Chapter 501: La Bocca Vecchia

The Kingslayer was a great help and cut down a week or two of planning and strategizing a method of getting himself and Old Rocco’s children past the Great Wall.

At some point, not today or tomorrow, he would investigate exactly why the Kingslayer did what he did and.

La Bocca Vecchia was not a grand place by any means. It was old, worn from years of smoke and whispered deals, a relic of a time when crime was simpler—when loyalty could be bought with fear alone. The number of men and wine bottles and floating candles and lanterns were born not from wealth but trust. La Bocca Vecchia shined between a dark shade of purple and black. Like everything to the Underground, it was conjoined to another shorter building which, when compared to La Bocca Vecchia, was tiny.

But unlike its neighbourhoods, it was straight. It was proper. It was not tilted or ruined. It maintained a degree of importance, like Ares’ Symposium.

Directly behind Savario’s restaurant and the complex building of a dozen shops and homes was the Maryana neighborhood. Behind the Maryana was the Darya neighborhood and behind that the Mira neighborhood.

Three neighborhoods. Three points of control.

Dasha Pang’s goal had been to capture the king. The one at the top of the food chain of the three neighborhoods.

For everything not to seem downright pathetic in comparison to La Bocca Vecchia would be strange for a man of Old Rocco’s standing; for the crime king of a tiny portion of the Sukhothai and three massive neighborhoods.

Think of the wealth. Think of the power.

La Bocca Vecchia matched the evil needed to maintain that power.

There were five entry points: two doors for the left wing for VIPs and the right wing for ordinary meet-ups, one door at the back, and two uptop. A secret escape entrance. Ah, no, wait. Four secret escapes entrances, his Qi Sense gleaned. Old Rocco’s experience showed. He planned for many things, no doubt.

Dasha knocked on the door. The metal was thick. There was a chance he might struggle to break it.

“Hello?”

Not that it mattered. The small slider opened up and revealed a pair of demonic red eyes.

“VIPs only,” said the red-eyed demon. “Scram—”

The demon’s confidence died when he saw who was with Dasha.

The doors were opened to him. He walked through the door with the slow, deliberate gait of a man who had already won. The white Venetian Mask hid his face, giving him the aura of something unknowable, something faceless.

The Professor.

That was the name he had chosen for these dealings, and now it was time to carve it into the hearts of those present.

Both wings were connected. There were no walls blocking one section from the other, save for common save. A man with a mask, a man with no standing, should not dare enter the area for the important ones.

According to Xavier, this was becoming less and less enforced. Old Rocco was becoming gentler. He accepted more and more propositions of alliances and men. His standards were dropping.

Old Rocco sat at the far end of the long table, his thick fingers wrapped around a half-empty glass of brandy. He was a man who had once been feared without question, but the Black Wolves Disaster had drained him. He lost many men that day. His control over the neighbourhoods of Maryana, Darya, and Mira was slipping like sand through his fingers, and in the Underworld, weakness was a scent that invited scavengers.

The fifteen men seated around him were not just his enforcers—they were the remnants of his power. Some loyal, some dissatisfied, some only following because they had no other choice. Dasha had studied them long before stepping foot here. Every glance, every shift in posture, told him what he needed to know.

And they, in turn, studied him. They saw the children first.

Omar, stiff-backed and glaring. Elias, frail and pale as ever, clinging to the silence like a cloak. It was not just their presence that set the room on edge. It was the faint glow of magic circles inscribed upon their necks.

A silent promise. Instant death, should the masked man will it.

One of Rocco’s men, a burly figure with a scar running from temple to jaw, shifted uneasily in his chair. Others glanced toward Old Rocco, waiting for his reaction.

Old Rocco exhaled through his nose. “I don’t know who the hell you are,” he said, his voice rough with years of smoke. “And I don’t like people who wear masks to my table.”

One chair was left. Dasha moved smoothly and took the seat furthest and most opposite to Old Rocco. The Professor’s settled over the room like a slow-moving storm.

“I am the Professor.”

Silence. The words carried weight. Not because they recognized the name—they didn’t. Not yet. But because it was spoken with absolute confidence, as though it had already been carved into history.

Old Rocco’s eyes flickered to the two children again. Then back to Dasha. “And what exactly do you want, Professor?”

“To offer you growth.”

A scoff from one of the men. Another, one of the dissatisfied ones, looked intrigued but wary. Rocco leaned back in his chair, swirling the last of his brandy.

“Growth,” Old Rocco repeated. “And what? You take a cut of my earnings? My people?”

Dasha’s masked face remained unreadable. “Not a cut. A partnership. A stronger foundation.”

The tension in the room thickened.

Dasha continued, smooth as a blade running across flesh. “Kuranosuke of The Widow’s Den has already joined me.”

That sent ripples through the gathered men. Some exchanged glances, others stiffened outright. The Widow’s Den had long been a thorn in Old Rocco’s side—not strong enough to topple him, but too deeply rooted to remove. If Kuranosuke had shifted allegiances, it meant the undercurrents of power were moving fast.

“I’ve given him new games. More knowledge. Protection. In return, twenty percent of all earnings go to me.”

Old Rocco’s grip on his glass tightened. “Young men are the same here. Waltzing in here, glowering with power, and thinking they can change the rules. You never

last.”

“No,” Dasha said simply. “Whether it is brief or long, I expect you to recognize that the rules are already changing.”

More silence.

Old Rocco let out a low chuckle, but it was not a kind sound. He shook his head, setting his glass down hard against the table. “I don’t deal with shadows. You show up here with a mask, with hostages, and you expect me to just trust that you’re here to help?” His gaze hardened. “I will say it once and I will say it again: men like you never work out in the long run.”

Dasha inclined his head slightly. “You think I lack legitimacy.”

“I know you do,” Rocco said bluntly. “You hold a child hostage and expect me to take your word that you’re here to ’help’ us grow? You should know how to speak with more than words, Professor.”

Dasha did not move for a long moment. Slowly, he reached out—and let go of Elias and Omar. He had been holding them by the hand, walking them forward. They understood disobedience meant nothing.

Omar, stunned, stumbled to Old Rocco. A long, long run after which Old Rocco smiled and put a hand on his head. Elias chased afterward, already crying, and joining them.

A sign of goodwill. A show of confidence.

Old Rocco hugged his children and after a ragged breath, turned to the Professor, his gaze sharp as a knife. “And what about the rest?”

“The rest stay with me.”

That was the line. The breaking point. Still not enough.

Old Rocco opened his mouth—perhaps to argue further, perhaps to reject the deal outright—but he never got the chance.

Boom.

Because in that moment, Omar’s head exploded.

A grotesque sound. A wet, sickening pop. Blood and fragments of skull sprayed across the table, across the other children. His little arms and legs crumpled lifelessly to the floor.

Elias screamed.

The tabled men of La Bocca Vecchia did not react.

The blood pooled together in silence before screams and agony arose.

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