I glanced back at him, nodding, pride shining in my eyes. His horror at the sight of my blood melted into a smile, then a laugh. He shook his hand, rubbing his knuckles.
“That felt good.”
“Then let’s keep going.”
Enzo was a quick learner. He grasped stances and moves quickly, listened to feedback, and was determined to improve. Every day that week, he arrived precisely at nine a.m., wearing his sexy-as-hell gym shorts and little else. We repeated the same routine most days, starting with weight training to build muscle, then moving on to bare-knuckle fighting, and finishing with a sprint on the treadmill to boost stamina. He never complained. Not once. Not even when I stepped up the intensity of each session.
I started the week by teaching him how to throw punches and kicks and position an opponent to gain the advantage, but I also had to teach him how to take a hit. That was harder. I didn’t want to hurt him, but I had to. He needed to become numb to the pain, accept it so he could stay upright while taking blows. I knocked him out with my first punch. That was a wake-up call for how much work he still had to do. But he was willing to put in the graft. No matter how battered or bruised he left, he always returned the next day, eager for more. I was impressed.
“Take a breather,” I panted, climbing off him after tackling him to the floor and locking him in a chokehold. He stayed sprawled on the floor mats, his beautiful chest glistening with sweat as it rose and fell, and he closed his eyes.
I could have kept going. I didn’t need a break, but my dick did. Wrestling with him was pure torture. And my dick kept getting harder every time I dominated him and forced himinto compromising positions that filled my mind with filthy thoughts. Of him beneath me, wrists pinned above his head as I straddled him. When my arm locked around his throat and my weight pinned him down, my dick pressed against his ass. It was too much.
I sat on the bench by the mirrored wall and took a swig from the water bottle, my gaze never leaving him. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop looking at him for more than a few seconds. Admiring him. Wanting him. We had spent the week in a strange limbo, suspended between ignoring the insane sexual tension between us and the heated looks that said everything we wouldn’t. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take without addressing the big, fat gay elephant in the room. But he hadn’t mentioned it, nor had I. We were partners in a dangerous dance, taking our sexual frustration out on each other’s bodies, but it only made it worse.
Today was our last day of training together before I followed Elle back to university. The finality of it had been on my mind all session, knocking me off my game. It was stupid, this sense of impending loss of something I didn’t even have. But spending hours with him every day this week had been a balance of addictive torture and all-consuming obsession. I jumped out of bed in the mornings, eager to see him again. After our sessions, I spent the rest of the day thinking about him, replaying our interactions, every word, every touch between us. It was pathetic, but I couldn’t stop.
He opened his sky-blue eyes, stared at the ceiling, and licked his lips. I watched the beads of sweat zig-zag down his throat and onto the mat. I wanted to trace the lines with my tongue. Great. I was as hard as steel again.
“When did you start fighting? In the underground?” he asked, panting heavily with each word.
I shifted on the bench, leaning back against the mirror behind me to hide my discomfort at that question. It wasn’t the first time this week he’d tried to bring up my past, but I never talked about it. Not with anyone. Not even Alessio. Alessio knew some of it. He guessed the rest. He’d been a child fighter as well; that’s how we met. We’d faced each other in the ring many times, beating each other until we were unrecognisable. The difference was that Alessio had the protection of the Barbieri name. He came to the underground to fight, then went back to his father’s kingdom, to the riches of a palace and the safety of a home. I didn’t. Not until Alessio forced hispapito take me in, give me a job as a soldier, and take me away from the vultures. It was a time in my life I preferred to let die. It was full of pain, betrayal, and abuse. But it made me who I was. Still, that didn’t mean I liked talking about it.
One thing I’d learned about Enzo this week was that he was a persistent fucker. He never backed down. Never gave up. Just kept pushing and pushing. He pushed his own body to the limit. His mind. And me with his constant questions. It was irritating. I wasn’t used to people wanting to know about my life. Wanting to know the man behind the soldier. I couldn’t understand why he cared so much. But I also knew he wouldn’t stop unless I gave him something.
“When I was ten.”
He sat up, leaning back on his elbows, and looked at me with alarm. “You were ten when you started fighting in the underground? Why?”
“Survival. And I needed an outlet for the rage.”
He frowned. His sharp features creased with confusion. “That makes no sense. Why would you need to fight to survive as a child? Was it for money?”
I chuckled, shaking my head. “I wasn’t that lucky. I didn’t get any money for fighting. Just a bed and a warm meal. It was better than the streets.”
Realisation was beginning to dawn on his pretty face, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like that look. Pity.
“You were homeless? Where was your family?”
“I told you. I don’t have a family.”
“But you must have had a family at some point? Yourmamma?”
“Died giving birth to me.”
He swallowed. I glanced away.
“Mypadreworked in the underground drug trade. He was a runner for one of the biggest dealers at the time. One night, he fucked up. I never saw him again. He was the only family I had, and he’d been providing for us both. I was taken in after that.”
“Taken in?” he repeated slowly. “By the dealers?”
“It was that, or they killed me. I was more useful to them alive. They sold me to the rings. I could make them money. They taught me how to fight, and I liked it. The only time I felt in control was when I stepped into that ring.” They also taught me how to fuck. I didn’t like that as much.
He stood up and walked over to me. He grabbed a bottle and sat down, hip-to-hip, thigh-to-thigh. The heat radiated from his body like the delicious glow of the sun. I wanted to bathe in it, to feel it all over me.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. I scoffed, annoyance rippling up from the void of numbness. I didn’t need a mafia prince’s sympathy. “Mypapitook me to an underground fight once. I was sixteen. The men didn’t stop until one was dead.”
“That was normal in the elite fights. There can only be one champion.”
