Page 100 of Untamed

Matteo withher.

That infuriating sundress she wears. Her scent, an intoxicating presence, seems to cling to the air in every place I go, as if it’s etched permanently into my senses, a constant reminder of what haunts me.

I keep seeing it. The way her mouth curved just before he kissed her. The way she leaned in, parting her lips and letting him. Erasing the feel and taste of me. Like it wasn’t still burned into me.

Dante claps me on the shoulder. “He’s big. Russian. You sure?—”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

The bell rings.

And I break.

The guy rushes me. No finesse, just brute strength and cocky footwork. He lands a punch against my jaw, sloppy, careless. I welcome it. My head snaps to the side, copper tang on my tongue, but I don’t even blink.

I drive a right hook into his ribs so hard I hear something snap.

He grunts.

Yes.

I want him to bleed.

The crowd roars. Fists fly. We trade hits like demons trying to rip each other apart. My fists ache. His face is already swelling. I don’t block. I don’t dodge. I take every hit like a man who doesn’t care if he leaves here breathing.

Because none of it, fucking none of it, hurts as bad as watching her smile for him.

He grabs me. I slam my forehead into his nose. He stumbles back, falling onto his back. I follow. Punch after punch until his body goes limp and his eyes roll back. I drop him like dead weight and stand over him, chest heaving.

Blood drips steadily from my split knuckles, staining the floor beneath me.

Still not enough. Nothing is quenching the inferno raging inside me.

Fucking nothing.

Dante tosses me a towel, but I ignore it. Instead, I grab my jacket and stride out of there, my footsteps heavy with anger. I’m on my bike before the crowd even begins to disperse. No words. No bandages. Just a storm of rage and raw, unyielding bone.

The Ducati tears through the back roads, chewing up the Sicilian hills. The night air cuts through me like razors, but I need it. Need to outrun the fire crawling up my spine. Her laugh. His hands. The way I wanted to pull her away and break his scrawny little neck for touching what’s mine.

I push the bike faster. Twist the throttle until the engine screams beneath me. That’s when I see the headlights.Too close.

They’ve been following me since I left the warehouse.

I swerve left, cutting through a dark stretch along the cliffs. Gravel kicks under the tires. Still there. Still behind me. Then, I hear it.

Bang.

The first bullet punches into the road near my back tire. The bike skids. I grip tighter, forcing it straight.

“Cazzo!” I snarl, ducking low.

Another shot. Closer.

I twist through the sharp bend, engine roaring, tires screaming as I whip down a narrow vineyard path.

The bastards follow.

I glimpse them in the mirror, black Alfa, windows down, one guy hanging out the passenger side with a silencer.

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