EMILIO'S POV
The next evening, Emilio returned. He walked into Dante's underground ring, his footsteps echoing in the empty space. The place had a quiet, tense air tonight.
A few of Dante's men were around, either training or watching from the sidelines, but no one spoke. They just nodded when they saw him, acknowledging his presence but not making a scene.
It felt different this time.
More serious.
Emilio couldn't explain it. The weight of everything seemed heavier tonight—his anger, his need to prove something, his desperation to not be the weak one.
Dante arrived a few minutes later, his tall frame slipping into the room dressed in all black, a towel draped over his shoulder. He had that look about him—the one that made everyone around him take a step back without even saying a word.
"You're early," Dante remarked, his voice low.
Emilio shrugged. "Figured I should take this seriously."
Dante gave a crooked smile. "This way." He gestured toward a small room off to the side, a simple changing room with lockers and a bench. Nothing fancy.
"Suit up. I'll meet you in the ring," Dante added, as though this were nothing more than a casual workout.
Emilio didn't hesitate. He pulled on a pair of gym shorts and a black vest, getting ready for the fight.
But then, as he turned, his eyes instinctively landed on Dante—just across the room, undressing without a care in the world. Dante's casual confidence in his own skin made Emilio pause, but it wasn't like he was interested.
At least, that's what he told himself.
Dante caught him looking. That smirk. It was like he knew exactly what was going through Emilio's mind.
"What do you wanna see?" Dante's voice was smooth, teasing.
Emilio's face darkened, irritation shooting through him. He threw him a sharp glare. "Nothing. Get over yourself."
Emilio had already decided—he wasn't going to do anything out of the ordinary. He wasn't going to sink to his knees and shove his mouth in Dante's cock.
Not after last night. Not after Dante had said something that made it sound like he would kneel and suck any man's cock that came his way.
But Dante didn't seem to care. He slipped into a pair of loose black shorts and stood there, bare-chested, inked, and defined in ways Emilio wasn't about to admit was distracting. He didn't need to let himself think that way.
Emilio frowned. "You're gonna train like that?"
Dante raised an eyebrow, that infuriating smirk tugging at his lips. "Why? Does it bother you?"
Emilio's nostrils flared in frustration. "Fuck you."
Emilio stomped past him, irritation sparking in every step as he marched straight into the ring. His fists clenched tightly.
Dante let out a soft laugh under his breath before following.
As soon as they stepped into the ring, something inside Emilio clicked. His focus sharpened.
He came at Dante fast, a burst of aggression, hoping to catch him off guard. But Dante was sharper. Stronger. Every step he took was calculated.
Every time Emilio tried to strike, Dante was already one step ahead—dodging, blocking, his body twisting with frustrating ease.
Then—thud. Emilio hit the mat again, his back slamming into the hard ground. The air was knocked out of him for a split second.
Dante stood over him, barely winded, that same damn smirk playing at his lips. "That all you got? I thought you were mad at me."
Emilio froze, rage swelling through him. Fury burst through his veins. He didn't care that his body ached. He didn't care that he was humiliated. He didn't care about the laughter or the mocking smiles of Dante's men who were watching from the side.
He was pissed. He wouldn't let Dante make a fool of him—not in front of anyone.
He pushed himself up, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "You think this is funny?"
Dante raised an eyebrow, eyes glinting with amusement. "A little. You make good floor art."
Emilio hissed, his breath shallow and heavy. "Go to hell."
His muscles were sore, his palms stinging from the repeated falls, but he pushed through it. He wasn't staying down. Not now.
He charged again, faster this time. With more precision. He wasn't going to be the one who looked weak again.
But Dante slipped past him, flipping him onto the mat once more. Another grunt. Another fall.
Dante circled him slowly, shaking his head. "You fight like a prince trying not to get his hair messed up."
Emilio growled, refusing to let himself show how much that stung. "Keep talking," he rasped, rising again, his chest heaving. "I'm not done."
His hands were shaking from the effort. His body felt like it was about to give out. But Emilio couldn't stop. Not now.
He went for Dante again. This time, he aimed for his side, making sure he was fast enough to catch him. He almost had him—almost.
But Dante moved again, twisting around, grabbing Emilio's arm, and flipping him down yet again.
The impact left Emilio groaning, staring up at the ceiling, breathless, defeated for a moment.
Dante leaned over him, hands on his hips, his chest bare and glistening with sweat. The asshole looked too damn good.
"I'll give you this," Dante said calmly. "You keep getting up."
Emilio sat up, breathing hard, his voice low but firm. "Yeah? Maybe one day I'll knock that stupid look off your face."
Dante chuckled, rubbing the sweat from his forehead, clearly enjoying himself. "I'll be waiting."
He gave a short wave to one of his men, signaling him to toss him two bottles of water. The man tossed one to Emilio, and Dante cracked his open, drinking almost the whole thing in one go.
The cool water hit Emilio's throat like a burst of life, and he gulped it down greedily.
Dante smirked after finishing his water. "You fight like an emotional kid, though. Throwing punches like you're mad at your diary."
Emilio rolled his eyes, his face flushed. Without missing a beat, he lifted his middle finger at Dante and took another sip of his water.
Dante burst out laughing. "There he is."
The two of them sat in silence for a moment, the sound of their heavy breathing filling the space. Sweat stuck to their skin.