Chapter 3

Six Years Later

Matteo Antonov did not watch basketball. He watched men, he watched exits and he watched hands.

The VIP box hovered above the arena like a glass throne, insulated from the roar below. Dimitri lounged beside him with a beer, one boot propped on the railing.

“You haven’t blinked,” Dimitri said. “It’s a game, not a hostage situation.”

Matteo’s gaze never left the court. “Men reveal themselves under pressure.”

“Sure,” Dimitri replied. “But these ones reveal themselves by missing free throws.”

A wave of noise thundered through the stadium as the Thunder Titans stole possession. Sneakers squealed and the scoreboard ticked.

Matteo had agreed to this outing under duress. Dimitri had insisted he needed “something normal” after closing an arms deal that had netted them seven figures and a headache.

“Breathe,” Dimitri had said. “Touch grass. Watch boys throw balls.”

Matteo had nearly shot him.

Now he sat, bored, half-listening to the crowd chant.

“Number thirteen is good,” Dimitri said. “Look at that control.”

Matteo followed his line of sight.

The captain stood near the arc, barking orders with crisp precision. He moved like he knew the court like the back of his palm. When he turned, sweat-dark hair stuck to his forehead and Matteo’s breath stilled.

Ezra.

Not the boy with shaking hands and a crooked smile.

This Ezra was steel and momentum. Shoulders broad, jaw sharper and eyes alive with command.

The memory that had been his torment struck like a blade.

Prison walls, snow, and blood.

Nickolai Roman.

Matteo’s fingers tightened around the armrest.

“That’s Ezra Roman,” Dimitri added. “Team captain. Scholarship kid. They say he’s unbreakable.”

Matteo’s voice was ice. “Buy the team.”

Dimitri blinked. “What?”

“Buy it,” Matteo repeated. “Today.”

“You don’t even like sports,” Dimitri retorted as his mouth opened and closed like a fish in water.

“I like control.”

Dimitri studied him. “Matteo—”

“Now.”

Dimitri paused for a moment, then sighed. “You’re terrifying when you get that look.”

He made the call.

Down on the court, Ezra called for a screen, drove, and scored.

The crowd erupted but Matteo did not clap.

He watched.

And he remembered the boy who had offered him a folded paper and said, I’m going to be great.

—

The locker room smelled like sweat and victory.

Ezra stood at the center, towel around his neck, grinning as his teammates shoved him.

“Captain Roman!” Gabriel whooped. “That last play? Criminal.”

Ezra laughed. “You missed three passes.”

“Details.”

A knock rapped on the door.

The coach stepped in, flanked by a tall man in a dark coat.

“Line up,” the coach said. “We have our new sponsor.”

The room snapped to attention.

Ezra wiped his hands on his shorts and stepped forward. “Thunder Titans, sir. I’m Ezra Roman, team captain.”

The man’s eyes were pale and unreadable.

“Not anymore,” he said.

The room went still.

“I’m Matteo Antonov,” he continued. “Effective immediately, your captain is Damon Vega.”

Damon froze.

Ezra stared. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Your performance is inferior,” Matteo said calmly. “You lack leadership.”

“That’s not true,” Ezra said. “Ask anyone here.”

Matteo didn’t look at the others. “You’re replaceable.”

Ezra’s throat tightened. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

The room buzzed.

Damon swallowed. “Sir, I—”

“You’ll do,” Matteo said.

Ezra stepped forward. “This isn’t fair.”

Matteo met his eyes and his gaze flickered.

Ezra faltered. “Have we… met?”

“No,” Matteo said. He turned and walked out.

Behind him, Damon grinned.

Ezra stood rooted, heart pounding, as the world tilted. He had no idea that the past had just found him.

The locker room exploded in whispers.

“What the hell was that?” Gabriel muttered.

Damon finally found his voice. “I mean… I’ll do my best, sir.”

But Matteo was already gone.

Ezra stood where he was, hands numb at his sides. The towel slipped from his neck and landed at his feet. No one spoke for a second.

Then the room erupted.

“That was insane.”

“He can’t just—”

“You’re our captain, Ez.”

“Say something, man.”

Ezra forced himself to breathe.

“He owns the team now,” he said quietly. “He can do whatever he wants.”

“That doesn’t make it right,” Gabriel snapped.

Damon cleared his throat. “Look, I didn’t ask for this. But if he wants me in charge—”

Ezra cut him off with a look.

Damon flinched.

“Enjoy it,” Ezra said flatly. “I hope the shoe fits.”

He grabbed his bag and left.

Aurora nearly spilled her coffee when Ezra walked into their apartment.

“Why do you look like someone died?”

“Worse,” Ezra said. “I met a billionaire with a god complex.”

She squinted. “That’s most billionaires.”

“He stripped me of my captaincy in front of the team.”

Aurora’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“No explanation. Just… took it. Gave it to Damon.”

She was already reaching for her laptop. “Name.”

“Matteo Antonov.”

Her fingers froze.

“Rory?”

She looked up slowly. “Antonov as in The Antonov?”

Ezra frowned. “You know him?”

“I know of him,” she said carefully. “He doesn’t buy sports teams. He buys governments.”

Ezra sank into a chair. “Why me?”

Aurora’s eyes softened as she pat his shoulder in comfort. “You might have pissed off the wrong god.”

—

Ezra tried to request a meeting.

The assistant declined.

He sent an email.

No response.

He showed up at the corporate office.

Security escorted him out.

By the third day, rumors bloomed.

Damon “leaked” that Ezra had attitude problems, that scouts had complained and that he was unstable.

Fans turned curious then cold.

Ezra endured.

Until a reporter asked if he was “washed up.”

That night, he stood in front of Aurora’s bathroom mirror, fists on the sink.

“He’s doing this on purpose,” Ezra said.

Aurora leaned in the doorway. “Then maybe stop letting him?”

Ezra looked at her. “I’m going to see him.”

She straightened. “You don’t even know where he lives.”

Ezra pulled out his phone with determination and stalked out of their apartment. “I do now.”

Matteo Antonov’s estate rose from the outskirts of Saint Petersburg like a fortress. Ezra stood at the gate, breath fogging in the cold.

A guard stepped forward. “You’re lost.”

“I’m Ezra Roman,” Ezra said. “Tell Matteo Antonov I’m here.”

The guard studied him, then spoke into his radio. Minutes passed before the gates opened and Ezra walked into the lion’s den.