Page 321 of Rosetti Family New York
He doesn’t cry out, doesn’t collapse. Instead, he locks eyes with me, glassy and wild, and lets the pleasure batter him behind clenched teeth. The aftershocks shake him, wave after wave, until he’s spent. The only evidence is the flush creeping up his neck, the damp patch darkening the fabric, and the shudder in his exhale when he finally releases my leg.
The silence is sacred.
For a while, he just sits there, chest rising and falling quickly as he feels the aftershocks. When he finally talks, his voice is rough, almost hard to recognize.
"Fuck."
I slowly move my foot away, enjoying his shiver, and slip back into my heels with care. "Consider it a down payment on my gratitude."
He looks at me with surprised admiration and a clear promise of payback. "You realize I'll have to return the favor." His voice hints at something dark. "Tenfold."
The waiter comes with our next course, unaware of what just happened. Or maybe he is—he avoids looking at Emilio's lap as he sets the plates with professional skill.
"Is everything to your satisfaction?" the waiter asks.
Emilio smiles like a predator as he looks at me, his pupils still wide. "Absolutely perfect."
19
Emilio
The underground fighting ring lives in a world of shadows and violence that money can’t hide. No matter how much the Rosetti family has invested beneath the boxing gym in Brooklyn, it's still a brutal arena where blood soaks into concrete and men bet fortunes on each other’s pain.
Descending the reinforced stairs, the smell hits first: sweat, blood, fear, and the sharp burn of expensive cigars in humid air. Cologne does nothing against the raw scent of violence. Wet slaps of flesh echo off the walls, the crowd's roar bouncing through the narrow corridor, bones cracking in the distance. Even the high-end ventilation can’t stop the damp that drips from the ceiling.
This is where my family makes millions, and where we partnered with the Callahans—before Dale’s betrayal ruined everything.
I’m about to risk it all on my brother’s willingness to forgive.
"Stay close," I murmur to Mara as we step onto the basement floor. "And don't react to anything you see."
Her hand slips into mine with surprising strength. She’s swapped her silk dinner dress for jeans and a sweater, but she still moves with a dangerous elegance. Men ogle her throat, her hips, the confident way she walks. Every brazen glance makes me seethe in anger.
The main area opens into a wide space dominated by a fighting cage at its center. Chain-links are splattered with fresh blood that gleams under harsh lights. Men shout and wave bills over the din. The whole room thrums with violence barely held in check.
Inside the cage, two fighters circle. One bleeds from a cut above his eye, crimson streaking down his face. The other favors his left side, ribs likely cracked. The crowd roars as the wounded man lunges, desperation driving him forward. When they collide, the impact echoes, followed by the sickening crunch of cartilage.
"Jesus," Mara breathes beside me, but she looks fascinated.
"Where we used to do business with the Callahans," I say, scanning the crowd for Domenico's familiar profile. "Before Dale started skimming profits and Rafe had to kill him."
I spot my brother on a new raised platform that wasn’t there before the war started. It’s clearly built for Dom’s paranoia and need to watch everything. From up high he can see every entrance and stay safe. A few leather chairs are set up, nice but thrown together fast. He’s in his usual spotless suit, dark hair perfect even underground, watching the fights with cold detachment.
Even from here I can see how the war has changed him: stress lines around his eyes, shoulders always tight, body positioned like he’s ready to draw a gun at any moment. Two Rosetti soldiers sit on either side of him, men I’ve seen but never met. They scan the crowd, hands hovering near their holsters.
“There,” I say, pointing at the VIP platform. “Dom’s holding court.”
As we reach the stairs, one of the guards steps forward. He’s built like a brick wall, knuckles scarred, eyes hard. I smell the gun oil on his jacket and notice his heavy boots built for kicking down doors. The harsh lights above paint shadows across his rough face.
“Private area,” he says, voice rough like gravel. “Invitation only.”
“Tell Domenico his brother needs five minutes,” I say, keeping my voice calm even though I’m boiling inside.
He glances at Mara, not checking her out but sizing up whether she’s a threat. Then he nods.
“Wait here.”
He climbs the stairs, his boots thudding against concrete as the crowd’s roar fills the air. Behind us, a fighter’s knee crashes into his opponent’s ribs with a sick crack. The crowd cheers, money changes hands, fortunes made and lost in the sound of breaking bones. The smell of fresh blood mixes with expensive cologne and panic.
