Page 11 of Devour
“I’m not feeling particularly patient today, Dominic.”
A grin cuts across his face—sharp and knowing.
“You never are, Don.”
“Then why the fuck are you so eager to test the patience you know I don’t have?”
I step forward, knowing full well I’m leaving myself wide open. He takes the shot, right to the ribs—sharp, fast but it doesn’t slow me down. Pain only feeds the fire.
I keep pushing until his back hits the ropes, his breath coming in shallow pants. We’re both slick with sweat, adrenaline riding us like a second skin. His arms stay high, guarding his face.
My fist slams into his ribs. One. His stomach. Two. And then square to his chest. Three. Each hit is deliberate. Controlled. A reminder of who’s in charge.
That cocky little smirk he wears shifts no longer amused, no longer tame. It slips into something feral, something unhinged.
With a savage twist of movement, he yanks us off the ropes and drives us both to the floor. Controlled chaos. Just the way we like it.
The next few minutes blur into flesh and fist until he finally decides to open his damn mouth.
“Our men crossed into Romano’s territory to retrieve the runaway debtor without permission,” Dominic says, stepping back and lowering his arms.
I freeze mid-swing. Fist clenched, breath heaving. His willingness to speak signals the end of the fight. But the tension? That doesn’t go anywhere. “Whose fucking orders?” I snarl, eyes narrowing into slits.
“Unofficial,” he answers, voices low. Measured. “Youngblood. Too eager. Trying to prove something, I guess. Words on the street are, "the Italian boss wants their heads.”
“Fuck.”
I pace back, running a hand down my face. The last thing I need right now is a territory war. Not with the Italian. Not over a goddamn idiot who thought he could skip town on what he owed.
“What about the men?”
“In hiding,” he replies. “Smart enough to lay low. Dumb enough to get us into this shit in the first place.”
I nod slowly, grinding my jaw.
“Good. We don’t sacrifice our own, no matter how fucking stupid they might be,” I say, stepping away from the center of the mat and grabbing the towel draped over the ropes. I wipe the sweat from my face and shoulders, then rake my fingers through the damp strands of hair clinging to my forehead.
My mind loops, caught in the weight of the consequences. This could spiral fast; territory feuds aren’t cleaned up with apologies and a bottle of scotch.
Blood spills. Lines get redrawn. “Send words to Romano. Let him know we meant no harm crossing into his territory, it wasn’t sanctioned, and it won’t happen again.”
I lean on the ropes, letting my gaze sweep across the space. The crew is already dispersing, each man returning to his routine.
At least twenty bodies move through the underground gym, training with a silent focus. The basement doubles as one of our hideouts, the pounding bass from the club above drowning out the noise down here.
To an outsider, it could pass for an underground boxing ring if it weren’t for the painting on the walls.
The skull, the rose, and the dagger are painted on the walls the same way they’re tattooed on each circulating the basement including mine
“And keep me updated the second we get a response from them.”
“It’ll be done, boss,” Dominic answers without hesitation.
“Good.” I nod, pushing between the ropes and stepping down from the mat.
“Don.”
I stop in my tracks and look back when the familiar voice calls out to me. Alessio. My cousin. He is older. Nerd of the family.
