The Russian is already inside the ring. He’s older. Taller. Broad shoulders and a scar slicing through his left eyebrow. He spits on the mat like he owns it.
The bell chimes, and the fight begins.
The first hit is brutal. The Russian swings wide, Matteo ducks it with ease, sending a jab into the man’s ribs that echoes off stone. A second hit. Harder. His fists are fury. Precision. Raw power in motion.
The Russian grabs him, throwing him down, but Matteo rolls with the momentum, springing back up. He smiles, dark and deadly, and lands a left hook that snaps the man’s head sideways.
Blood spills. The scent of it thickens the air. The crowd roars, but Matteo doesn’t hear it.
He’s somewhere else. His fists land again and again, rhythm like a war drum. The Russian stumbles. Matteo doesn’t stop. He slams a knee into his gut, sends an elbow crashing into his jaw.
The Russian stands tall and laughs then brings his arm back, and quickly swings, getting Matteo on the jaw, but it doesn’t even faze Matteo.
Matteo’s fists keep going. Mechanical. Relentless. Until he drives a right hook so hard it cracks across the Russian’s face. The nose snaps. The sound is sickening.
The Russian drops, but Matteo doesn’t stop. He straddles him and keeps hitting him. Knuckles coated in red. Eyes gone black.
He’s not fighting anymore. He’s releasing something.
It takes Marco and Milo both to pull him off.
Even then, he doesn’t move easily. His chest is heaving. Blood drips from his knuckles like it belongs there.
The Russian lies still, groaning, his face unrecognizable.
Matteo steps back, and in that moment, he looks at me.
Not a glance. Not a flicker. A full, brutal stare.
And I know, he didn’t fight for show, he fought because something inside him demands violence to feel calm.
And I'm the storm making him reckless.
I look around and see Conor staring at me, and before anything can happen I leave. I don’t want the argument with Conor, and I don’t want the weight of Matteo staring at me.
The rooftop airbites my skin like frost, curling around me with the hush of danger. The moon shimmers above, casting the cliffs and the sea below into liquid silver and bruised ink. I walk the edge again, the wind catching my hair, whispering madness against my ears. The rocks far below don’t roar tonight, the waves barely lap. A quiet death, not a violent one.
“You want to jump, little lamb?” His voice drags like smoke across my spine. “Don’t jump tonight. The sea isn’t angry enough to swallow you. You’ll hit the rocks before the water.”
I freeze, looking around until I see him. Matteo. Sitting against the wall, arms braced over his knees, a cigarette burning between his fingers. He doesn’t look at me. Not even a glance. He just stares out at the night like it might tell him something he doesn't already know.
God, he looks dangerous.
I step toward him slowly, I see the fresh cuts on his knuckles, the blooming bruise darkening on his jaw. I sit down facing him, and still he doesn't turn.
“Your knife skills seem to be getting worse,” he mutters. “You got a death wish?”
“I’m trying,” I whisper.
“Give me your knife.” He puts his hand out for me to give it to him.
I give it to him without hesitation. His fingers wrap around it, frowning. He turns it once, inspecting it.
“This handle’s too big for your hand,” he says. “Ask for a smaller one.” He passes it back, and then reaches to his sock, pulling out a sleek black blade, balancing it effortlessly on one finger. “You need to be one with it. Doesn’t matter the size. You can kill with a pocket edge if you know how.”
I try to balance it. Fail. Again. That’s all I seem to do with this fucking knife, fail.
“You hold that knife the way you do, I can take it off you in two seconds.”
