Page 63 of Until You Break
“Because business doesn’t stop for blood,” he said flatly. “Warehouses hit. Not only ours. Someone’s carving pieces out of all of us.”
I frowned. So whoever it is, they’re not just after us.
Damiano’s mouth curved faintly, though his eyes stayed on the ring. “You learn fast. Why don’t you sketch what you see? Not the ring. Them. Us.”
Another fight turned brutal early. A masked fighter went down, dragged up again by his hair. No one stopped it. Blows landed until his mouth filled with teeth and red. He spit and kept swinging. The crowd roared. Alessandro screamed fresh odds, Luca crowed into the mic, and my hand faltered. My pencil lines stuttered, jagged, darkening the page with eyes and faces, the crowd’s gaze sketched harsher than the fighters. Every smirk, every hungry stare, I pressed into graphite until the page blurred.
Gasps followed the final blow. The downed man didn’t rise. A hush, then thunder, then a cleaner’s rush with towels and spray.
By the next match, the terrace leaned forward, restless. Alessandro crowed new odds, bills and coins changing hands. A rival heir caught my gaze too long, smile thin as wire, before vanishing back into the mass. My stomach turned, pencil pressing darker lines until the page smudged.
Luca milked it. “You’ve been patient,” he said, smile thin. “Let’s ruin someone’s night. Special match, no headgear. No excuses. Winner decides the loser’s fate.”
The terrace shifted uneasily, anticipation thickening into dread. Voices sharpened and cut off mid-laugh. Guards shifted near the doors, hands too close to weapons. Money froze mid-hand.
“Who signed him up?” Someone whispered. No answer came. This wasn’t routine. This was intrusion.
The tall one stepped into light. The neon mask wasn’t a full face, hard line across the eyes, sharp grin cut below. He didn’t look up. He lifted his head enough to see the ring.
For a moment the Bellandi guards at the edge hesitated, then stood back as if an order had come from higher up. The air felt wrong, like someone had smuggled fire into the room and set it beating in time with the crowd’s pulse.
Luca tipped the mic. “Wolf.”
The noise that followed wasn’t a cheer. It was hunger, sharp and feral. Appetite has a voice. Luca leaned forward, smile thin. “Tell them why you’re here. What do you fight for?”
The mask didn’t react. The man behind it tipped his chin. He didn’t look at Damiano. He looked past him.
The terrace inhaled and didn’t release. Heat crawled up necks. Disgust, wonder, fury, one ugly laugh that died fast. Money froze mid-hand and then doubled its speed. Guards moved a step closer, but no one crossed the line. My stomach twisted. The sketchbook shook in my hands as every eye turned.For one dizzy second my knees looked ready to give before anyone touched me.
He pointed. At me.
CHAPTER 21
EMILIO
The terrace still held its breath. His finger stayed leveled at me, steady, unshaken. Every glance dragged toward it like metal to a magnet. No one spoke. No one laughed. Heat thickened.
Then Damiano moved. He stepped forward, hand leaving my nape, shoulders cutting through the crowd until the ropes bowed to let him in. Possession followed him like shadow.
My pulse slammed. Who was this? Who would come all the way into Bellandi territory, masked, to fight for me? To free me? To claim me? Did he mean to take me from Damiano, or save me from him? Fear burned sharp in my chest, but confusion tangled it, a dizzy mix of dread and hope.
Damiano’s body coiled as he faced him, black coat sliding off his shoulders, muscle cut in lines of heat and strength. He looked carved for this, power rippling down his arms, veins rising as fists closed. The sight hit me low, brutal, pride curling hot in my gut. He was mine. My captor, my husband, my anchor in this storm.
“Brave,” Damiano said, low, dangerous. “But finished.” His voice sliced the air. The word rippled outward, snapped heads to me, to him, to the claim between us.
Luca prowled the edge, microphone hot in his grip, grin sharp. “Never seen him in the ring for anything but blood. What is it tonight, big brother? Sport or love?”
Damiano didn’t glance his way. He bared his teeth, predator’s smile. Silence stretched. Then he said it steady, brutal.
“For my husband.”
The terrace erupted. Money slapped wood. Hands slammed tables. The air shook itself into appetite.
The fighter shifted. Not away. Not mockery. Acknowledgment. The bell rang. They met in the middle.
Fists and shoulders collided. Boots scraped canvas. Strikes echoed like hammers. My ribs clenched as though I’d been struck too, every blow ricocheting through my body. My throat locked when Damiano’s guard dipped, heart stuttering as if I’d been the one caught. Fear flooded me, but underneath it, heat. Watching him fight for me, owning the ring, drove a sharp, shameful arousal through me.
His hook grazed the mask, veins standing out along his forearm. Sweat gleamed across his shoulders, muscles flexing with every strike. Each motion was precise, ruthless. My mouth went dry. My palms damp. I wanted to look away but couldn’t. Pride and desire tangled with dread until I shook from all three.
