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Maybe this time with two other participants, but that’s definitely wishful thinking.
The second I step my foot over the rope, the guy inside starts circling. He’s at least five foot ten and stocky, with his dark hair cropped short. He’s definitely one of the De Luca musclemen, that’s obvious, especially given the way he carries himself and watches my every move.
Healthy competition, I hope. This is going to be fun.
We dance around the edge of the circle three times, my steps controlled and my eyes sharp. If he’s waiting for me to make the first move, he’s truly mistaken. That’s not how this works. I’ve got all day to wait.
As if sensing my thoughts, he drops his right shoulder a little deeper as his steps widen further, and I know he’s getting ready to pounce. With the sun beating gently down on my back, the spectators fizzle into the background as I lock my attention on him.
I spot his tell instantly, the left corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly, like he’s already fucking pleased with his accomplishments, before he charges toward me. Time slows around me, my moves well trained and practiced as he comes for my waist, lifting me off the ground.
His shoulder hits my stomach, threatening to knock the air out of me, but I was anticipating the move so it doesn’t catch me by surprise. Feeling him spin on the spot, wanting to keep us inside of the circle, I use the opportunity to wrap my arms around his neck, getting him in a deathly grip as he grunts.
As expected, his fight kicks in, and I feel us falling to the floor in the next breath. I gasp for air as my back takes the brunt of the fall, the wind escaping my lungs in a whoosh. I don’t have time to worry or relish in the pain though, not when he so predictably releases his hold around my middle, giving me the advantage I need as I continue to keep my arms banded tight around his head.
Using his weight against him, I thrust my knee into his thigh, knocking him off balance, before rolling with him. I don’t use the motion to place myself on top of him though, no, I make us do a full three hundred and sixty degree roll. In the process, I manage to lift my legs, trapping one of his arms in my hold as my thighs tighten around his neck.
“Holy fuck.”
The two words filter in from the otherwise blurred surroundings, but they only make me double down my efforts as I move my arms to start pounding my fists into his face. I only manage to get two punches in before I feel his palm slapping against my thigh, and in the next moment, someone is tearing me from him.
It takes a moment for my limbs to unlock, but when I see it’s Vito with his hands on me, I let go, moving willingly into his arms as he places me on my feet.
My opponent coughs and splutters on the floor beside me as the rest of the noise from the spectators registers into my brain.
“Who the fuck is she?”
“What just happened?”
“I definitely want bets now.”
I don’t take my eyes off Vito’s as he looks down at me. My fingers itch to run over the scarring at his neck, but I know that would only make him hate me more. I want to apologize to him since I hurt him the most. He literally fucked me against the door in New York, and within thirty minutes, I had ruined everything.
It’s on the tip of my tongue, but if he can sense it, he doesn’t want to hear it because he places me on my feet a moment later and walks away.
Running my hands over my shorts, I sigh, masking the pain I’m sure is there, before someone claps their hands.
“Are you ready,Stellina?”
Undeniable pride shines in Matteo’s eyes, and it’s almost too much for me to handle so I turn my attention to the next ring instead.
“Do I get to choose my own weapon?” I ask, approaching the table set up next to the circle. It’s filled with everything one can imagine — blades, nunchucks, bats, brass knuckles, and throwing blades.
It’s like I’m back in the vault at Featherstone Academy, looking at my family heirlooms that come in the form of violence. My fingers glide over them, before slowing on the throwing blades. I’ve used them before, enjoyed them even.
“You do,” Enzo states, pulling me from my thoughts. I offer him a small smile before turning to see what my opponent will use against me.
A blade.
He twirls it between his fingers, dancing it over his skin. He knows exactly what he’s doing with it.
Excellent.
“How much blood is enough, Matteo?” I keep my eyes trained on my opponent, sizing him up as I continue to graze my fingers over the throwing blades on the table.
My opponent scoffs, shaking his head dismissively as he looks to the other men for encouragement. “I think you will find,littlegirl, that I’ll get as much blood as I want. Not the other way around. This is a man’s world, a man’s business, and it will serve you well to know your fucking place.”
Blind rage burns up my spine as I wrap my fingers around one of the throwing blades and toss it in a split second, but it’s soothed by the sweet sound of this motherfucker crying out in pain as the blade hits his thigh. I don’t waste a second, not wanting him to have a chance to throw his blade my way, so I grab another throwing blade, identical to the previous, and send it in the same direction. This one hits him straight in his right shoulder. His grip on the dagger in his hand loosens and the metal drops to the floor.
