25. CHAPTER 24—ANTONIO
CHAPTER 24—ANTONIO
I punch the air, sweat trickling down my back as I finish my warmup. Every strike carries years of stored violence, waiting to explode.
"Higher," Franco dodges, eyes tracking my fists. "Faster," he commands, respect threading through his voice - the kind you earn with blood, not the bloodthirsty anticipation rolling off this crowd like expensive cologne. They stare at my scars like they're reading fortunes. Not like Isabella, who looked at them with a curiosity that should've been revulsion. Does she see herself as the muse of these battle marks? Her father's handiwork carved into my skin?
"That's it," Franco's words cut through the hum of my focus, that endless well of rage that powers each swing. I recoil, preparing for an uppercut that almost lands on Franco's nose before restraint kicks in at the last second.
"Thanks, boss." Franco's grin is wry, acknowledging the near miss.
Henrik won't be granted such clemency.
The ballroom's transformed from wealth's playground to war zone, opulent chandeliers watching over makeshift violence. Anticipation thickens the air along with beer and high-end perfume, rich wine mixing with steak and gorgonzola, pasta and pizza - a feast fit for Isabella's father's particular tastes. The same man who once summoned a chef from Naples just for the perfect gorgonzola. When the chef failed, his throat was opened with the same emotion you'd use to sign a contract. As the man bled out on imported marble, her father's eyes never left my mother. Isabella was absent then, still wrapped in her bubble of ballet and innocence.
My mother didn't flinch.
Because she knew... oh, she knew that monsters wear Armani and sleep beside you, that love is just another weapon they use to destroy. Some lessons you learn too late.
"Three minutes." The announcement booms and the crowd surges with anticipation. They're here for blood - specifically Henrik's blood. Nothing entertains these vultures more than watching one of their own fall.
Connor and Radomir claim front row seats - today's losers getting prime view of tomorrow's winner. Connor's uncharacteristically quiet, that Irish charm gone cold as a corpse. Interesting. No smart remarks, no calculated jabs. Just silence and those eyes that see too much. Radomir, though? He's coiled rage in a designer suit, probably imagining both Henrik and me dead in a ditch.
Mrs. Lefevre commands the back of the room like a queen presiding over an execution. Sure, she's got an army of security around her, guarding her like she's the Hope Diamond, but she stands alone. Two heirs dead within days of each other. Some whisper about bad luck. I don't believe in luck - just carefully orchestrated "accidents" and perfectly timed coincidences.
And isn't it interesting how she doesn't look like a grieving mother?
I don't give a fuck about French mafia politics right now.
Not when she's there, wrapped in blue silk that's both too much and not enough. The dress clings like a lover's hands, revealing new scars I want to trace with my tongue. She's a daydream dressed in night sky colors - the kind that makes me want to peel away each layer, discover every mark, taste every inch until she forgets any touch but mine. Desire burns through my veins like good whiskey, unwanted but impossible to deny.
But she's a nightmare too, because my heart shouldn't stutter when she meets my gaze. I shouldn't want to grab her, pin her against the nearest wall, make her feel exactly what she does to me. Make her understand that she hasn't won - that I have. That I will.
This is about vengeance. For my mother. For the life they stole from me. For the boy who died in flames while she watched.
Revenge, pure and simple.
Nothing less.
Nothing more.
(The last lie tastes like copper and sand on my tongue.)
The air crackles with bloodlust now. Henrik and I circle each other in the ring, predators sizing up prey. Only difference is, he doesn't know which of us is which.
"The rules are clear. No biting. No hits below the belt. This isn't ultimate championship. This is a fist fight. First one to hit the ground loses."
Henrik's snarl is all amateur bravado. "Those are rules for the weak."
I arch an eyebrow, letting my smirk cut deep. "No, those are rules for the ones who aren't afraid."
He tilts his head, eyes sliding to Isabella like oil on water. "I wonder if they'll give us two for the price of one. I can see myself with both of them."
The image hits like acid - his hands on her skin, his mouth where it doesn't belong. Rage floods my system, hot and deadly, but I cage it. Channel it. I didn't survive this long by letting anger control me in the ring. No, I know exactly where to strike to make him bleed.
"You wouldn't know what to do with them." My gaze drops deliberately south, my smile pure venom. "Clearly, they wouldn't be satisfied. But don't worry... You're not going to win."
The bell rings and he launches himself at me, all fury and no finesse. Each punch broadcasts his next move, burning energy like he's got something to prove. Huffing and pudding. Like an old engine running on fumes, all noise and no power.
Amateur.
This dance we're doing—him lunging, me evading—it's a brutal ballet, each move a mockery of the grace Isabella once commanded on stage. His fists slice air where my face should be, frustration rolling off him in waves.
"Fight me!" he barks, thinking my restraint is weakness. I'm just waiting, watching, letting the predator in me choose its moment.
The crowd holds its collective breath, the silence broken only by Henrik's desperate grunts and our feet sliding across the mat. My lips curl into the smile that earned me my reputation - the one that makes smarter men run.
"She's going to beg for more." Henrik's words drip poison. "And you know who else begged for more? Your mother."
Ice floods my veins. "Leave my mother out of this."
His laugh is all razor edges. "She was nothing but a—"
My look stops him cold. "Don't." One word, carrying years of promised violence.
But Henrik's too stupid to hear the warning. "She called for you, didn't she? And you couldn't save her."
The taunt hits deeper than any physical blow, ripping open scars that never truly healed. Rage explodes through my blood, but I leash it, channel it. He wants the Beast? I'll give him calculated destruction instead.
His fist catches my guard - one lucky shot that feeds his ego. His laughter bounces off the walls, the sound of a man who thinks he's won the war because he drew first blood.
And the surprise attack throws me off balance for a fraction of a second, a moment unseen by all but Franco.
His voice cuts through the noise, a quiet command in Italian, "Slow, now, punch."
Reacting with trained precision, I answer with my fist in Henrik's gut, feeling ribs give under the impact.
He's a tad shorter and nowhere near as strong. But the real advantage I have isn't just physical—it's psychological. Henrik's like a bull charging blindly, not realizing he's up against a matador.
Each hit lands with brutal precision, the sound of flesh meeting flesh like music.
As he stumbles to the right, seemingly in retreat, I advance—but it's a trap.
He draws something from his waistband, his eyes gleaming with triumph and malice.
Pain explodes through me, a blinding, white-hot lance. Blood, warm and slick, coats my side where the blade must have come perilously close to vital organs. Panic is a distant sensation, drowned out by the rush of adrenaline. With a grunt, I rip the knife free and hurl it away, hearing Franco's voice shouting for a halt to the madness.
But I'm not done, not by a long shot. The world may be swaying—or perhaps it's just me—but my resolve is ironclad. I will not be brought down, not here, not now. I clench my jaw, my fists, my entire body.
My vision blurs at the edges, the world tilting like that night everything burned. But I'm still standing. Still breathing. And Henrik? He's about to learn why they call me the Beast. After all, doesn’t Henrik know that wounded beasts are the most dangerous of all? Never wound what you can’t kill.
A scream cuts through the bloodlust - Isabella's voice, sharp as a blade. The sound hits somewhere deep, somewhere I thought I'd burned away. Can't tell if it's fear or anticipation threading through her cry, and that uncertainty claws at my focus. Fucking weakness, letting her voice affect me even now.
The crowd's energy pulses like a living thing, hungry for violence. Their cheers taste like copper in the air, mixing with my blood. Henrik's still wearing that shit-eating grin, chest heaving as he savors his cheap shot.
"Thought you'd be more cautious," he pants, victory making him stupid. "Rules are for the weak. Remember?"
Ice slides through my veins, familiar as revenge. This close, I can smell his expensive cologne mixing with fear-sweat. He doesn't understand what real survival looks like - what it means to crawl out of flames with your skin melting off, to rebuild yourself from ashes.
My fist connects with surgical precision, the impact jarring up my arm. Each hit carries years of stored violence, finally finding its target. The way his bones give under my knuckles feels like justice.
Movement catches my eye - Isabella, stumbling toward the ring like a moth to flame. There's something raw in her face, something that looks too much like concern as she eyes the blood soaking my side. That look shouldn't twist in my gut like it does. Shouldn't make me want to grab her, shake her, demand if she really cares or if this is just another performance.
"Still standing," I growl, letting Henrik see the monster he's awakened. My fists paint his face red, each strike methodical, precise. When he drops, it's not with a bang but a whimper - pathetic as his attempt to kill me.
They drag him away before I can finish it, his body limp as a ragdoll. Isabella's father watches from his throne, fury carved into every line of his face. I know that look - the one that says his perfect plan just went to shit. Same look he wore when he carved my face, when he realized flames couldn't kill what he created.
Isabella's closer now, her honeysuckle scent cutting through blood and sweat. My hand finds her chin, fingers leaving red marks on porcelain skin. When I kiss her, it's not gentle - nothing about us will ever be gentle again. She makes this sound against my mouth, half-whimper, half-need, and something primal roars to life inside me.
My tongue claims hers like I'm going to claim everything else - brutal, possessive, a warning wrapped in desire. She yields too easily, body softening against mine, and that's how I know it's another lie. Another performance by daddy's perfect ballerina.
This kiss tastes like victory and vengeance, like blood and promises I intend to keep. Because now she's mine.
And I'm going to make her regret every second of it.