Chapter 16 Dante
DANTE
My gloves are slick with sweat, leather biting into my knuckles with every strike. The bag swings wild now, no rhythm left, just rage and noise. Each hit lands heavier, but sloppier as I try to bleed out what’s clawing inside me.
I should have fought harder. I should have forced Katana to listen to reason. I didn’t tell her about Riot to hurt her, I was trying to protect her. I couldn’t let her walk into the battlefield blind. She deserved to know the truth, even if it broke her. Even if it cost me her trust.
Now I’m standing here, pounding this damn bag like it can take the hit for me.
Like it can absorb the twist in my gut and the sound of her voice when she told me to get out.
I didn’t even try to fight. Instead of pulling her close, instead of letting her hit me until she burned through the pain, I walked away.
Too afraid to push her. Too afraid that letting her in was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.
Maybe she didn’t feel the same. Maybe she did.
My shoulders burn, lungs scrape for air. The chain creaks above me, metal grinding against metal. The bag jerks back hard and snaps forward, slamming into my chest like a counterpunch I deserve. I catch it, hold it still, my forehead pressed to the canvas, and breathe through the pain.
That look in her eye like I held the knife that stabbed her in the back haunts me. I see it every time I blink. It’s worse when I close my eyes. So I don’t. I keep swinging.
I hit the bag again, harder, the sound cracking through the empty gym. The sting in my knuckles is sharp, grounding me in my misery. My breath comes in ragged bursts, each one pulling something rawer to the surface.
She trusted Riot. She loved her. I get it now, telling her the truth was like tearing out her heart with my bare hands. But what the hell was I supposed to do?
The bag spins, thudding against my forearm. I lose my footing, stumble, then drive forward again. My vision blurs around the edges. Sweat drips down my nose, mixes with the blood smearing the inside of my glove.
I can’t think straight. Can’t stop seeing her face. The disbelief. The fury. The hurt. I’ve been hit before, cut, broken, left half-dead but this? This feels worse. Because she’s the first person I ever wanted to stay.
My breathing turns ragged. The room feels smaller like the walls are closing in. Every strike shakes through my bones until I can’t tell where the bag ends and I start.
Then I miss. My fist sails past the canvas, momentum throwing me off balance. My shoulder clips the bag, and I hit the floor hard enough to rattle the rafters. For a second I just lie there, staring up at the exposed pipes, my chest heaving.
The sound of footsteps pulls me back. Briggs stops at the edge of the mat, a towel slung over his shoulder, brow furrowed like he’s trying to figure out if I’m still breathing. “You planning to kill that thing, or just yourself?”
I sit up, wipe the sweat from my face, and let out something between a laugh and a growl. “Working on both.”
Briggs shakes his head, steps closer, and holds out a towel. “You look like shit.”
“Sounds about right.” I move to my feet and swing wildly at my target.
The bag jolts under my fist, the chain above squealing in protest. My breath comes rough, my chest burning, arms trembling from too many rounds.
Briggs edges closer and squints, “Something happen?”
He waits, patient but wary, like he knows better than to push too hard. I don't answer right away. I rip off a glove, flex my hand, and watch the blood bead across split knuckles. “Yeah. She told me to get out.”
“Damn.” Briggs whistles under his breath.
“She didn’t want to hear the truth.” I mutter.
He tilts his head, curiosity flickering in his stare. I grab the towel he offers, press it to my hands. “Riot wasn’t who she thought she was.”
That gets his attention. “The one from her club?”
“Yeah. She was feeding Serrano’s crew information. Katana didn’t know. None of them did. I couldn’t keep that to myself.”
Briggs lets out a low whistle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can’t blame her. Riot was her family.”
“I thought she’d listen,” I drag the towel across my neck, staring at the floor. “Thought she’d see I was trying to protect her. But the second I said it, it was over. The way she looked at me…” I trail off, my jaw locked tight. “Like I was the one betraying her.”
Briggs shifts his weight to lean against the wall. He shakes his head slowly. “You? The guy who goes twelve rounds with anyone who looks at him wrong? You just left?”
“Yeah,” I say, voice low. “Because this wasn’t a fight I could win.”
He grins just a little, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You need ice or whiskey?”
I hold my hands up, red and raw. “Both.”
“That tracks.” Briggs pushes off the wall and heads toward the office fridge. “You know, man, you can’t fix everything.”
I half-laugh, half-snarl. “Can’t seem to fix anything.”
He tosses me a bottle of water instead of whiskey. “Drink that instead.”
I catch it, twist the cap, and down half of it before wiping my mouth. For a minute we sit in silence, the only sound is the hum of the lights and the soft sway of the bag. My pulse starts to even out, but the ache in my chest doesn’t.
“Look,” Briggs says finally, “you did what you thought was right. Maybe she’ll see that when the dust settles.”
“Maybe,” I say, though I don’t believe it. “Or maybe I just broke the one thing that matters.”
Briggs picks up one of the gloves off the floor, turns it over in his hands. “Then fix it. You’re good at rebuilding broken shit.”
“Not this time.”
“That sucks, man.” Briggs studies me for a moment, then shrugs. “At least with Serrano’s gone, you can breathe easier now.”
“Yeah, I should be.” I toss the water bottle into the trash can, my muscles screaming from the movement. “But Serrano wasn’t working alone.
Briggs straightens, the smirk slipping from his face. “You think there’s someone else pulling strings?”
“I don’t think so. I know.” I drag a hand down my face, sweat drying cold against my skin. “Serrano’s crew was too organized for it to end with him. You don’t build an operation that size and have it crumble overnight. Someone else was funding him.”
Briggs whistles low, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. “Christ. So what’s next, then?”
“Don’t know yet.” I sling the towel over my shoulders. “I can’t see straight right now. Katana’s face is all I can picture.”
“Yeah, well, she’s got a hell of a glare,” he mutters, trying to lighten the mood. “Could stop a grown man mid-stride.”
I crack half a grin. “She didn’t stop me. Just gutted me.”
He chuckles low. “Guess that’s worse.”
“Yeah.” I roll my neck until it pops. “Much worse.”
Briggs leans against the post, crossing his arms. “Suit yourself, man. The way I see it, you’ve got two choices. Keep beating the hell out of that bag until your bones give out, or figure out how to fix it.”
I stand there, my pulse thudding in my ears, the silence pressing in. He pats my shoulder once, solid and heavy, and starts toward the office. “Lock up when you’re done killing yourself.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, but I don’t move.
I watch him head for the door, the sound of his boots fading down the hall. The gym goes quiet again, just the steady hum of the old lights and my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
I glance at the bag. It’s still rocking, slow and uneven. I step forward and stop it with one hand, the rough canvas scraping my palm. My reflection stares back in the mirrored wall all sweat-soaked, bruised, and hollow. For the first time in a long while, I don’t recognize the man looking back.
My knuckles are split, blood welling slow and dark. I stand there another minute, listening to the echo of my own heartbeat, until the stillness feels unbearable. I press my thumb into one of the cuts until it stings sharp enough to focus me.
I hit the showers. The water takes too long to get hot, then goes skin-peeling.
I stand under it until steam wraps around me and the tile stops feeling like a cold wall at my spine.
It does nothing to rinse out the feeling that I should have done a thousand different things in a thousand different ways.
Eventually I get dressed, grab my hoodie and throw everything else into a gym bag, slinging it over my shoulder.
I lock the side door, the key cold between my fingers.
My SUV sits under a streetlamp with a halo of moths.
I climb in and the seat groans like an old friend.
Sirens whine somewhere in the distance and fades.
The engine turns over easy, the radio is off cocooning me in a heavy silence.
I drive aimlessly at first. Green lights, red lights, the wash of neon and late-night diners and shuttered bodegas.
A couple arguing on a corner. A stray dog nosing a pizza box.
I catch myself checking mirrors for a bike that isn’t there.
Stupid habit. I cut across two lanes to make a turn I didn’t plan, then another to undo it.
I end up in my spot behind my apartment building without remembering half the route.
My phone sits at the edge of the seat, screen black, a quiet dare. I flip it over. Nothing. No missed calls. No texts. Her contact sits two thumb-taps away. I stare until the screen goes to sleep again and I’m looking at my own reflection. I do not like the man I see tonight.
I light a cigarette without thinking about it.
The first drag burns and steadies. I lean back, let the smoke creep toward the ceiling, and close my eyes because open is not working either.
Katana’s face floods in, crisp and immediate.
The line of her mouth when it goes hard.
The way she held herself upright on pain and pride and refused to let me be the one who took the weight off her shoulders.
I breathe in until my ribs protest. I breathe out until I feel lightheaded. I tell myself I am still here. That counts for something but for the first time in years, I don’t know what comes next.