened, my eyes sliding toward Arjona, then back to him. “Say hi to your daughter for me. That witch is starting a war she can’t finish.”
Finally, a crack in his calm. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Careful, boy. We are still the most powerful family. We hold the Red Ledger. Do not forget.”
I leaned close, my smile cold. “Do you? Because I heard Sylvesso hid it from you all. And maybe his widow has it now. My new wife.”
For the first time, I saw him falter. Just a flicker, a shadow in his eyes.
He leaned in, voice sharp as a blade. “Let’s hope she lives long enough to bring it out.”
His lips tightened. He gave the faintest nod, then turned, stalking back to his seat.
The whispering roared louder.
Beside me, Nolie shifted. I didn’t look at her, but I felt her tension. Her calculating silence. She was already plotting something—I could see it in her hands folded too tightly in her lap.
The announcer’s voice cut through the crowd, booming. “The bulls are ready. Place your bets!”
The arena erupted. Flags rose. Horns blared.
Verlin leaned over, grinning like a devil. “Yellow. Always yellow. That bull’s a monster.”
I smirked. “Blue. I’ve never trusted anything but blue.”
He laughed, clapping my shoulder. “You’ll lose.”
The first bull charged into the sand, horns painted red. The crowd roared, bets shouted back and forth.
And then I felt Arjona’s eyes on me. Across the ring, she sat straight-backed, lips curled into a slow smirk. She whispered something to her father. He didn’t smile. She did.
Heat rolled through me. She was plotting. Always plotting.
I reached over, grabbed Nolie by the waist, and lifted her onto my lap. She stiffened, whispering urgently. “Zorak—don’t. Not here.”
I didn’t give her a choice. My arm hooked around her waist, and I hauled her right off her chair. The gasp that left her mouth was sweet—sharp enough to snap heads our way. Good. Let them look.
Noise thundered across the arena—bets, shouts, the growl of the crowd—but I felt every eye cut this way when I dropped back into my seat and dragged Nolie onto my lap like she was mine to display. Because she was.
“Zorak—” she hissed, pushing at my chest like she thought she could move me.
“Shut up and sit.” My voice was low, meant only for her. My hand spread wide across her thigh, dragging her dress higher. Silk slid up, exposing skin I wanted every bastard here to see and know they’d never touch. My palm pressed against the heat of her, right where she was softest. Mine.
Her breath hitched. “They’re watching—”
“Good,” I growled, letting my lips brush her ear. My fingers flexed, squeezing her thigh like I was staking claim. “Let them watch while I remind you who you belong to.”
Across the hall, I saw Arjona’s mouth curve into a glass-sharp smirk. I caught Verlin stiffen in my periphery, Vanya’s eyes widen, Dua’s grin twist. Perfect. Let them all see. Let them all know.
I bent closer, mouth almost against Nolie’s skin. My voice was meant to gut her, meant to brand her.
“Sit still, Juneberry, or I’ll make you cum on my lap while my enemies toast their wine. And when you moan, they’ll know I own every sound that leaves your pretty mouth.”
Her thighs tried to press together—instinct—but I forced them apart with one hand, steady and sure. She trembled, and I felt it all. Heat. Need. Fear tangled with want.
She whispered my name, broken. “Zorak.”
I grinned against her ear, teeth grazing her skin. “Smile for them. Make them think this is nothing. Meanwhile, I’ll have you leaking through this little dress before the bull’s horns even touch blood.”
Her face flamed red. She squirmed. “Zorak, let me sit—”
“Stay,” I ordered, my lips brushing her ear. “Or I’ll get you a collar. An expensive one. And they’ll all know you belong to me.”
Her breath hitched. She hissed under her breath. “You wouldn’t dare.”
I grinned. “Watch me.”
Her cheeks flamed. Verlin choked back a laugh. Vanya covered her mouth. Even Dua arched a brow from two rows back, a cigarette dangling from her lips.
She wanted to shove me off. She wanted to fight. But all eyes were on us. And she knew it.
The first bull stormed the ring, horns painted bright red. The crowd screamed. Bets were raised, and  Bloodlust filled the air.
The bulls hadn’t even hit the sand yet when I caught her.
Nolie’s foot stretched out, delicate, almost playful. But I knew her by now—nothing about her was careless.
The little boy carrying the wine tray didn’t stand a chance. Twelve, maybe thirteen, skin sunburnt from the ranch, sleeves rolled to elbows. Too eager, too fast. He stumbled right over her shoe, the tray tipping like a guillotine.
Red wine rained down—dark, thick, splattering across her bright dress like blood.
Nolie shot up from my lap with a scream. “Fuck!”
The whole section turned. Heads craned, whispers cracked like whips through the rows. The boy froze, wide-eyed, trembling, the tray clattering to the floor.
She clutched at the stain, panic written all over her face. “I have to—I have to clean this.”
Vanya leaned in, already rising. “I’ll come with you—”
“No.” Nolie’s voice cut sharp. She pasted on a trembling little smile, shaking her head fast. “Honey, I’m fine. Really. Just—ugh—this dress, I need to get rid of it.”
I narrowed my eyes. The way she moved was too quick, too precise. Not shame. Not embarrassment. Strategy.
She slipped through the aisle before anyone else could answer, the crowd parting for her like she was royalty covered in wine.
Across the arena, I caught movement.
Arjona.
The witch stood at the exact same time, her smirk ghosting across her lips as she glided toward the side exit. Perfect timing. Too perfect.
My hand tightened around the armrest. The crowd roared as the first bull was released, but my focus wasn’t on the sand—it was on those two women walking out of sight like they’d rehearsed it.
Something was about to break. I could feel it in my bones.
Verlin leaned toward me, muttering over the cheers. “Yellow bull’s gonna take it. I’m betting everything.”
I didn’t even look at him. My eyes stayed locked on the shadowed exit where Nolie had disappeared.
“You bet wrong,” I said flatly. “The blue one never loses.”
He laughed, clueless. “You and your damn blue bull.”
I didn’t laugh. My jaw was tight. My Juneberry was plotting, and Arjona was circling like a snake.
The arena roared louder. Dust kicked up as horns clashed. Blood sport, distraction. But my war wasn’t in the sand.
It had just walked out the door.