Page 8 of Celestial Combat

But I’d seen hundreds of fighters before. Most of them thought they were special. Most of them weren’t.

Tony circled her, throwing light jabs to test her reactions. She slipped away easily, ducking, pivoting, never staying still long enough to get caught. Her braids swung behind her as she moved, the overhead lights catching the sheen of sweat beginning to form at the valley of her back.

Then she glanced at me.

“When do I get to fight for real?”

Her voice was smooth but firm, carrying over the low noise of the gym without effort. She wasn’t just asking. She was challenging.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth. Unnecessary tension laced the air between us – not hostile, not aggressive, just something sharp-edged and unexplained.

“You want in?” I pushed off the ropes. “Prove it.”

Meisa rolled her shoulders. “You fighting me yourself?”

I let out a quiet laugh. “No. But I’ll decide if you’re worth my time.”

I lifted a hand, signaling to the sidelines. A fighter stepped forward – twice her size. He adjusted the wraps around his hands, rolling his neck, eyeing her.

Tony gave Meisa a small nod of encouragement but didn’t say anything.

The fight started fast. No circling, no stalling. Her opponent swung first, a heavy right hook meant to put her down quick. She ducked, slipping under it with barely an inch to spare.

Her stance was compact but fluid. She didn’t waste energy blocking hits she could avoid. When she countered, it was sharp and efficient – no flashy, useless movements. Just precision. The man came at her again, aiming a brutal jab at her ribs. She twisted mid-step, angling her body just enough to let it slide past her, then snapped forward, slamming an elbow into his side.

He stumbled, barely a fraction, but it was enough.

She pressed forward. Fast. Calculated.

He tried to grab her –bad move. She slipped out of his reach, pivoted behind him, and drove a knee into the back of his thigh. His leg buckled. Another second, another strike, this time to his jaw – a perfectly placed spinning kick that sent him sprawling to the mat.

Silence.

Then Meisa reached down, offering her opponent a hand.

I lifted a brow. Fighters didn’t usually do that. Least of all Tony, who was her coach.

The man hesitated, then accepted, letting her pull him up.

Meisa turned to me, dark eyes steady. “Was that good enough for you?”

I tilted my head slightly, studying her.

“Maybe.”

Then I walked away.

Matteo was already waiting in my front office when I got there, legs kicked up on the edge of my black glass desk, a half-empty glass of Yamazaki in one hand. His signature watch – platinum, worn – glinted in the low light. The bastard had aged well. Still looked like a street prince with too much money and nothing left to prove. The same dirty golden hair ruffled, slicked back, and ruthless brown eyes. The same unmarked tan skin, while I had barely any empty space left for new tattoos.

He stood as I walked toward him. The handshake turned into a hug with a slap on the back. Muscle memory from years of blood, war, and loyalty.

“How’re you doing?” I chuckled.

“Good,” He said, grin lazy but eyes sharp. “How’s business?”

I gave a quiet chuckle, walking around my desk and lowering into the leather chair. “Not as fun as retirement.”

Matteo scoffed. He was only thirty-four, but he’d done the impossible – passed down the family business to his younger brother and walked away. Not many bosses made it to thirty. Fewer still walked away with all their parts intact.

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