The comment hits something deep and raw inside me. Not angry enough? I've been angry since the day I found out my mother was dead, angry since the day I realized the world doesn't give a shit about kids like me, angry since I understood that the only way to survive is to become something harder than whatever's trying to break you.
"You want angry?" I snarl, and this time when I come at him, there's no technique, no strategy. Just pure, concentrated rage that's been building for years.
Vito weaves through my assault like smoke, but I can see something change in his expression. Interest, maybe. Or approval.
"There it is," he murmurs, and for the first time all session, he seems to be working a little harder to stay out of my reach.
But it's not enough. Even with all my fury, all my desperation, I can't touch him. He's too fast, too experienced, too everything I'm not yet.
The hour passes in a blur of missed shots and growing frustration. By the end, I'm exhausted, defeated, and ready to throw in the towel on the whole damn thing.
"Time," Vito calls, and I immediately drop my hands, bending over to catch my breath.
"I can't do it," I pant. "I'm not fast enough, not strong enough. I'll never be able to?—"
"You think this was about landing a punch?" Vito interrupts, his voice sharper than usual.
I look up at him, confused. "Wasn't it?"
"This was about seeing what you do when faced with an impossible task. About understanding that sometimes the goal isn't winning—it's proving you won't quit."
He tosses me a towel, and when I catch it, I notice something I hadn't before. Despite his claims about not working hard, there's a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. His breathing is slightly elevated.
"You made me work for it, kid. More than I expected."
The praise should feel good, but all I feel is the sting of failure. "But I didn't hit you."
"No, you didn't. But you didn't give up either, even when it was clear you couldn't win. That matters more than you know."
He starts unwrapping his own hands, movements efficient and practiced. "Someday, Dante, you'll be strong enough, fast enough, experienced enough to land that punch. And when that day comes, you'll understand what today was really about."
"Which is?"
"Learning that the only person who can truly defeat you is yourself. Everyone else is just practice."
As we leave the training center, I can't shake the feeling that this isn't over. That someday, somehow, I'll get another chance to prove myself. To show him that the angry kid he pulled off the streets has become something more.
CHAPTER 41
Dante
The poundingin my head isn't just from the hangover—someone's actually pounding on my door. I crack one eye open and immediately regret it as sunlight stabs through my skull like a rusty knife. The empty beer bottles on the coffee table tell the story of how I've spent the last three days, and my mouth tastes like something crawled in there and died.
The pounding continues, insistent and rhythmic. Probably my landlord, wondering why I haven't answered his calls about the rent that's definitely late. I try to ignore it, pulling a pillow over my head, but whoever's out there isn't giving up.
"Dante." The voice cuts through the door like a blade. "Open up."
Vito. Of course. Because this day wasn't going to be shitty enough on its own.
I stumble to my feet, nearly tripping over the minefield of empty bottles I've created around the couch. My clothes are wrinkled from sleeping in them for God knows how many days. Not exactly the image of a professional enforcer.
I unlock the door and pull it open, squinting against the hallway light. Vito stands there in his perfectly pressed suit,looking like he just stepped out of a magazine spread while I look like I just crawled out of a dumpster. Marco stands next to him like a silent sentinel.
"Jesus, Dante." His expression shifts from mild annoyance to genuine concern as he takes in my appearance. "You look like hell."
"Feel worse," I mumble, turning away from the door and leaving it open for him to follow. "What do you want?"
He steps inside but exchanges a look with Marco, who stays outside. I can practically feel his judgment radiating through the space. The apartment was never much to look at, but now it looks like a crime scene where the victim was my self-respect.
