Chapter 43
Matteo
The wind howls like a creature starved and feral, clawing at the stone bones of Blackstone as I stand at the edge of the rooftop, staring out over the water, which is hitting the rocks with anger, everything feels more like a graveyard tonight.
Storm clouds hang heavy above, low and swollen, pregnant with rain or judgment. Maybe both.
Lightning cuts the horizon in a crooked slash of silver, illuminating the spires and twisted iron of the school like a cathedral built by devils.
This place has never been holy, but tonight it feels more cursed than ever.
The fight is in a few hours.
The final trial.
For power. For pride. For blood. For family.
For me… for her.
I light a cigarette with shaking fingers.
Not from fear. Not yet. My body still feels wrong from training, muscles pulled tight like wire, chest sore where Nico drove his elbow in again and again until I learned how to block it.
His voice still echoes in my head: “Fight like it’s already over. And then win anyway.”
This night isn’t just about the ring.
It’s about proving I belong in it.
It’s about making my family proud. My father. My grandfather. Marco. Milo. It’s about making them see I’m not just the triplet with the temper. I’m the one who doesn’t break.
And it’s about Aoife.
The wind shifts behind me.
I don’t need to turn, I know her steps now, softer than anyone else’s. I know the way the air changes when she’s near. Even in a storm, I know.
“Didn’t think you’d be out here,” she says, voice small and sharp, like the first drop of rain before the sky falls open.
I don’t answer right away. Just pull in another drag and nod for her to come closer.
“It’s cold,” she says.
I shrug off my coat and drape it over her shoulders.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say. “Too many people are looking for cracks in us.”
She lifts her chin, hair whipping across her face like strands of silver thread. “Let them look, we don’t have any cracks, and I’m not afraid of what they’ll find anymore.”
She looks so fucking beautiful up here, wrapped in a storm and my coat, standing next to me like she belongs on this roof and nowhere else. She was on the edge way before I even met her. She danced with the storm, and now we dance with it together.
“Are you ready?” she asks.
I almost laugh. “Doesn’t matter if I am,” I murmur. “It’s happening, and I can’t lose.”
“You won’t.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’ve never seen you lose anything that matters,” she says. “And this matters.”
I turn and really look at her. Her eyes are full of worry she’s trying to hide, her fingers clenching and unclenching like she’s working through the urge to scream.
“What if I lose?” I whisper, hating the words the second they leave me.
She doesn’t flinch. “Then I’ll find you,” she says. “No matter what happens, I’ll find you.”
I take a step closer. “So, this is what we are now?” I ask. “Storms and war and promises in the dark?”
“It’s always been this,” she says. “You just didn’t see it.”
We’re inches apart now.
The wind screams past us.
I drop the cigarette. Let it burn out between our boots, then I cup her face in my hands and kiss her like it’s the last night I’ll ever have a mouth to kiss with.
There’s no heat in it.
It’s not lust.
It’s a brand.
It’s a scar I carve into both of us.
Her hands slide up under my shirt, gripping tight at my back like she’s holding me here, grounding me before I fly too close to something that burns.
“I’m scared,” she says against my mouth.
“I’m not,” I lie.
“You are.”
I nod, forehead against hers.
“I don’t know who I’ll be after tonight,” I whisper.
She holds me tighter. “Be mine. That’s all I care about.”
The storm breaks above us. Thunder cracks like bones snapping. Rain starts to fall, slicing down our faces like tears that don’t belong to either of us.
I kiss her again.
Slower this time.
Softer.
Like I’m memorizing her for after.
We pull apart only when the cold makes her shake. I pull her into me, coat around both of us now.
“We should go back,” she says. “You need to rest.”
She presses her lips to the hollow of my throat, and the words she whispers there aren’t for anyone else.
“I love you.”
I close my eyes.
I don’t say it back.
When I finally let go, she walks down the stairs alone, the words bleed from me in silence.
I love you too, little lamb.
My boots hit the sand of the ring like coffin nails. Every step echoes like a tolling bell in my head. Each step sounds like a warning. Death. The words echo in my ears.
The iron doors creak shut behind me with the finality of a verdict. Marco and Milo walk by my side, shadows casting long under the low-burning lights. Neither of them says a word. They don’t have to. We’ve walked into fire together more times than I can count, but never like this.
Never when I had something to lose.
I don’t scan the crowd. I don’t need to. I feel her.
She’s somewhere by my family, eyes heavy on me like a prayer I don’t deserve. She doesn’t know what’ll happen if I lose.
Neither do I.
But I know what I’m fighting for and it’s not just the Ring.
It’s her.
At the center of the arena, the sand has been freshly laid. It smells like sweat and sawdust, like history and violence. The bleachers curl above us like fangs. The lights are harsh. Yellow. Cruel.
This morning, Grandfather and Father told me who I was fighting. The things I’ve heard about him are crazy.
Across the pit, the Irish enter.
Cillian Reilly.
The Butcher.
He walks like death on a mission, long black coat trailing like robes, bare chest painted with inked Celtic knots and scars, the kind no blade leaves unless you enjoy it. He carries no expression. Not even arrogance. Just inevitability.
I was warned.
He always delivers the last rites.
“Shit,” Marco mutters beside me. “He’s bigger than the photos.”
Leo stands on the edge of the ring. So do the heads of the five remaining families. This isn’t a fight. It’s a goddamn ceremony.
If I win this fight, I’ll win the ring. I’ll be the last man standing. I can be the ruler of this school for the next four years.
Conor stands in the crowd behind The Butcher, arms crossed, jaw locked. I keep my eyes on him for half a breath too long.
Mistake.
Leo walks to the center of the ring, his robe dark as the night outside, voice clipped and cruel with finality. “This is not sanctioned by the school. But it is allowed by the families. You win, you wear the ring. You lose, you leave blood on the floor.”
Every breath feels like ash.
Every family is here. Pressed along the edge of the underground pit, students from the families are watching.
The Irish are clustered like animals on one side, and my family, my blood, stands behind me.
Marco’s jaw is clenched so tight, it could crack bone.
Milo’s hands flex open and closed like he’s the one about to fight.
Nico leans against a pillar, shadowed, silent, unreadable.
Aoife stands next to Rosa, and my cousins.
Across from me, the Irish fighter steps forward. A wall of rage and iron.
He’s probably a good few inches taller than me, and I’m over six foot. He’s a monster. A wall of muscle and fury, but what makes my pulse spike isn’t his size.
It’s his stillness.
Don’t even see his body move when he breathes.
He looks like a man who’s already buried me.
He grins at me like I’m already broken. “Ready to die for your girl, Italian?”
I spit onto the sand. “I’m ready to make you regret stepping into my world.”
Leo raises his hand. A single breath holds the room in suspension.
“Do you both understand the rules?” I look up at the giant in front of me who laughs then nods, I turn to Leo nodding. “The one who doesn’t stand, is the one who loses.” The crowd around us cheers like this is a death match. It might be. “Begin.”
The floor shakes.
The world narrows.
He’s on me like an avalanche.
The first punch hits my jaw, stars flash white. I duck the second, my fist slamming into his gut. He doesn’t flinch.
Fuck.
He likes pain.
We’re trading hits. Heavy. Dirty. Raw.
He headbutts me, and I stumble, vision swimming. But I don’t go down. My legs hold, because I’ve trained in fire. I’ve bled on Messina stone. Nico nearly killed me this week, and I thanked him for it.
The Butcher tries to grab me in a chokehold, but I twist, elbow up into his throat.
He gasps, just once. I seize the moment. Knee to his ribs. Another to his hip. One more hit, and he’s staggering.
“Your girl will scream in pain,” he snarls, stumbling.
My blood turns black.
I drive my fist into his face so hard it splits the skin across my knuckles. Then again and again. I don’t stop until he hits the floor, gasping blood. His eyes are rolling. Arms twitching.
I raise my fist one last time, shaking, sweat pouring down my spine. His mouth moves.
“Do it.”
“No,” I hiss, voice cracking.
I want him to know what mercy tastes like. It tastes like shame.
Before I can go in with one more hit, he kicks my chest, and I fall back.
The cage hums like it’s alive.
Cillian’s already standing and waiting for me to attack again. A killer with winter in his eyes.
My heart pounds in my chest a lot harder than it needs to, and Nico’s words thrum like a heartbeat in my skull:
“Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast. Rage isn't fire, it's a blade. Control it, or bleed by it.”
He steps forward. Eyes dead. Voice low. “Hope you said goodbye to her.”
I don’t blink. Just shift my stance, legs light, shoulders loose.
I aim low, testing. Cillian steps back, reading me. His body is built to break bones, but mine… mine is trained to win wars.
Hook. Cross. Elbow to the side. My movements are clean, methodical. Every pivot drilled a thousand times beneath Nico’s deadpan stare. My lungs burn but I don’t let it show. He doesn’t speak again. Not yet.
Then I catch him across the jaw, just enough to rattle. His eyes sharpen.
“Little Irish girl’s got you twisted, huh?” he says.
And there it is.
The shift.