Chapter 4: The Sanctioned Execution

Lukas’s POV

"Hold the blade steady, Lukas. If you nick the steel, I’m the one who loses an edge on the turn. Focus."

Jaxson’s voice was like sandpaper against my raw nerves. I didn't look up from the grinding wheel. The sparks flew in a chaotic spray, stinging my forearms, but I didn’t flinch. I couldn't afford to. I was standing in a cramped, humid equipment room at the arena, the smell of sweat, machine oil, and old leather clogging my throat.

"I'm doing it, aren't I?" I snapped back, my voice tight. "Maybe if you didn't hover like a vulture, I could actually breathe."

"I hover because you’re distracted," Jaxson shot back. He was standing so close I could feel the heat radiating off his thigh against my hip. He reached past me, his large, scarred hand covering mine on the skate holder. His touch was firm, grounding, and it made my heart do a traitorous little skip. "Your mind is back in that office, looking at those files. Stop. That’s how people get hurt."

"People are already getting hurt, Jaxson," I whispered, finally looking up. "You’re playing an exhibition game tonight. A meaningless game. With a spine that’s held together by luck and spite. Why?"

Jaxson pulled his hand away, his expression hardening into that impenetrable mask he wore for the world. "Because the world needs to see the Devil in his cage. And they need to see the Golden Boy holding the keys. Now, finish the skates. We’re on in ten."

Is Jaxon just being stubborn or just arrogantly stupid???

*****

The walk to the bench was a gauntlet of fire.

The arena wasn't even full, it was just an exhibition game but the people who were there made enough noise for a sell-out crowd. As I walked behind Jaxson, carrying a crate of backup sticks and water bottles, the jeers started.

"Hey, Moretti! How’s the laundry business?" "Traitor! Does Vane let you sleep on the floor or in a dog bed?" "Look at the Captain now! Taking out the trash!"

A half-eaten pretzel bounced off my shoulder. I kept my head down, my face burning. It was one thing to be hated for losing; it was another to be pitied for falling this far. I stood by the bench, a ghost in a Rangers tracksuit, feeling the eyes of my former peers on me.

"Lukas? Is that really you?"

I stiffened. I knew that voice. It was smooth, fatherly, and laced with a concern that used to make me feel safe. I turned to see Dominic, the League Commissioner, standing by the plexiglass. He looked regal in his three-piece suit.

"Uncle Dominic," I breathed, the old name slipping out before I could stop it.

"My boy," he said, reaching over to pat my arm. His eyes scanned my face, lingering on the dark circles under my eyes. "What has he done to you? Look at this. It’s a disgrace. A Moretti shouldn't be scrubbing floors."

"I'm fine, Dominic. I’m just... doing what I have to do."

"No, you’re not fine," Dominic hissed, his voice dropping into a whisper. "I’ve been looking into the Vane family. Jaxson isn't protecting you, Lukas. He’s holding you hostage to keep your father silent. He’s using you as a shield against the fraud investigation."

I looked over at Jaxson. He was on the ice, taking a practice shot, his movements stiff but powerful. "He told me... he told me he was paying the legal fees."

Dominic let out a short, cynical laugh. "With whose money, Lukas? He’s bleeding you dry. Listen, I have a way out. A plane waiting at Teterboro. We get you out tonight, and we bring the FBI in on Jaxson. You don't have to live like this."

"I... I don't know," I stuttered, my brain spinning. Jaxson’s kiss from the night before still felt like a brand on my lips. Was it all a lie?

"Just think about it," Dominic said, squeezing my hand. "The game is starting. Stay close to the tunnel.  I wills ee you after the match.

*****

The game was a mess. It was supposed to be a friendly exhibition, but the Rangers’ opponents were playing like it was Game 7. Specifically, a fourth-line goon named Miller—a guy with no talent but a reputation for ending careers—was shadowing Jaxson.

Every time Jaxson moved, Miller was there, throwing elbows, late hits, and "accidental" trips.

"Jaxson, watch your six!" I yelled from the bench, but my voice was swallowed by the crowd.

Midway through the second period, the play shifted toward our bench. The puck was pinned against the boards right in front of me. Jaxson was there, fighting for it, his face twisted in agony. He was vulnerable.

"Vane! Look out!"

I didn't think. I leaned over the railing, my hand reaching out as if I could pull him back.

But Miller wasn't aiming for Jaxson.

At the last possible second, Miller pivoted. He didn't go for the player on the ice. He launched himself, shoulder-first, at the gap in the bench where I was standing. It was a well planned move. The world went into slow motion. I saw Jaxson’s eyes widen in horror. I saw Dominic in the stands, his face a mask of cold indifference.

And then, the world broke.

The impact was catastrophic. Miller’s shoulder caught me square in the chest, pinning me against the steel frame of the bench. I heard my ribs snap—a wet, sickening sound that echoed in my ears. My head whipped back, slamming into the concrete wall behind the bench.

Pain wasn't the right word. It was an erasure. The lights of the arena spiraled into a single, blinding white dot. I felt myself falling, slipping off the bench and onto the cold, hard floor.

The last thing I heard was Jaxson’s shouts and the frantic scraping of skates as he jumped the boards.

******

The smell of bleach and the steady beep... beep... beep of a heart monitor brought me back.

My chest felt like it had been crushed under a hydraulic press. Every breath was a jagged shard of glass cutting through my lungs. I tried to open my eyes, but the light was too bright.

"Easy, Lukas. Don't try to move."

Dominic was sitting in a chair by my bed. He looked tired, his tie loosened.

"Where... where is Jaxson?" I forced myself to say, my throat feeling like it was full of sand.

Dominic’s expression went bland. "He’s gone, Lukas. The hospital barred him from the floor. He caused a riot at the arena after you went down. He nearly killed Miller on the ice. The police had to intervene."

"He came for me," I whispered, at leats feeling a pang of relief.

"He came to finish the job," Dominic said, his voice hard. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a stack of papers. "I didn't want to show you this until you were stronger, but I can't let him lie to you anymore. My investigators found these this morning."

He dropped the papers onto my lap. They were wire transfer receipts.

From: Vane Holdings. To: Thomas Miller. Amount: $100,000. Memo: Services Rendered - Exhibition Game.

"No," I said, trying not to choke. "No, he wouldn't."

"He did, Lukas," Dominic said, his eyes full of pity. "He realized you were starting to suspect the truth about the embezzlement. He needed you out of the picture, but he couldn't kill you himself without looking guilty. So he paid Miller to make it look like a hockey accident. He used the legal fees story to keep you compliant until the hit was ready. 

I stared at the papers. The numbers blurred. The memory of Jaxson’s kiss, of his hand on my neck, of his whispered promise to protect me... it all turned to ash. It was a long con. He didn't love me. He didn't even pity me. He was just waiting for the right moment to erase the last Moretti.

"Lukas... there’s something else. Something I didn't want to tell you until you were stronger, but I can't let you stay in the dark while that monster circles your bed."

I felt a cold prickle of dread wash over me, sharper than the pain in my ribs. "What? What happened? 

Dominic didn't speak. He just reached into the inner pocket of his charcoal suit and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It looked official. It looked like a death warrant. He handed it to me, his hand shaking slightly.

"The warden called me an hour ago," Dominic whispered. "There was an... incident. A riot in the south wing. Your father didn't make it, Lukas. He was stabbed in his cell. They’re saying it was a targeted hit."

The world didn't just tilt; it vanished. I stared at the paper… A notification of death from the Department of Corrections. My father’s name was there. Moretti, Anthony. My vision blurred, the black ink turning into a smear of blood.

"No," I choked out, the word feeling like a piece of glass in my throat. "No, he was supposed to be safe. Jaxson said... Jaxson promised he was paying for protection."

"Lukas, look at the wire transfers again," Dominic said as he pointed to the forged documents he’d shown me earlier the ones detailing the hit on me. "Look at the dates. Jaxson didn't pay for protection. He paid the same mercenary group to coordinate the prison hit at the exact same time Miller hit you on the ice. He wanted the Moretti name erased in a single night."

"He... he killed him?" I looked up at Dominic, my heart screaming. "Jaxson killed my father?"

"He needed the leverage gone, Lukas. Once your father was dead, the evidence Jaxson was holding became worthless. He didn't need you anymore. He was cleaning the house."

I didn't cry. The pain was too deep for tears. It was a hollow, echoing void that opened up inside my chest, swallowing the "Golden Boy" whole. Every memory of Jaxson’s touch the way he’d held my neck in the kitchen, the way he’d looked at me in the locker room, felt like a poison coursing through my veins. He hadn't been protecting me. He’d been fattening me up for the slaughter.

"He’s waiting downstairs, isn't he?" I asked, my voice sounding like it belonged to a stranger. It was flat. Cold. Dead.

"He is," Dominic said. "And he won't stop until he knows you're silent. But I have a plane. I can get you out, Lukas. We can disappear. We can build a war chest and wait for the right moment to strike back. But we have to go now."

"Go," I whispered. "Get me out of this city."

I waited until Dominic left to "clear the security path." The silence of the hospital room was suffocating. I looked at the heart monitor

Beep. Beep. Beep

I hated it. I hated that my heart was still beating while my father’s had stopped.

I pulled the sensors off my chest, the skin stinging, but I didn't care. I felt nothing. I struggled out of the bed, my broken ribs screaming, and found the black suit Jaxson had bought for me. Putting it on felt like wearing the skin of my enemy.

On the bedside table sat my old New York Titans jersey. It was shredded, blood-stained, and a reminder of a life that was now a ghost story. I took the surgical scissors from the tray and cut the 'C' from the chest.

I didn't leave it as a message of love. I left it as a promise of war.

I pinned the blood-stained 'C' to the center of the white pillow, right where my head had been. Then, I scrawled three words on the back of the death notification and left it sitting right next to the 'C'.

AN EYE FOR AN EYE.

I moved to the window, the cold night air rushing in. I looked down at the street where the black SUV was waiting. I knew Jaxson was down there. I knew he was probably looking up at this window, waiting for the "Golden Boy" to die.

Fine, I thought, stepping onto the fire escape. Let him wait. He thinks Lukas Moretti is dead. 

But I’m coming back for his soul!!!!