I can still feel his fingerprints on my wrist. Still smell him on his jacket like he poured himself into the lining. Warm leather and gunpowder dreams. Or nightmares. I can’t tell. It’s just musky and smoky. The kind of scent that stains your soul and leave its imprint for a long time.

And now as I watch him walk toward the ring like he owns the fucking underworld and everyone in it.

Because maybe he does.

Massimo Bianchi sheds his shirt like he’s peeling his skin and the crowd explodes. Like rabid, drunk on the spectacle of him. It’s a sound that rattles in my ribs. Cheers and those damning screams. It’s maddening.

The lights are harsh, white and spotlighting sin like it’s holy. And he stands there, bare-chested, tattooed and terrifying. His eyes are blazing like someone lit a match inside his skull and forgot to blow it out.

I swallow.

Why am I getting an ominous feeling? But coming to think of it, isn’t it already vicious to begin with? It takes no genius to understand what will happen here. I’ve heard Massimo fights underground and wins almost every match. For me, those underground matches were supposed to be in presence of a referee, guards to pull the fighters back, security for the people present.

But as I see and as far as I can see, there’s just crowd of drunk and tipsy people. There’s no guard, no referee and no soul that will save his opponent.

And I am right. Cause my stomach flips as soon as the spotlight shifts to his opponent. Rox.

Oh my god. What the hell is he doing here?

They face each other like wolves with unfinished poetry written in their fists. I don’t understand what’s happening. I don’t even know why Rox is here. On second thought, why am I even surprised? Rox is another version of Massimo, less violent but equally arrogant when it comes to his male ego.

Massimo looks over his shoulder and his eyes find mine instantly as if he knows where I am. A strange glint shine brighter as his lips curl and the surrounding noise fades into background. I swallow and he grin before mouthing.

“Mine, bambina.”

And the bell rings. That sound. It hit be harder than Massimo’s punch hit Rox’s face. And the crowd goes feral like their beloved champion. Rox stumbles, as blood spits from his mouth in slow motion.

And I… I can’t breathe.

My knees goes weak, but I force myself to stand, to stay grounded. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

Why am I watching someone bleed on a floor while people cheer like it’s a fucking opera? The sick part is… Massimo’s grinning like a maniac.

He looks beautiful though, in the most horrifying way. Like a god sculpted from violence. Hair tousled, chest rising, blood splattered across him like a badge of honour. His body is chiselled and Rox is nothing compared to Massimo’s tall and muscular frame.

My stomach churns.

This is wrong. So, so freaking wrong.

I turn. I turn to go. I can’t watch this.

It’s not just the blood. Not even the way Rox’s head jerks back with every hit. Not the way his body folds and limps and Massimo rains punch on him not giving him any chance to defend himself.

He isn’t fighting to win. He’s fighting to kill him.

It’s the cheering. The eruption in the crowd. Like violence is a celebration. All my life I’ve seen violence only, even though my family never let any of us get expose to violence at that level but I’ve seen Judas almost slitting a guard’s throat, Papa coming home with blood specks on his shirt. Fuck, I’ve seen Dad and Vati using guns as if they are born with them.

Zayn and me are the ones never been the one to enjoy the violence.

I hate that someone’s pain is their Friday night entertainment. Like suffering is sport. It’s the casualness of it all. The laughs. The obliviousness. The men placing bets while someone bleeds in front of them.

And me… I’m standing like a statue while Massimo revels in it.

He’s unrecognisable. Unlike the man who teases me, bullies me. And looking at him now, his pranks with me seem so harmless. Because I’ve seen blood befre, but not like this. And absolutely, not at the hands of someone I thought I was falling for once.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I don’t belong here. I don’t belong in dark basements. What scares me more… is the part of me watching.

I feel the sting in my throat.

“Bianchi! Get him good!’
“BIANCHI!”

Tears are choking me. I can’t cry. Not here. Not in front of anyone. Not in front of Nico and Sienna. Not where weakness in currency and I’m already drowning in debt.

So I take a step back. And another. I don’t know where I’ll go. There’s no map for this place. No exit signs. Just the pulse of music, blood and madness. But I have to try.

Because if I don’t get out now, if I keep watching him, I might not be able to leave at all.

And that terrifies me more than anything.

I take another step back. One more, I tell myself when a hear a low voice.

“You take one more step,” I pause. “… and Massimo will rip someone’s jaw off. Probably mine, or yours. But definitely someone’s.”

I freeze.

The floor beneath me tilts.

“Pretty things don’t wander off alone here,” Nico continues, tapping ash off the edge. “Unless they’re looking to disappear. And trust me, disappearing is the easiest part in this place. It’s the dying slow that’s hard.”

His words are soft. Almost kind and sympathetic.

He steps into view, half-lit by the low red glow of the overhead lights, a cigarette between his fingers, the cherry tip glowing like a devil’s wink.

“You think this is the worst of him?” He gestures with his chin as Massimo pounds Rox like a madman. “You haven’t seen Massimo when he’s angry.”

I swallow, my throat dry. The sound of fists colliding in the background is a fucking drumbeat in my ears. I want to scream. Cry. Claw my way out of this place with bare hands and bloodied fingernails.

But I don’t.

I just stand there, staring at Nico with too-wide eyes and trembling bones.

“Why?” I manage to whisper. “Why is he doing this?”

Nico shrugs. “Because he can? Because Rox touches what’s his? Because it’s a message? I don’t know. Or maybe he just wanted to bleed something that isn’t you tonight.”

“This is sick. You should stop him. He’s your friend. Rox might die and…”

“No.” Nico tilts his head. “this is Massimo Bianchi. And he’s walk through hell just t drag you back by the wrist if you ran. Might even smile while doing it.”

I shake my head.

What the fuck am I doing here? Why did I let him bring me? Why does a part of me still look at the ring?

Still watch him.

Still flinch every time he hits harder.

He’s covered in sweat and blood and the madness of men who were born wrong. And yet… He’s striking.

Not in the pretty-boy way.

Not in the classic, clean-cut, magazine-cover kind of way.

No.

Massimo is beautiful the way storms are beautiful—right before they ruin everything you love.

And I’m the idiot who didn’t bring an umbrella.