Dante Salerno.

Eliott Palfroix.

The name didn’t demand nearly as much attention as most others who’d been called up to fight over the course of the evening. The Frenchman—substantially built, and teeming with confidence—was a relative unknown to those outside his circle.

Dante’s 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 wasn’t as paranoid a concept as it might’ve seemed.

Resigned to a quieter corner of the room—eager to avoid the women who had been bothering every one of his friends who dared admit they were fighting tonight—he glanced upward, disgusted by the French intonation far before he’d 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, Dante’s name soon followed.

His gut twisted painfully.

“You ready, fratello?”

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 he’d dreamt of for months, he couldn’t 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 he’d 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 Palfroix’s eye made clear that the recognition was mutual.

He smirked.

“Comment ça va, ta femme?”

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 Palfroix’s 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 didn’t have them to hold Dante down this time.

“All right, boys. Last fight of the night,” the referee announced quietly among them. After Laurent and Dev’s earlier brawl, it didn’t come as a surprise that he looked so fucking exhausted. “Keep it clean so we can go out on a high.”

As soon as he dipped away, the Frenchman threw his hands up in defense.

It appeared that Dante’s calm demeanour—no matter how manufactured it was—was 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 third…

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 Palfroix’s attacking arm in a painful vice-like grip. When the Italian had a hold—and long before he had a chance to react to what was happening—he’d thrown one merciless, nose-shattering punch of his own.

If the noise could have been heard above the screaming crowd, it might’ve 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 wasn’t 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 couldn’t change what had happened, but he could have this. He could make him suffer.

Palfroix went down, and the crowd didn’t know whether to be shocked or annoyed. They’d 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.

“Get the fuck up.”

Hands hanging at his side, Dante glared down at the Frenchman, who was, by this point, forcing himself onto his hands and knees.

“I said get the fuck up.”

There was a steady, ominous drip of crimson on concrete. Probably his nose.

“Fuck you,” 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 he’d dealt last time.

The Italian suspected he’d 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, Dante’s 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.

He’d 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, he’d 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 didn’t vomit.

The hits were a lot harder to take without gloves.

The Frenchman was holding onto Dante’s shoulders in an attempt to keep himself standing.

It wasn’t enough to stop him.

Dante felt no guilt at the sight of his pathetic form. He didn’t feel like being a good sportsman and letting him walk away in preparation for another round, because this wasn’t a match between two honorable men. This piece of shit had taken something from him. He didn’t deserve to be treated with any level of respect.

As Palfroix fell to his knees—noticing that his opponent had no intention of leaving it there—the 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 might’ve 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.

“Enough!” The shouted order meant nothing. It could have come from Veronika herself, and he still wasn’t convinced he would’ve stopped. He had him.

His heart was pounding in his ears. He was there, his life was in his fucking hands.

When he’d geared up for the hit, the Italian had intended to go for the face.

He hadn’t 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 Palfroix’s exposed throat with such an immense force, he wondered for a moment if he’d 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 wasn’t 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 Palfroix’s 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.

“He’s not breathing.”

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 he’d entered. Didn’t mean he felt it.

This was payback. Under any other circumstances, fully acceptable by anyone’s standards…

But the stage would make things complicated, and he knew it.

“What the fuck, Salerno?”

“Give me my jacket, James,” 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.

“You should have let him go. You had it.”

“My jacket.”

James simply stared. The man’s tone—and, perhaps, the fact he had just beaten a man very possibly to death—left him with little desire to argue. After a brief hesitation, he handed over both the jacket and his friend’s watch, shaking his head. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

Dante glanced over at Palfroix. They were attempting CPR.