Chapter 40
Dante
Thirteen years old
The training center is freezing at six in the morning, my breath coming out in visible puffs as I wrap my hands for what feels like the hundredth time this week.
My knuckles are split and raw, covered in bandages that do little to cushion the impact anymore.
But Vito doesn't care about my comfort—hasn't since he took me in.
"You're slow," he says, watching me fumble with the tape. "If you can't wrap your hands properly, how do you expect to use them effectively?"
I want to point out that most thirteen-year-olds don't need to know how to wrap their hands for combat, but I've learned that smart-ass comments only earn me extra hours in this concrete hell. Instead, I focus on getting the tape tight without cutting off circulation.
Vito stands in the center of the ring. He's wearing simple workout clothes, but there's nothing casual about his stance. Everything about him screams predator, even during training sessions.
"Today's different," he announces as I climb through the ropes. "No drills, no combinations, no technique work."
"What then?"
"Today you try to hit me. One clean shot. Land it, and we're done with this phase of your training."
I stare at him, trying to process what he's saying. For a year, he's been teaching me to fight—how to read an opponent, how to use my reach, how to turn my anger into something useful. But we've never actually fought each other. Not like this.
"What's the catch?"
His smile is sharp, predatory. "No catch. Just you and me. You get one hour to land one punch. Anywhere on my body counts."
It sounds too easy, which means it's going to be anything but.
We circle each other for the first few minutes, and I try to remember everything he's taught me. Keep my guard up, watch his feet, don't telegraph my movements. But knowing the theory and applying it against Vito Rosso are two very different things.
I throw a jab—tentative, testing—and he slips it easily, his movement so fluid it looks effortless.
"Pathetic," he says calmly. "Is that really the best you can do?"
Anger flares in my chest, and I come at him harder, throwing a combination that would have dropped any of the street punks I used to fight. Vito deflects every shot like he's swatting flies, then taps me lightly on the ribs—a reminder that he could have hurt me badly if he'd wanted to.
"Better. But anger without control is just noise."
Twenty minutes in, I'm already breathing hard. Vito hasn't even broken a sweat.
I try everything—feints, combinations, even attempting to grapple him to the ground. Nothing works. He's always one step ahead, reading my movements before I make them, countering with the kind of precision that comes from decades of experience.
"You're thinking too much," he observes, easily avoiding another wild swing. "Fighting isn't a chess match, Dante. Sometimes you have to trust your instincts."
"My instincts are telling me to run," I gasp, wiping sweat from my eyes.
"Then you're not angry enough yet."
The comment hits something deep and raw inside me.
Not angry enough? I've been angry since the day I found out my mother was dead, angry since the day I realized the world doesn't give a shit about kids like me, angry since I understood that the only way to survive is to become something harder than whatever's trying to break you.
"You want angry?" I snarl, and this time when I come at him, there's no technique, no strategy. Just pure, concentrated rage that's been building for years.
Vito weaves through my assault like smoke, but I can see something change in his expression. Interest, maybe. Or approval.
"There it is," he murmurs, and for the first time all session, he seems to be working a little harder to stay out of my reach.
But it's not enough. Even with all my fury, all my desperation, I can't touch him. He's too fast, too experienced, too everything I'm not yet.
The hour passes in a blur of missed shots and growing frustration. By the end, I'm exhausted, defeated, and ready to throw in the towel on the whole damn thing.
"Time," Vito calls, and I immediately drop my hands, bending over to catch my breath.
"I can't do it," I pant. "I'm not fast enough, not strong enough. I'll never be able to—"
"You think this was about landing a punch?" Vito interrupts, his voice sharper than usual.
I look up at him, confused. "Wasn't it?"
"This was about seeing what you do when faced with an impossible task. About understanding that sometimes the goal isn't winning—it's proving you won't quit."
He tosses me a towel, and when I catch it, I notice something I hadn't before. Despite his claims about not working hard, there's a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. His breathing is slightly elevated.
"You made me work for it, kid. More than I expected."
The praise should feel good, but all I feel is the sting of failure. "But I didn't hit you."
"No, you didn't. But you didn't give up either, even when it was clear you couldn't win. That matters more than you know."
He starts unwrapping his own hands, movements efficient and practiced. "Someday, Dante, you'll be strong enough, fast enough, experienced enough to land that punch. And when that day comes, you'll understand what today was really about."
"Which is?"
"Learning that the only person who can truly defeat you is yourself. Everyone else is just practice."
As we leave the training center, I can't shake the feeling that this isn't over. That someday, somehow, I'll get another chance to prove myself. To show him that the angry kid he pulled off the streets has become something more.