"When's the last time you showered? Or ate actual food?" He moves through the living room, kicking bottles aside with his expensive shoes.
"What are you, my mother?"
"Your mother's dead, Dante. Has been for fifteen years. And if you keep this up, you'll be joining her sooner than planned."
The words sober me up faster than a bucket of ice water. "That's a shitty thing to say."
"It's a shitty truth." Vito settles into the chair across from my couch, somehow managing to look dignified even in this pit of despair I've created. "How long has it been since you checked in? Since you've done any actual work?"
I try to remember, but the last few days are a blur of alcohol and self-pity. "Marco's handling things."
"Marco's one man, not an entire crew. We're in the middle of a war, in case you've forgotten."
"I haven't forgotten." The words come out sharper than I intended. "But I'm not much good to anyone right now."
"No, you're not." His agreement stings more than an argument would have. "The question is, what are you going to do about it?"
I slump back onto the couch, my head still pounding. "I don't know. Wait for her to call, I guess. If she calls."
"And if she doesn't?"
The possibility I've been trying not to think about hangs between us like a loaded gun. "Then I guess I learn to live with it."
"Bullshit." Vito leans forward, his dark eyes boring into mine. "The Dante Mancini I know doesn't give up. Doesn't wallow in self-pity like some lovesick teenager. Where's the man who broke Kieran Costello's neck without hesitation?"
"That man was protecting someone he loved. This man is just... waiting."
"For what? Permission? Absolution? A guarantee that everything will work out the way you want it to?"
I don't answer, because he's right and we both know it.
"You know what your problem is, Dante? You've spent so long being what other people needed that you've forgotten how to fight for what you want." He stands, straightening his jacket. "Remember that day in the training center? When you were thirteen and couldn't land a punch on me?"
The memory hits like a freight train. Hours of frustration, the taste of failure, the burning need to prove myself. "Yeah."
"What did I tell you that day?"
"That someday I'd be strong enough, fast enough to land that punch." The words come automatically, burned into my memory.
"That's right." Vito moves to the center of the small living room, his stance shifting into something I recognize. Combat ready. "Today's that day."
I stare at him, certain the hangover is making me hallucinate. "What?"
"You heard me. Land one punch—anywhere on my body—and I'll tell you where Sofia is." He rolls up his sleeves with deliberate precision. "You've got one hour."
"You're out of your mind."
"Maybe. But I'm also the only person who knows where the woman you love is hiding. So the question is, how badly do you want to find her?"
The challenge hangs in the air between us, and despite my current state, I feel something stirring in my chest. The same fire that burned in me when I was thirteen, desperate to prove I was worth something.
But I'm also drunk, hungover, and haven't eaten a real meal in days. "I can barely stand up straight."
"Then you better figure out how to fight dirty." Vito's smile is sharp, predatory. "Clock's ticking."
I push myself off the couch, swaying slightly as the blood rushes to my head. My reflexes are shot, my coordination is for shit, and my head feels like it's full of cotton. But somewhere beneath all of that, the part of me that's been sleeping for three days starts to wake up.
I throw the first punch—a lazy, telegraphed jab that Vito slips easily.
