DANTE'S POV
The underground fight had been a spectacle, a ruthless display of power, but it was nothing new to Dante. He had seen it all before, and yet, it still brought a rush every time. This time, however, it was different. This time, it was personal.
Before the fight even started, Dante had made the call to John—the best fighter in the country, hands down.
John had a reputation for tearing through the competition with brutal precision, and tonight, he would make Emilio's man look like a child's toy. Dante knew the outcome before it even began, and John didn't disappoint.
As the final blow landed, Dante's gaze flicked to the corner of the ring. Luca, the young boy who had somehow latched onto Dante like a stray pup, was grinning from ear to ear. His voice was sharp with excitement as he turned to Dante.
"Emilio's face—did you see it?" Luca laughed, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "He thought his man could win. Poor bastard looks like someone just killed his puppy."
Dante's eyes narrowed. The sight of Emilio's face, that mixture of anger and humiliation, was too perfect. The way his jaw tightened, the flicker of fury in his eyes—it almost made Dante want to laugh. Almost. Instead, his lips curled into a satisfied smile.
But there was something more there, something that ground at him. The satisfaction of seeing Emilio fail was sharp, but it wasn't the whole picture.
Dante's enjoyment had always been more complicated. He didn't just want to win. He wanted to make sure the game stayed fun—alive. He didn't want to crush Emilio completely. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
He watched as Emilio stormed off, his steps quick, the anger radiating off him like heat from a fire. Dante tilted his head, admiring the sight. This was the moment—the one where Emilio had to choose. He could walk away, take the loss with dignity, or he could let the rage swallow him whole.
Dante smirked. He was betting on the latter.
But that wasn't the end of it. He couldn't let Emilio leave like this—not if there was any hope of keeping things interesting between them. He wasn't done yet.
He waved one of his men over, the messenger who had always been reliable in situations like this. "Go to Emilio. Tell him I want to talk. Tell him it's for peace," Dante ordered.
He wanted to maintain some semblance of cordiality, at least for now. Things were already tense. Why make them worse? He wanted Emilio to come back. Wanted to see how far this rivalry would go, and maybe, just maybe, there was still something to salvage from this situation.
But the moment stretched too long. Emilio didn't come back. Instead, Dante found himself walking outside, following the path Emilio had taken.
He wasn't sure what he expected, but the sight of Emilio shaking with barely contained rage was... satisfying.
The man was pale, barely more than a shadow in that oversized coat. It swallowed him whole, making him look fragile, smaller than he truly was. But Dante could see the fire in his eyes. Emilio wasn't finished yet.
Dante could hear the low murmur of voices as Emilio spoke to the man he'd sent to fetch him
and finally to Ramon.
He couldn't help but chuckle softly, watching the tension play out before him. The amusement tugged at the corner of his lips. Emilio was walking right into it, just as he had expected.
Dante's slow clap echoed through the space, soft yet deliberate, a mocking rhythm that spoke volumes. He didn't need to say a word—his clapping alone made his point.
Dante's smirk deepened as he took a step forward, his presence commanding attention. He nodded toward a shadowy corner, away from the crowd. "Let's see if we can settle this privately, Emilio."
Emilio stiffened, his fists clenching at his sides. "Not interested," he snapped, his voice sharp. "You've had your fun. No need to drag this on."
Dante chuckled lowly, the sound rich with amusement. "I don't need to convince you," he said smoothly, his tone like velvet. "Let's talk, Emilio. A real talk."
With that, he turned, making his way to the corner, his coat billowing behind him, each movement purposeful and confident. Dante knew Emilio would follow, even if it took a little longer than expected.
Dante reached into his pocket, pulling out the last cigarette. He flicked the lighter, the flame briefly illuminating his face before he brought it to the end of the cigarette. The smoke curled around him, the glow of the ember casting a dim light in the dark corner.
Without a word, Dante extended the cigarette toward Emilio, holding it just a little too close to his face, watching for his reaction.
Emilio's jaw tightened, and without hesitation, he pushed it away. "Get this off me."
Dante chuckled, taking the cigarette from his face and drawing in a slow drag. He let the smoke linger in the air before exhaling. "Fine. No need to be dramatic."
Dante's eyes narrowed as he watched Emilio's irritation grow. His voice remained calm, but there was a weight to it, the kind that came when Dante wasn't backing down. "Let's have peace, Emilio. Cordiality between us—it's not too late for that. This was meant to be a peace offering."
Emilio scoffed, his expression darkening. "Peace doesn't come that way, not after everything that's happened," he retorted, his tone sharp. He glanced at his watch, a clear signal of his impatience. "I've got appointments to keep."
Dante almost chuckled at Emilio's words. "You won the fight. That should be the peace."
But instead of the usual deflection, Dante felt a tinge of frustration stir within him. He'd been trying to break the tension, trying to reach some kind of understanding with Emilio. But the younger man wasn't interested in any of it—he was brushing Dante off as if it was nothing.
Emilio's irritation was noticeable, his posture stiff as he turned to leave. Without waiting for another word, he walked away, his footsteps echoing against the dark alley. Dante watched him go, his thoughts a mix of amusement and something else—a sense that this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.