Chapter 6 Dante
DANTE
The city’s still half-asleep when I pull up to Steel Roses Gym just before dawn. A pale orange light smears over the rooftops, breaking through the haze, and the air’s got that early-morning bite. I kill the engine and sit for a moment, watching my breath cloud the windshield.
I’d half expected her to ignore my text. Part of me wanted her to.
This is still a bad idea. I don’t ask for help. Not from cops, not from friends, and sure as hell not from women who could gut me without breaking stride. But I’m here anyway.
The gym sits at the dead end of a narrow street, brick walls pressed tight against the hulking side of the old brewery the Harlots turned into their clubhouse.
The trace tang of malt still hangs in the air.
A steel door bears the gym’s name in bold red script, flanked by two chrome-blade roses that glint even in the weak dawn light.
I climb out, boots hitting wet pavement, the smell of last night’s rain still clinging to the air. Above the corner, a security camera tilts down, its dark glass eye tracking my every move.
I pause just long enough to feel the weight of what I’m about to do.
Once I walk through that door, I’ll be in her world, under her rules, and every damn move I make is going to be under a microscope.
There’s no taking it back, no pretending this is just a conversation.
I’m opening a door I can’t close again, and I’m not sure if I’m here because I need her help…
or because I need her. My pulse hammers, not from fear exactly, but from the sharp edge of knowing I’m about to break my own rules.
I step toward the door, raising my fist before I change my mind. The steel is cold under my knuckles as I knock once, twice. The sound echoes down the empty street, a hollow reminder that it’s too damn early for anyone sane to be up.
A beat passes, long enough for the chill to settle on the back of my neck.
Then the lock clicks, and the door swings open to Katana standing there with her hair damp and pulled up, exposing the soft skin at her neck.
I swallow hard, and tell myself I’m here for a reason.
That I’m only noticing how the morning light sharpens the line of her jaw because it’s there, not because I can’t stop looking.
That I’m not watching the way her tank top slips off one shoulder, not tracking the way she moves.
I tell myself a lot of things at the moment. Most of them are lies.
She studies me in silence, slow and deliberate, like weighing whether to let me in or slam the door in my face.
“You’re on time,” she says, like that’s a surprise.
“Didn’t want to give you a reason to change your mind.”
Her mouth twitches caught somewhere between a smirk and a sneer. She holds the door just far enough for me to pass but doesn’t step back.
I nod toward the open space. “You gonna let me in?”
She steps aside without answering. I cross the threshold, and the air changes like it’s charged with the heated tension between us that neither of us wants to acknowledge.
The door shuts behind me with a metallic click that echoes too loud.
Inside it smells like leather and chalk, cut by the sharp bite of disinfectant.
Overhead lights blaze across the mats, leaving nowhere to hide.
Rows of heavy bags hang motionless, chains glinting under the glare, and the weight racks line the far wall.
This is Katana’s territory, and I feel it in every step she takes.
She walks ahead without looking back, tying her hair tighter like she’s already preparing for a fight. She steps up into the ring and turns, tilting her head just enough to make it a challenge.
“This isn’t a coffee date,” Katana says, her voice steady but her eyes sharp. “You want to talk, you’re going to have to earn it. Then I’ll decide if I’m willing to listen.”
She says it like it’s not up for debate. Like whatever’s about to happen in this ring will tell her more than my words ever could. That’s what I’m afraid of.
One corner of my mouth lifts. “Earn it?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know how this works.” She tilts her head measuring me. “We spar. You win, maybe I listen a little longer. You lose…” Her eyes flash. “Well, you’ll still be breathing. Probably.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask, rolling my shoulders.
“Absolutely,” she says, “Don’t hold back, because I won’t.”
I’m not here for games, but my pulse says otherwise. I toe off my boots, and drop my jacket on the bench. The floor is firm under my bare feet, the kind that makes every slip a mistake you’ll feel for days.
Katana’s already side-stepping at the center of the ring when I climb in. She’s barefoot, tank top clinging to her skin, black shorts riding high on her hips. There’s a loose, coiled energy about her like she’s waiting for me to make the first move.
“You want gloves?” I ask.
Her grin is sharp. “No. Are you planning to hit me?”
“Only if you hit me first.”
“I was counting on it.”
She moves first. A testing jab that snaps the air near my face. I shift back, letting her see the ease in it. Her mouth curves like she hates that I didn’t bite.
“Are you holding back already?”
“Just getting a read.”
“I don’t need you to read me.” She throws a low kick, fast and close enough that I feel the brush of air over my shin. “I need you to keep up.”
Katana lands a jab to my ribs before I can even register the shift in her stance. I catch the second on my forearm, but the force still bites the bone. She’s quick, precise and dangerous. There’s heat in her strikes, the kind that makes you feel them hours later.
She comes in again, and this time I meet her halfway. Our forearms smack together with a sound that’s all tension. Her skin is warm, slick from the sheen of sweat already gathering. I’m close enough to see the edge of her jaw flex as she exhales.
The next punch comes harder, aimed at my ribs. I catch it, twist, and she uses the momentum to hook her foot behind my knee. I stumble half a step, no more, but it’s enough for her to see she’s drawn blood in the form of my pride.
“Is that all you got?” she taunts, her eyes locked on mine.
I grin despite myself. “You really want to find out?”
She doesn’t answer, she just lunges. We trade strikes, each one harder, faster.
I’m not giving her everything, but she’s making it damn hard to keep the leash on.
My knuckles sting from blocking, my forearms throb where bone meets bone.
Her elbow grazes my jaw, and the copper taste blooms in my mouth.
She sees it.
“Stop holding back,” she says, her breath coming faster now. “I can take it.”
She means it, and I feel the truth of it when her next kick lands solid against my ribs.
Pain shoots across my side, sharp and hot.
I ride it, step in close, and catch her wrist before she can pull back.
The heat between us spikes, skin to skin, her pulse thudding under my thumb.
For a second, neither of us moves. I can feel her breathing quick, and shallow, but steady.
Her eyes don’t waver, and neither do mine.
Then she jerks free and comes at me harder, like she’s trying to burn off whatever that was.
Our bodies crash together in a blur of fists and blocks, feet scuffing the mats, sweat sliding down the side of my face.
Every time she closes in, there’s a flicker of heat between us.
A brush of her hip when she pivots, the rasp of her breath near my ear when she feints high and drives low.
My blood’s running hotter than it should for a sparring match.
She spins for a roundhouse and I catch her mid-turn, my arm locking around her waist. Her back slams into my chest, and the scent of her hits me like a sucker punch. She tries to twist out, but my grip’s too tight.
“Let me go,” she growls.
“You sure?”
Her elbow comes for my ribs, and I have to shift to avoid another bruise. That’s when she pushes off me, breaking the hold, and we circle each other again.
My breath’s heavier now. So is hers.
She feints left, comes right, and her fist clips my cheek.
The flash of pain sharpens everything, my focus, the sound of our feet on the mat, the rise and fall of her breathing.
She comes at me again but I catch her wrist mid-swing, twisting just enough to throw her off balance.
She recovers quickly, using the momentum to spin into a kick that clips my jaw.
My teeth slam together and I taste blood.
I swipe the blood from my mouth with my thumb and smile.
“Is that all you got?” I throw her words back at her.
Her answering grin is wicked. “Not even close.”
The pace builds, Sweat slicks my skin, hers too, catching the light in thin lines down her arms. I block a hook, step in close enough that I catch a flash of gold in her eyes. I feel the heat of her body when my hand grazes her side as I push her back.
We break apart for half a second, then collide again.
I catch her arm, she twists, our chests brush in the scramble, and the heat that runs through me has nothing to do with the fight.
Her hair’s come loose, a few strands sticking to her damp skin.
For a moment we’re locked there, breathing hard, eyes on each other, the air between us tightens.
My gaze drops to her mouth. She notices.
Her eyes drop to mine, then flick back up like she’s daring me to make a move.
My chest tightens, the urge to bridge the distance overriding the voice in my head that says don’t but suddenly we’re there.
Her face inches from mine, her breath hot on my lips.
My hand’s still on her arm, hers braced against my chest.
For half a heartbeat, the fight stops.
But she’s the one who breaks first slamming her palm into my chest and sending me back a step. “Not bad.”
“You’re better,” I admit, catching my breath. “But I can take a hit.”
“Yeah,” she says, brushing hair from her face, “I noticed.”
Katana bends, palms braced on her knees, breathing hard. A bead of sweat rolls from her temple down along the curve of her jaw, disappearing into the hollow of her throat. I shouldn’t be watching it but I am.
She straightens, walks over to the wall, and yanks a towel from the rack.
Without looking at me, she tosses it underhand.
I catch it one-handed. I drag the towel across my face, soak up the sweat, then dab at the blood on my lip.
My mouth still tastes like copper. My skin still remembers the places she touched.
Quick jabs, a sweep that nearly took me off my feet, her palm braced against my chest just long enough to shove me back.
Every move from her carried that electric undercurrent, like she was daring me to admit I felt it.
She closes the distance between us in two slow steps. Her hand lifts like she’s going to touch me, then curls into a fist before she pulls back. She snatches the towel from my other hand and tosses it into the bin. The near-contact leaves my skin prickling.
“Talk,” she says. “And make it worth my time.”
She wipes her arms with her own towel, slow, deliberate, like she doesn’t care that I’m watching but she knows I am. She tosses it into the bin, leans a hip against the heavy bag stand, and folds her arms. Her stance is loose, but her eyes are sharp. She’s listening for the truth.
I take a breath, not because I’m winded but because I need to decide how much to give her without showing my throat. “Turns out one of my runners was working for a guy named Serrano. I think he’s behind the threats and missing girls.”
Her brow arches, eyes narrowing. “Was?”
“He’s in the wind.” My voice is flat, but there’s a hard edge I don’t bother hiding. “But I’ll find him. And when I do he’ll regret betraying me.”
She studies me for a beat, then says, “Amber was beaten and dumped at our clubhouse. So I want to know everything you know about this Serrano guy.”
I meet her stare. “He’s a criminal. Low-life with deep pockets. Cartel money.”
“Not good enough.” Her jaw works like she’s grinding her teeth. “You used to work for him. Disappeared then ended up here.”
I don’t answer right away. Her eyes are steady, and I can feel her reading every beat of silence.
“Did you turn on him?” she presses. “Is this personal?”
I let the quiet stretch just long enough to make my point. “If Amber got dropped at your door, the Royal Harlots are already on his radar. You don’t need my history to know that’s bad news.”
She tilts her head a fraction, weighing me, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m hiding something. Which I am.
“One of my guys, Briggs, is missing,” I add. “I believe Serrano has him. I’m not here to play games, Katana. You want to protect your people and so do I. We can either circle each other waiting for Serrano to make another move or we can go at him together.”
Her lips part for a breath, but she shuts them again, crossing her arms tighter.
We stand there in that thin stretch of space, heat from sparring still in the air, sweat cooling on our skin.
Her gaze drops once, quick, before she catches herself and looks up again staring me dead in the eye. “What exactly are you asking from me?”
“That we keep each other informed. You hear something about Serrano, you tell me. I hear something, I'll tell you.” Her jaw tightens. “We don’t have to trust each other. This doesn’t make us friends. Just… allies.”
Her mouth curves just a flicker, not quite a smile. “Allies,” she repeats, like she’s tasting the word to see if it fits.
“Better than enemies.”
She studies me one last time before pushing off the bag stand. “Fine. But you better not hold back on me.”
I give her a slow grin that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The tension between us doesn’t snap, it coils tighter, humming under my skin like a live wire.
She finally steps back, but it’s not retreat.
No, it’s calculated, deliberate, like she knows I’ll feel the absence more than the closeness.
Neither of us says anything. There’s too much in what’s already been said, and maybe even more in what hasn’t.
I slip into my boots, retrieve my jacket and move toward the door without another word.
Her eyes track me the whole way, sharp and unreadable, stripping me down to whatever truth she thinks she sees.
My hand finds the cold steel handle. For half a second, I think about looking back. I don’t.
The lock clicks behind me when I step out into the morning, the cool air cutting across the heat still clinging to my skin. The taste of blood hasn’t faded, and neither has the memory of her standing too close, the warmth of her breath, the low rasp of her voice still caught in my ear.
I tell myself I came here for information. For an ally. Nothing more. And, like before, most of what I tell myself is a lie.