Epilogue
KATANA
The gym hums with life, every heavy bag thudding, every laugh sharp and real.
Sweat slicks the mats, the sound of gloves snapping against pads rising over the music thumping from the speakers.
This is what we built the Steel Roses Gym for: safety, strength, second chances. Tonight, it feels more alive than ever.
Dante’s on the main floor, barefoot in sweats and a worn black tee, working with Amber. She’s still not cleared for sparring after what Serrano’s crew did to her, but she’s heavier now, stronger, the hollow under her eyes gone.
I lean against the ropes, my knuckles curling around the coarse hemp, and watch him work. Watching him coax strength out of the girls, watching them stand taller because of it. The wall I’ve carried like armor since the day I patched in cracks open, and for once I don’t fight it.
Amber’s throwing jabs at the mitts he holds steady. He corrects, encourages, pushes with a patience I never thought he owned.
“Shoulder, not wrist,” Dante tells her, calm but firm. He nudges her elbow down, lines her feet up with a shift of his boot. “Drive from the ground.”
When she lands her jab clean, his grin flashes quick and genuine. It hits me hard, right in the chest.
He’s not just good with them. He belongs here in ways I didn’t let myself imagine months ago.
He hasn’t shut down his own gym, but he’s here more than he isn’t. Briggs runs his day-to-day operations, which leaves Dante here—with me, with us.
On the far side of the gym, Devyn throws a right cross that cracks loud enough to turn heads. Pride slides through me so fast it almost unsteadies me.
LC stands watch nearby, Diesel sprawled at her feet, tongue lolling, like always. When Amber finishes her round, she wipes sweat off her brow.
“Looking good, kid.” LC tosses her a towel. Amber almost smiles. Almost. The scars are there, but she’s turning them into fuel. That’s what this place does. That’s what we do. It’s a small win, but those are the ones that stick.
Mama Ru breezes through, her sharp eyes scanning the floor. She side-eyes Dante before cutting her gaze to me. The look says: I see you happy, child, and I won’t make a fuss because I like breathing.
Quinn comes in next, her cut slung casual over her shoulder. She scans the room, eyes sharp, weighing the noise, the order, the pulse. Her chin tips the barest fraction in approval. Then she drifts my way and bumps her arm against mine.
“How’s the head?” she asks, code for ‘how are your ghosts?’
“Quieter,” I say. And it’s true.
My ribs still ache when I breathe too deep, but that’s nothing new. Pain’s an old friend, just softer these days. I still think about Riot, but with Dante by my side the weight is lighter.
Quinn nods once, nothing more needed. Her gaze shifts back to the mat, to Dante with the fighters. “He’s good with them.”
“Yeah,” I answer, letting the word carry what I don’t say he’s good with me too.
Dante catches me staring, wipes sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, and strides across the mat, his hair damp with sweat, shirt clinging to him. His gaze is hot, direct, that same unwavering fire that burned me from the first time I saw him.
When he stops in front of me, I can’t hold the words in any longer. I let them spill out, raw and unpolished, without a second thought.
“I love you.”
The words are stripped bare, but they’re mine, and I mean every syllable.
For a second, Dante just breathes, chest heaving, eyes wide like he’s holding on to something that might shatter if he moves too fast. Then his hand cups my face and he kisses me, slow and deep, like the whole gym could collapse around us and he’d still be right here.
“I love you, too,” he says against my mouth, and it’s not a confession. It’s a vow.
Around us, the gym goes on. Bags thud, laughter rises, gloves smack the air. But for me, for him, this moment is all ours.
Still, not everything is settled. Isadora Vale’s shadow hasn’t lifted.
Her empire keeps shifting just out of reach.
We’ve dug, we’ve pushed, but so far every lead slips between our fingers.
We know she’s out there tightening her grip, expanding her reach, but proving it is another war. And wars aren’t won in a day.
I glance at Dante now, the man who stepped out of his own cage to stand in mine. He doesn’t just train fighters, he stands beside them. Beside me. I slide my hand into his, our fingers locking. We’re not done. Not even close. But we’re in this together.
Later that night, when the last of the girls head out and the music fades, I move through the clubhouse. The place is quiet, the gym’s energy a hum in my bones. I head toward the back, thinking about coffee, about the way Dante will probably steal my mug before I’ve had two sips.
That’s when I see the soft glow under the crack of the Church door.
I ease it open.
Scarlett Rose is inside, hunched over the table.
Her cut’s off, folded neat beside her, hair loose around her shoulders.
Papers sprawl in front of her, a mess of ledgers, receipts and bank printouts scattered like a puzzle.
Her laptop screen paints her face pale, tired shadows score the hollows under her eyes.
She’s scribbling in the margins like a woman possessed.
“Burning the midnight oil?” I ask, stepping in.
She startles, the scratch of her pen cutting off mid-stroke, her shoulders snapping rigid. The chair creaks as she shifts, her eyes flicking up sharp and quick, enough to tell me she hadn’t heard me come in.
“Something like that,” she mutters. Her hand slides over the nearest sheet like she’s guarding it.
I drop into the chair across from her. “What are you working on?”
Scarlett exhales, taps her pen against the table. Her eyes are hard, the way they get when she’s already ten moves ahead of the rest of us. “Money funneled through charities that don’t exist, businesses with no employees but steady streams of cash. I think I’m onto something.”
The word think sticks. Scarlett doesn’t move until she’s sure. If she’s not certain yet, it means the ground’s still shifting under her feet.
“Onto what?” I press.
Her jaw flexes. “Not ready to share. Not yet. I need to trace it further, tie the strings tighter.”
I study her face. If Scarlet’s this deep in, whatever she’s piecing together is serious.
I lean back, fold my arms. “Fine. You’ll tell us when you’re ready. Just don’t burn yourself out getting there.”
Scarlett’s mouth tilts, wry. “Look who’s talking.”
I snort, stand, and give the table one last look. The numbers mean nothing to me, but the tension in her shoulders says everything. There’s another storm building.
I head for the door. “Don’t stay up too late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she says, eyes already back on the screen.
The door swings shut behind me. I walk back through the clubhouse, the thrum of the gym still alive in my bones. Dante’s muffled laugh echoes through the walls, low and steady, and I think of the words I finally gave him tonight. I love you.
The fight ahead won’t be easy, but neither of us ever chose easy. We chose each other. And if Scarlett’s right, if the smoke she’s chasing turns into fire, we’ll be ready to burn it all down.