How many times do I have to repeat that Iâm not dating Richard Walton? Â My life is currently pretty boring on that front.
Iâm not even entirely sure who that is.
Regardless, Iâm not here to discuss your personal life, Alessa. Youâll have no interrogations from me. I was sent by Buddy. I suppose he didnât trust his letter to make it into your hands courtesy of the Postal Service--the old man is as paranoid as always--and Iâve been demoted to errand boy.
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Note: So this is the last fight of Laraâs birthday. I was hoping to get Laurent/Dev finished first, but thisâll have to do for now. Under a read more because itâs pretty long. It should be a good starting point for some future Italian/French drama, so letâs ignore how badly written this is, and focus on the good things that can come of it. Bless u all.
Eliott Palfroix.
The name didnât demand nearly as much attention as most others whoâd been called up to fight over the course of the evening. The Frenchmanâsubstantially built, and teeming with confidenceâwas a relative unknown to those outside his circle.
Danteâs attention to the ring had been fleeting up until that moment.
Mostly, his watchful glare had been focused on Veronika. Whilst others seemed to find enjoyment in the sport and the glamorous accompaniments the party offered, his discomfort at sharing the night with their enemies had become too much to ignore. The last event had taught him that expecting the worst and preparing for such wasnât as paranoid a concept as it mightâve seemed.
Resigned to a quieter corner of the roomâeager to avoid the women who had been bothering every one of his friends who dared admit they were fighting tonightâhe glanced upward, disgusted by the French intonation far before heâd seen the man.
The name might not have been familiar, but the face was.
Dante wondered if any punch thrown tonight would hit him harder than this.
It was him.
And, as if God Himself had His Hand in proceedings, Danteâs name soon followed.
His gut twisted painfully.
âYou ready, fratello?â
Out of nowhere, James had appeared. His enthusiasm made clear that he had no idea who they were putting his friend in the ring with.
Dante slipped off his suit jacket and handed it to James without a word. His Rolex followed.
Considering that meeting this Frenchman face-to-face was the only thing heâd dreamt of for months, he couldnât have imagined himself feeling any less prepared. They had an audience. Dante was here representing the Auditore family, not to fulfill himself. Perhaps that would be a saving grace for the both of them.
Clapping Sorrentino on the shoulder and offering an empty smile, he made his way toward the ring.
The cheers of the crowd were less rowdy than they had been at the height of the evening, but it was still enough to distract from the sound of his own blood pulsing with pure, unadulterated rage. That was what he was feeling. Every ounce of anger that heâd hoped he was letting go of had all flooded back at the mere sight of that smug fucking face, and as his fists clenched, taking his place opposite the frog, Dante seriously considered whether walking away was the smartest option here.
A dent to the pride might have been better for everyone involved.
It took a moment, but the eventual glint in Palfroixâs eye made clear that the recognition was mutual.
He smirked.
âComment ça va, ta femme?â
Dante stiffened visibly at the question. For a moment, he hesitated, mid-way through rolling his shirt sleeves up to his forearms.
The Frenchman, finding extreme amusement in the reaction he was witnessing, laughed loudly.
A lifetime of playing the diplomat was finally paying dividends. Whilst his heart begged for him to launch across the ring and slam Palfroixâs head into the stone pillars that surrounded them, his brain managed to override. Barely, and not without the protest of his conscience...
This was the man that had beaten him so badly at Versailles, his face still sported the tell-tale signs. The man that had held him back from helping Luisa get out of there, and possibly save her life. The man who had deprived them of their last moments together.
But he had done so in the company of friends.
He didnât have them to hold Dante down this time.
âAll right, boys. Last fight of the night,â the referee announced quietly among them. After Laurent and Devâs earlier brawl, it didnât come as a surprise that he looked so fucking exhausted. âKeep it clean so we can go out on a high.â
As soon as he dipped away, the Frenchman threw his hands up in defense.
It appeared that Danteâs calm demeanourâno matter how manufactured it wasâwas starting to provoke some unease in his opponent.
The Italian took each step around the ring slowly. Every movement was calm, calculated; his eyes never leaving Palfroix. Dante would not allow himself to be consumed by the heat of the moment. By the buzz of the crowd, or his own desire to prove a point. This would not be rushed. It would happen right.
Palfroix was no trained fighter, and as he threw his first punch, that much was obvious.
Dante dodged with ease. As he did with the second. And the thirdâŚ
The Frenchman grunted in frustration.
It was his fourth attempt, however, that wound up being costly.
The man had attacked with such force, he had unsteadied himself in the process.
With the power of adrenaline firmly behind him, not only had Dante managed to avoid the attack, but ended it by grabbing Palfroixâs attacking arm in a painful vice-like grip. When the Italian had a holdâand long before he had a chance to react to what was happeningâheâd thrown one merciless, nose-shattering punch of his own.
If the noise could have been heard above the screaming crowd, it mightâve turned some stomachs.
Palfroix shook his head. Dazed. Even though he had just about managed to remain on his feet, he desperately struggled to find his bearings after the mind-numbing blow.
But Dante wasnât going to wait for him to be ready.
The second hit came with his much more powerful right arm. Every ounce of pain, anger, and guilt was finding its release through the violence. He couldnât change what had happened, but he could have this. He could make him suffer.
Palfroix went down, and the crowd didnât know whether to be shocked or annoyed. Theyâd hardly been in the ring more than a few minutes. If this was to be the last fight, the onlookers at least wanted it to be a good one.
Dante shared their sentiment, but for his own reasons.
He was not going out this easily.
âGet the fuck up.â
Hands hanging at his side, Dante glared down at the Frenchman, who was, by this point, forcing himself onto his hands and knees.
âI said get the fuck up.â
There was a steady, ominous drip of crimson on concrete. Probably his nose.
âFuck you,â he countered, spitting a mixture of blood and saliva onto the floor beneath.
Palfroix soon clambered to his feet, albeit it shakily, and squared himself up to Dante once more. He looked somewhere between pissed, and trying-too-hard to act like nothing had happened. Blood was leaking down his chin in an embarrassing sign that he was likely out of his depth.
Was the young man stupid or arrogant?
Probably both.
Of all the fights that evening, theirs was, without a shadow of a doubt, the shortest.
To his credit, Palfroix had gotten a few shots in himself, and they were precise enough to echo some of the same damage heâd dealt last time.
The Italian suspected heâd be waking up with a black eye tomorrow, and the metallic taste on his tongue was yet another stark reminder of that night.
With each new blow from his opponent, however, Danteâs rage intensified. It was an embarrassment. His French fuck buddies heckled from the sidelines and every word grated against the inside of his already pounding skull. Dante had done a good job at blocking out distractions up until that point, but a particularly obnoxious shout from one of the men who had also been present at Versailles, had diverted his attention for just long enough to open himself up to another hit from Palfroix.
This one had been the worse. It hit him like a fucking freight train to the ribs.
Heâd almost fallen to the floor.
In the split second it took Dante to catch his breath, the last sliver of self-control that remained disappeared in a painful haze.
Fuck him. Fuck holding back.
It took Palfroix by surprise when Dante had launched himself first. Until that point, heâd been waiting to counter whatever the Frenchman threw at him, instead of attacking.
His eyes widened. He held his hands up to block, but he also fucking cowered.
Dante refused the idea of restraint. Two hits in quick succession to the face. A third came from his left, powering into his stomach with so much force he was almost surprised he didnât vomit.
The hits were a lot harder to take without gloves.
The Frenchman was holding onto Danteâs shoulders in an attempt to keep himself standing.
It wasnât enough to stop him.
Dante felt no guilt at the sight of his pathetic form. He didnât feel like being a good sportsman and letting him walk away in preparation for another round, because this wasnât a match between two honorable men. This piece of shit had taken something from him. He didnât deserve to be treated with any level of respect.
As Palfroix fell to his kneesânoticing that his opponent had no intention of leaving it thereâthe referee attempted, but failed, to intervene.
The roar of the crowd was deafening now. They cheered, and they applauded. People who had originally shown no interest, had since gathered in an attempt to catch sight of what looked like a fight headed toward a knockout.
Dante shoved the referee away. The French protested loudly.
There mightâve even been a few Italian voices in there.
Grabbing the scumbag by the collar of his expensive, blood-stained shirt, he used it as a means to keep him within hitting distance. Two more to the face.
He could barely keep his eyes open.
Palfroix held up his hands in surrender. It was as enjoyable as it was pathetic.
âEnough!â The shouted order meant nothing. It could have come from Veronika herself, and he still wasnât convinced he wouldâve stopped. He had him.
His heart was pounding in his ears. He was there, his life was in his fucking hands.
When heâd geared up for the hit, the Italian had intended to go for the face.
He hadnât anticipated that in his semi-conscious state, his ugly head would slump backward.
There would have been no time to stop himself. Would he have wanted to, even if there was?
The curled fist of the Italian collided with Palfroixâs exposed throat with such an immense force, he wondered for a moment if heâd broken his own hand.
For the first time that evening, the crowd seemed to fall into stunned silence. A minute ago, the sound of desperate choking would have been drowned out by people eagerly chanting as though they were watching a game. Only it wasnât a fucking game. And, as the Frenchman struggled with his inability to breathe, it appeared they were beginning to realize as much.
One of the St. Clair loyalists screamed out in anger.
An unknown grabbed Dante by the shoulders and pulled him back from his opponent with enough force for his grip on Palfroixâs shirt to falter.
With nothing holding him up, he fell to the ground in a crumpled heap, grasping at his throat like a fucking madman. A small army of Frenchmen had swarmed the ring and hurried toward their fallen brother in utter panic.
Even as he slipped into unconsciousness, Dante felt nothing.
The Italian wiped away some blood from the corner of his mouth.
âHeâs not breathing.â
Well, neither was his wife.
As he rolled the arms of his shirt back down to their usual length, Dante exited the ring looking as calm as when heâd entered. Didnât mean he felt it.
This was payback. Under any other circumstances, fully acceptable by anyoneâs standardsâŚ
But the stage would make things complicated, and he knew it.
âWhat the fuck, Salerno?â
âGive me my jacket, James,â he croaked out, briefly reaching up to touch at his swollen eye. The last thing he needed was a God damn lecture when he felt like his head was about to split in half.
âYou should have let him go. You had it.â
âMy jacket.â
James simply stared. The manâs toneâand, perhaps, the fact he had just beaten a man very possibly to deathâleft him with little desire to argue. After a brief hesitation, he handed over both the jacket and his friendâs watch, shaking his head. âWhere the fuck do you think youâre going?â
Dante glanced over at Palfroix. They were attempting CPR.
âGiorgio is a big boy, he can get over the disappointment. He is incapable of staying upset with me for too long, Iâm adorable."Â
âI honestly donât want to know.â James was free to do whatever he wanted. Alessandra knew that saying something was pointless. Italian males listened to no one when they had their mind set on something. As stupid as it may be.
"When any of you are fighting I just close my eyes or look elsewhere. Seeing someone I care about acting as a punching bag hurts. You are not fighting ⌠are you? Itâs enough seeing Giorgio or Vinny. And I think that Greg is also joining tonight."Â
âI had noticed,â he chuckled into his glass. âToo bad the same canât be said for the rest of us. The man holds a grudge even better than he fights.â
It was clear that she was concerned about what lay ahead. Plenty of Italians had signed up with the hopes of embrassing the Rutherfords--maybe even the French, if it was up to him--and she was close with many of them. It wasnât a game. With the likes of Wesley, Dev, Laurent, Julien and Giorgio in the mix, there was a serious chance of something going wrong for someone.
âHeâll be fine. He wouldnât be looking after Ronnie if he couldnât hold his own.â
âI am. Make the most of my face whilst it still looks good.â
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Alessandra heard about the underground fights sponsored by the Rutherford woman but never  actually attended one until that night. The Italian was aware that some of her friends were avid participants and spectators.  And since some were fighting the actress was there to show moral support.Â
Celebrating Laraâs birthday in such way was something that shouldn´t  have come as a surprise. The woman loved her gladiator shows. âWhat am I supposed to do now? Bet on someone? Iâm sort of a beginner in these kinds of things.â
âI have a feeling Giorgio would be upset if you bet on anyone else.â
Whilst Alessa mightâve been a beginner, all Dante could think was how he was getting too old for this shit. Still, the Italians had to make a good show tonight, and, despite his age, he still remained one of their best. After Giorgio and Vincenzo, of course...
No, not really. Youâre attempting to put down roots in a city where no one wants you. Are you really that surprised youâre being met with some resistance?
Iâd noticed.Â
Not surprised at all, actually. Iâd have been rather disappointed if youâd just let us stroll in. That being said, do you honestly think the Rutherfords were wanted when they arrived? If they didnât have enough money to buy their popularity, I doubt theyâd even be accepted now.
I hate to break it to you, but we honestly donât care if you want us here or not. Business is business.Â
Have you? A bachelorette auction⌠and do you know this because someone requested you be auctioned off?
Iâm also right.
Not exactly. I caught word a little before someone requested the presence of my wallet. Itâs not a bachelorette auction without someone to spend money on said ladies. Could be interesting, I suppose.
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Have any of you been to lower downtown lately, because it looks like Porto Velho is getting its very own Little Italy. I suddenly hate this place marginally less. Donât say that the people of Launceston didnât bring you anything.
Iâve decided Iâm auditioning for âThe Bachelorâ⌠if anyone would like to assist with my audition tape, or lend me a hilarious anecdote for my application, it would be greatly appreciated.
If nothing else, maybe Iâll get to be the next âBacheloretteââŚ. who knows?
I donât think you need a reality show to have your pick of men, Odile.
Failing all else, Iâve heard rumors of a bachelorette auction planned at one of the hotels. I think itâs happening relatively soon. I mean, there might be more criminal records, but at least most of them are millionaires?
This wasnât how Ronnie had been hoping to spend her few hours of quiet.
Walking into the kitchen, Ronnie remained silent as she made her way over to the refrigerator and pulled out a water bottle. It was obvious Dante wasnât going to leave until he got an answer, but that didnât necessarily mean Ronnie had to give him a truthful one. She knew the minute she said Mayaâs name, all Hell would break loose. Ronnie still wanted a chance to speak to AurĂŠlie or Oliver before anything happened.
âLook, I donât have some dramatic exciting story for you,â Ronnie finally spoke, the reluctance and exhaustion evident in her tone. âI went out for a drink and a couple of guys at the bar got a little rowdy. I was sitting too close and when I got up I caught an elbow to the eye. One of the bouncers pulled me out of the mess before I could see the guyâs face.â
âItâs not that big of a deal and Iâd appreciate it if it wasnât made into one. It was an accident and Iâm fine.â
âYouâre telling me that all of this--â Dante gestured toward the angry looking bruises, â--is from an accidental elbow to the face?â
It didnât take a genius to discern that he was not convinced.
Pursuing the line of questioning, however, was futile. If she didnât want to talk about what had happened, she wouldnât, and they both knew it. Still, had her security been as attentive as her grandfather expected, she never would have found herself in the danger of getting âaccidentallyâ injured in the first place.
That alone was an issue in need of address.
Everybody was more on edge than ever about safety since losing Alessia.
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I canât believe weâre talking about this right now. Itâs the same story over and over again, you would think that people would know better by now.
Ronnie hissed in pain as she pressed her finger against the dark bruise that had formed around her eye. The saying âitâll get worse before it gets betterâ could certainly be applied to this situation. Ronnie had been sending Vinny out to handle any business that needed immediate attention, insisting she needed time to prepare for Nathanâs birthday party and her in-lawâs arrival.
Marcelloâs parents had taken the kidâs out for the day, giving Ronnie a much needed few hours to relax. Stepping into her kitchen, sans any kind of concealer on her eye, Ronnie was surprised to see Dante standing there.Â
Shit.
âI must have completely spaced on the part where I invited you over,â Ronnie crossed her arms tightly across her chest, ignoring his questions entirely. âWhat are you doing here?â
In some respects, Veronika Auditore was exactly like her mother; both were pros when it came to changing any subject they didnât want to discuss. Usually, people were too intimidated to push. Perhaps, had Dante not known her for so long--and had it not been something as serious as an attack on the future head of The Sovrani--he would have given her the courtesy.
But something like this didnât go unanswered. She knew it.
âWell, this explains why Iâve been seeing so much of Vincenzo.â Unfortunately.
Just as sheâd ignored him, he let the comment about being uninvited roll off his back. This wasnât the time for petty back and forth--even if they were good at it. If Buddy caught wind of this, and nothing had been done...