EMILIO'S POV
There was silence as Emilio used the cascading water from the shower to wipe the sticky mess. He rubbed his palms over his cheeks, only to glance up at Dante staring back at him.
Dante's expression was strained, like something heavy pressed down on him. "This is getting out of hand," he said quietly.
Emilio blinked, chest tightening. "What are you talking about?"
"It was supposed to be nothing. But a blow job" Dante muttered, his voice rough and distant.
"It was just that," Emilio said, trying to steady his voice, trying to make it sound simple—clean. "That's all it was."
"No, it wasn't," Dante replied, his tone sharper than before. "You went further."
Emilio blinked, heart, stammering. "You wanted it. I—I only did what you asked."
"I didn't ask," Dante said coldly. "You just assumed."
The words cut through Emilio like ice. His breath caught. Embarrassment curled in his gut, twisting tight. He had only wanted to please him—to make him feel good. But instead, he'd made everything worse.
His throat felt dry. His chest ached.
Dante muttered under his breath, almost like a confession, "This is..."
"What?" Emilio demanded, voice rising. "Say it."
Dante said nothing. He looked away, jaw tense, eyes stormy with things left unsaid.
"Gay?" Emilio bit the word out for him, furious and humiliated. "That's what you're trying not to say?"
Dante didn't answer. But the way he looked—like Emilio had hit the nail on the head—was answer enough.
Emilio let out a dry, bitter laugh. "You've got to be out of your goddamn mind."
He turned without waiting, his chest tight and burning. He stalked to the changing room, fingers shaking as he grabbed his clothes. The silence behind him was unbearable, louder than yelling.
He pulled on his shirt with jerky movements, not even caring that his skin was still damp. His hands trembled as he shoved his legs into his pants. His face burned with shame, and his heart screamed with something he didn't want to name.
Still, Dante said nothing.
Not one word.
And that silence hurt more than anything else.
Emilio slammed his locker shut, slung his bag over his shoulder, and walked out—never looking back.
Emilio drove like a storm was riding in his chest.
His hands gripped the wheel tighter than necessary, knuckles white, heart pounding loud against his ribs. The roads blurred past in streaks of city light and shadow, but all he could see was Dante's face—strained, unreadable, silent. That goddamn silence. Not even a word to stop him. Not even a "wait."
He slammed the door to his apartment harder than he meant to, the sound echoing like the punch he wanted to throw. At the wall. At himself. At Dante.
"What the hell was that?" he muttered under his breath, pacing his living room like a man ready for a fight. "Gay? Is that what he couldn't say? Is that what this is to him? Something shameful?"
He kicked off his shoes, tossed his keys somewhere he didn't care to find later, and collapsed onto the couch with his face in his hands. His chest still heaved with heat and fury, and his jaw ached from how hard he'd been clenching it.
He hadn't meant to go that far.
But Dante wanted it. Right?
He cursed under his breath. The memory of Dante's moans, the way his body gave in, how he trembled—that couldn't have been fake. And yet the way he pulled back, the cold tone, the way he said Emilio "assumed"—God, it made his blood boil.
The next morning, Emilio didn't show up to the underground ring. Or the one after that. He didn't care. Let them think he was sick or on some long-ass break. He needed time. Time to get his head straight. Time to get Dante out of his head.
But Dante didn't call. Didn't text. Not even a damn "you good?"
That silence was louder than a slap.
Emilio waited for a call, a message—anything. But Dante stayed silent. Feeling stupid for letting his guard down, Not anymore. Emilio promised himself.
———
Emilio's phone vibrated in his hand, the screen flashing with Rossi's name. His heart skipped a beat, a sudden sense of dread washing over him as he answered the call.
"Emilio, we've got a problem," Rossi's voice came through, urgent and shaken. "Romano's men—they stormed the bar, beat up our guys, and took some with them. Including Ramon."
Emilio's stomach dropped. His hands went cold. His men—his friends—had been taken. He could feel his chest tightening with panic.
"What the hell do we do?" Emilio's voice was raw, shaky as he tried to make sense of it all.
Rossi didn't hesitate. "You need to call Dante. He's the only one who can help with this. We'll need to figure out how to get Ramon and the others back."
Emilio's mind was a blur, and his throat tightened at the mention of Dante's name. But Rossi was right—this was bigger than just them now.
"Right," Emilio muttered, his voice barely audible. He hung up, still staring at the phone in his hand. He didn't even know how to start. The weight of it all was suffocating, but he forced himself to dial Dante's number.
It rang twice before Dante picked up, his voice low and steady, as if nothing in the world could rattle him. "Yeah?"
"Dante..." Emilio's voice cracked slightly. "Romano's men—they've taken Ramon and some of my guys. They beat them up at the bar. What the hell do we do?"
Dante's silence lingered for a beat, and then he spoke, his voice like steel. "You need to stay calm. I'm on my way. Don't do anything until I get there."
Emilio's mind raced. He felt helpless standing there, knowing that time was slipping away. But Dante's words had a certain weight to them—confidence, authority.
"Alright," Emilio managed to say, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I'll wait for you."
The line went silent, and Emilio's breath hitched in his chest. Would Dante be able to fix this? Would they be able to get Ramon back before things got worse? He had no choice but to trust him.
The only thing he knew for certain was that Dante was coming—and that was enough.