Chapter Twenty-two
Lorenzo
“Fuck,” I growl, spitting blood onto the ground as his fist connects with my jaw. The sharp taste of iron fills my mouth, but it only fuels the fire in me.
This motherfucker has no idea who he’s dealing with.
I grin at him, blood staining my teeth, daring him to try again. His face twists in anger as he comes at me for another punch, but I see it coming. Idiot.
I duck, my leg snapping out with precision, catching him square in the side of the head. He crumples to the ground, still. The crowd erupts in chaos, shouting and screaming, their voices a chaotic blur around me.
I should stop.
But fuck that.
This isn’t about the rules, the fight, or even the money. This is about me, and right now, I’ve got something to burn out of my system.
I drop onto him, straddling his motionless body, and start swinging. My fists collide with his head, one after the other, blood splattering everywhere. My knuckles sting, but I don’t care. The sharp, wet sound of each hit only makes me want to keep going.
“Stop!”
The voice cuts through the noise like a distant echo. Could be someone outside the ring. Could be my own head. Doesn’t matter.
I ignore it.
The bastard isn’t moving. I’m hitting him harder now, willing him to wake up. I need him to move. I need him to fight back because this fight isn’t finished.
Not for me.
I need to bleed out this anger, this… whatever the fuck I felt yesterday. I can’t feel that again. I don’t feel.
The crowd’s noise fades into nothing, the world narrowing to my fists and his bloodied face. Each punch drives me further away from that feeling, that weakness.
I don’t stop. Not until there’s nothing left of him to hit, or nothing left of me to care.
Hands grab at me, trying to stop me. I feel the weight of someone on my back, pulling me away, while two others scramble toward the poor bastard on the floor, trying to keep him breathing.
I haven’t finished. Not even close.
That disgusting, clawing feeling is still there. The one I get when I think about her, that certain blonde. It churns in my gut, and it’s pissing me off. I need this out of my system.
With a growl, I grab the idiot clinging to me and wrench his hands off, throwing him to the floor like a rag doll. He hits the ground hard, and I give him ten seconds to get up.
Ten seconds to make this interesting.
My vision is hazy, my pulse pounding in my ears. And then I catch it, the faint scent of vanilla. Sweet, cloying, and fucking unbearable. My jaw clenches. I hate vanilla.
Five seconds left? Fuck that. I don’t wait.
I charge at him, slamming my forehead into his, a bone-crunching impact that sends him sprawling. Pain ricochets through my skull, but it’s nothing. Adrenaline eats pain alive.
Where the hell is this stamina coming from? I could go all day. Blood is pumping, my muscles are on fire, and I feel unstoppable. A fucking basic caveman, thirsty for blood, thirsty for pain.
“Hit me,” I growl, my voice low and rough, daring him.
The idiot stares at me, wide-eyed and frozen, his fear radiating like a goddamn beacon. He’s 6’0” at best, and I tower over him at 6’4”. His shoulders are shaking. He looks like he’s about to cry.
Pathetic.
Where the fuck can I find someone my size? Andres doesn’t fight anymore, not like this. Not like me.
I tilt my head to one side, then the other, the crack of my neck breaking the silence like a threat.
Then I lunge, delivering another brutal blow that leaves him crumpled at my feet.
This is what I need.
The sting of impact, the sound of flesh and bone breaking, it’s the only thing that keeps me sane.
I’m down now, pinned by three men holding me in place. Blood coats my skin, dripping down my face and hands. Good. Let them see what I’m capable of.
Someone grabs my face.
“Keep touching my face, and it’ll be the last thing you do,” I growl, my vision blurred, my voice low and deadly.
The hand doesn’t move. As my vision sharpens, I see a face, gray beard, lined with age, and eyes that aren’t afraid of me. Late 40s, maybe. Concerned.
I focus harder. It’s Kirill. Of course, it’s Kirill, crouching in front of me, inspecting my face like I’m some wounded dog. His men hold me down, their grips firm, but they should know better.
“Get off me,” I snap, the frustration bubbling under my skin, ready to boil over. Anger builds slowly, creeping through me like a familiar friend.
And then I hear it.
Crying.
My mother’s cries.
I blink, and the room shifts. I see a coffin, massive and heavy, carried by four men in black suits.
My mother, in a black dress and sunglasses, sobbing loudly.
I blink again, shaking my head, trying to force the image away.
But the sound, her cries, echoes in my skull, clawing at the anger, twisting it into something darker.
My pulse pounds in my ears. The vein in my neck throbs, and the rush of blood feels like fire in my veins. I need to get out. I need to move.
Before I can, someone fucking slaps me.
The sting snaps me back. My head whips to the side, and I slowly turn to glare at whoever just dared to slap me.
My gaze is venomous, promising pain. Unless this is some kind of foreplay for a hate fuck with Serena, which, let’s be honest, I wouldn’t complain about, I don’t tolerate anyone slapping my fucking face.
I lift my head, my vision clearing, and there it is.
Kirill’s face comes back into focus, steady and unyielding. He slapped me.
And the look on his face says he’ll do it again if he has to.
“When did it start?” Kirill asks, his voice calm but edged with caution. His face is blank, but I can see the wheels turning behind his eyes. He’s trying to read me, to figure me out.
I meet his gaze with a cold smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now tell your dogs to get their hands off me before I break them and use what’s left to fuck their wives.”
The room goes still, tension crackling in the air. Kirill lets out a low, measured sigh.
“Release him,” he orders, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
The men let go, their hands falling away reluctantly. I straighten up, rolling my shoulders as Kirill continues, his tone sharper now, frustration bleeding through his words.
“You almost killed your opponent. He’s in intensive care now, along with my other employee, the one you decided to beat the shit out of.”
His brows narrow as he stares me down, his discomfort clear. He’s tense, trying to pick apart the mess I just created, trying to decide what the hell to do with me.
Oh, right. I was fighting in his ring.
I glance at him, shrugging off his glare like it’s nothing. The tension rolling off him is palpable, but I can’t bring myself to care.
I’m not a fucking psychopath. I just… forget things sometimes. Like the fact that I’m not supposed to kill the guy I’m fighting. Or that I should stop hitting them before they stop breathing.
It’s simple, really. Easy enough. I definitely won’t forget next time. Probably.
I leave the ring without looking back, not even sparing Kirill a glance. Blood drips from my mouth, the metallic taste lingering. That bastard got a good hit in, it’ll leave a mark by morning.
Driving to work feels almost laughable after the chaos I just walked out of, but besides breaking faces and plotting revenge against the people who killed my father, I do occasionally have to play the part of a businessman.
Still dressed like a gentleman, I’m in my black Armani suit. The white polo t-shirt underneath, however, is another story, blood-stained and nearly ripped to shreds thanks to the goons who thought they could hold me down.
I pull up to the Moretti Estates building. Thirty stories of sleek glass, standing tall like a monument to my success. Unlike most CEOs, I know exactly what’s happening on every floor. I know every employee’s name and what they contribute. Efficiency matters.
Stepping out of my black Cadillac Escalade, I adjust my tie.
Can’t have the boss walking in looking like a complete psychopath, now, can I?
The doors slide open as I enter the building, and the room falls silent. My employees freeze, their eyes widening as they take in my “new look.” I can see the fear in their expressions, the way they avoid eye contact.
What’s the problem? I thought “casual messy” was trending these days.
I take the elevator to the 20th floor, the ride smooth and quiet. When the doors slide open, I’m greeted by my assistant, Ashley.
She used to be a regular fuck, nothing serious, just something to pass the time. Now? She’s here for business, and that’s where it ends.
“Mr. Moretti,” she says, her tone carefully neutral as her eyes dart to the blood on my shirt.
I smirk, stepping past her toward my office. She’s good at hiding her reactions, but I know exactly what’s going through her mind.
And I can’t blame her. I do look like someone who just walked out of hell.
“My office. Two minutes,” I bark, my voice raw, leaving no room for discussion.
Feelings? I’ve never been good with those. Never cared for them. Never had them. But last night? Last night was a fucking shock to my system.
Those brown eyes, locked on mine, her soft hands pressing against my abdomen. Her long, nude nails digging into my skin like she was claiming me. That vanilla scent, it’s poison in my veins, a toxin I can’t flush out.
Her little cries echo in my head, the sound of her sweet, wet pussy dripping onto my hand as I fucked her with my gun.
The memory sends a jolt through me, and my dick throbs painfully against my pants. I grit my teeth, willing the image away as the door opens.
Ashley steps inside, closing the door softly behind her.
“Did you ask for me, sir?” she says, her tone careful, almost soft, but not soft enough.
She’s a perfect distraction, standing there with her 5’5” model frame, long legs that stretch for days, and those D-cup tits that are always strategically on display.
Her full lips are painted with her signature red lipstick.
She’s done it for me before, left my cock messy and slick, the red smudging against my skin like a mark of her devotion.
“Obviously,” I say sharply, leaning back in my chair. “I’m the one who called you in here, didn’t I?”
She hesitates, her movements cautious as she approaches my desk. I can see it in her eyes, she’s nervous.
She should be.
“Now get on your knees,” I command, my voice rough and impatient as I unbuckle my belt. If the fight didn’t drown the chaos in my head, maybe this will. A blowjob might quiet the storm. She’s just another mouth. Nothing more. She’s nothing.
Ashley obeys, her hands moving quickly to grab my cock. She massages it slowly, deliberately, her wet tongue flicking across the tip. She knows how to tease, how to prolong the buildup.
But I feel nothing.
The numbness presses in, heavy and suffocating. Her touch, her mouth, it’s mechanical, a means to an end. My mind drifts, clawing at anything to break the emptiness.
“Look at me,” I snap, my voice sharp and demanding.
Her green eyes lift to mine, glossy and tear-filled as she struggles to keep pace. But they aren’t what I want to see. My hand fists in her long, dark hair, forcing her head still.
And for a moment, the illusion shatters. Her green eyes blur, replaced by brown.
Soft brown eyes framed by blonde hair. Her hands were smaller, her touch softer. Her nails, long, nude, perfect, digging into my skin as she looked up at me, her lips trembling.
My grip tightens. “Fuck, Serena” I growl, my body reacting against my will. The memory of her scent, that fucking vanilla poison, floods my mind, and I lose control.
Her lips are still working, her nails stroking my length, and all I see is her. I thrust harder into her mouth, forcing her to take all of me, searching for some release that I know won’t come.
I push deeper, harder, her throat constricting around me as I drive my hips forward. Her gagging only fuels me, but it’s not enough. It never is.
The door swings open, and standing there is Andres, his face etched with displeasure.
The moment shatters, and I’m dragged out of my euphoria, my focus snapping back to reality.
I glance down and see her, black-haired, green-eyed Ashley, wiping her mouth, her face flushed.
What the fuck have I done?
Did I really get to the point where I had to imagine her, her, just to get off with someone else? Which was a massive fail, by the way. My jaw tightens, and the anger I’ve buried beneath layers of indifference starts to claw its way out.
“Get out,” I bark, my voice cold and final.
Ashley scrambles to her feet, her cheeks stained with embarrassment. She nods at Andres as she passes him, avoiding his eyes, looking small and humiliated.
I look at Andres, leaning back in my chair, forcing my irritation into something that sounds almost controlled. “To what do I owe this fucking pleasure, brother?” I spit, my tone sharp and full of venom.
Andres steps inside, closing the door behind him with a deliberate calm that makes my skin itch. His face gives nothing away, but I’ve known him long enough to read between the lines.
There’s something he knows.