Becky Blaze didn't believe in miracles.
She believed in bruises.
They told the truth. Showed you who hit first, who fell last, who kept swinging long after they should've stopped. And right now, she was ready to deliver a few truths.
Because at exactly 5:58 AM, the devil walked back into her gym.
Black shirt, sleeves rolled, gloves in hand.
Not store-bought gloves. Real ones. Scarred. Used. Taped like he earned them.
He didn't speak.
Just dropped his duffel by the ring and looked at her like she was his morning routine.
"You're early," she said, arms folded.
"You're awake," he replied.
"Barely."
He smirked. "Then wake up. I want a real session."
She tossed him a mouthguard. "You'll regret that."
He caught it mid-air without looking.
"I hope so."
The gym was empty. Silent. No one else there to witness what was about to go down. Just two storms in a cage.
Perfect.
Becky climbed into the ring and stretched her arms. "You got a waiver signed? I don't want to be sued when I knock you unconscious."
"I don't sue people," Dante said, pulling on his gloves.
"Oh, right," she said dryly. "You just run them over in the rain and stare like a statue."
He grinned.
And then he stepped into the ring.
It was like watching a panther walk into a church.
Quiet.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
They circled each other, steps light, eyes locked.
"Ready?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
He just moved.
Fast.
So fast it caught her off guard.
His first strike wasn't a punch it was a sidestep, a clean dodge, followed by a light tap to her side like he was tagging her. Not hurting her. Just reminding her.
I could have.
Her blood lit up like firecrackers.
"Oh, hell no."
She lunged, jabbing hard, aiming for his ribs.
He blocked.
Effortlessly.
Becky narrowed her eyes. He wasn't some bored rich boy pretending to train.
This man knew how to fight.
And worse—he was holding back.
"You hiding something, billboard?" she growled, ducking under a hook and aiming low.
He sidestepped again, too smooth, too calm.
"I'm showing you respect."
"Feels more like condescension."
He leaned close during a dodge, his breath cool on her cheek. "You punch like a queen. But you're rushing."
She swung again, missing his chin by inches.
"You talk like you know me," she snapped.
"I know your type," he murmured.
"Oh yeah?" she barked, catching his wrist and twisting hard. "Then tell me what I'm thinking."
He didn't flinch.
"You're wondering why I'm here. Why a man who can fight like this came chasing after a girl who tried to kill his suit in public."
She shoved him back. "Wrong. I'm wondering if you're insane."
"I might be."
Then he moved.
Fast.
He caught her punch mid-air, spun, and pinned her arm behind her back in one fluid motion. Not painful. Just final.
Trapped.
Their chests almost touched.
She could feel his breath, steady and deliberate. His heartbeat wasn't even fast.
Show-off.
"You fight clean," she said, not moving.
"I fight to win."
"Then what the hell are you doing here?"
He tilted his head.
That smirk again.
But colder now.
"Because you hit me harder than anyone else ever has."
"Emotionally or physically?" she asked.
"Yes."
She snorted. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
She yanked free and shoved him back.
He let her.
His body barely moved, but the heat between them stayed thick.
She stared him down. "This isn't some rich boy rebellion. You don't get to slum it for kicks and chase me around like I'm some puzzle piece missing from your designer life."
"You're not missing," he said softly.
"You're misplaced."
Her jaw tightened. "You don't know me."
"I know you fight like you're starving," he said. "And live like the world's one second from betrayal."
She didn't speak.
Not because he was wrong.
Because he was too right.
Dante stepped forward again, gloves loose at his sides, voice low.
"You think I'm chasing you. But you haven't looked behind you long enough to see why."
"Why?" she whispered, despite herself.
"Because everything in my life is cold."
Pause.
"And you burned me."
Something inside her twisted.
Not soft. Not romantic.
It was warmer than that. He was fire staring into fire. He didn't want to tame her.
He wanted to match her.
She looked at him hard.
Then punched him in the chest not full strength, just enough to push him back.
"Don't follow me," she said.
He smiled.
"You're in front of me. I don't have a choice."
She dropped her gloves and stepped out of the ring, sweat running down her spine.
"You show up again tomorrow," she warned, "and I'll stop pulling my punches."
He wiped blood from his lip just a nick and licked it like it meant nothing.
"I'm counting on it."
Later That Day – Marcono Estate
Vincent Marcono watched his son walk in with a bruise on his jaw and a grin on his face.
"You look like you lost."
"I didn't," Dante said calmly.
"Then why do you look… satisfied?"
Dante didn't answer.
He poured himself a drink and stared out the window.
"She's fierce," he said.
Vincent scoffed. "A woman?"
"She fights like someone with nothing to lose. But she protects like someone who's already lost too much."
Vincent frowned. "And you plan to do what? Date a boxer from the gutters?"
Dante's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"I don't plan to date her."
"I plan to own her heartbeat."
Vincent stared.
Dante sipped his drink.
"And she doesn't even know it yet."