"Pathetic," he says, echoing his words from years ago. "Is that really the best you can do? Because if it is, Sofia's going to be waiting a very long time."
The mention of her name adds fuel to the fire burning in my chest. I come at him again, this time with more purpose, but my timing is off and he deflects the combination effortlessly.
"You're fighting like a drunk," he observes, dancing away from another wild swing. "Sloppy, predictable, emotional. Where's the discipline I taught you?"
"Hard to be disciplined when you're seeing double," I grunt, trying to corner him against the wall.
"Then maybe you should have thought of that before you decided to pickle yourself in whiskey." He taps me lightly on the ribs as I stumble past him. "This is exactly what I'm talking about, Dante. The first sign of adversity and you fall apart."
"Adversity?" I spin around to face him, anger flaring hot and bright. "I didn't lose a fucking poker game, Vito. The woman I love left because she can't stand the thought of being part of this world. Our world."
"And instead of fighting for her, you decided to feel sorry for yourself."
"What was I supposed to do? Storm in there and drag her back? Force her to choose me?"
"You were supposed to trust her enough to make her own decision." Vito weaves through another series of punches, his movements fluid and controlled. "But you were also supposed to make sure that when she made that decision, she was choosing the best version of you, not this self-destructive mess."
The words hit harder than any physical blow could. Because he's right—I've been so focused on the possibility of losing Sofia that I've become exactly the kind of man she might not want to come back to.
"You think this is what she'd want to see?" Vito continues, staying just out of reach. "You think she'd be proud of what you've become these last few days?"
"Shut up," I snarl, throwing a combination that comes closer than any of my previous attempts.
"There it is," he says, and I can hear approval in his voice. "That's what I've been waiting for."
But even with my anger driving me, I can't bridge the gap between us. He's still too fast, too experienced, and I'm still operating at about sixty percent capacity. Every missed punch feels like another failure, another reminder that even fifteen years later, I'm still that angry kid who can't quite measure up.
"You know what your real problem is?" Vito says as I pause to catch my breath. "You're still fighting like you have something to prove to me. Like my approval is more important than your own happiness."
"Isn't it?"
"Not anymore." He stops moving, letting his guard drop slightly. "You're not that thirteen-year-old kid anymore, Dante. You don't need my permission to want things for yourself."
The change in his stance is subtle, but I notice it. The way his weight shifts, the slight opening in his defense. It's the same tell I've been studying for fifteen years, waiting for the right moment to exploit it.
"Sofia didn't leave because she can't handle this world," Vito continues. "She left because she needs to know she's choosing it, not just accepting it. There's a difference."
I feint left, and when he moves to counter, I pivot right and drive my fist into his ribs with everything I have left.
The impact sends shockwaves up my arm, and for a moment, we both just stand there, frozen. Vito straightens slowly, one hand pressed to his side, and I wait for the explosion of anger that's sure to follow.
Instead, he smiles.
"Took you long enough," he says, and there's genuine pride in his voice.
I stare at him, certain I'm hallucinating. "You're not pissed?"
"Why would I be pissed? You finally stopped fighting the opponent I wanted you to fight and started fighting the one you needed to fight."
"I don't understand."
"The thirteen-year-old Dante would have kept throwing the same punches, getting the same results, because he was too proud to change his approach. The man you are now—the man Sofia fell in love with—was smart enough to adapt. To use myown words against me, to wait for the right moment, to fight dirty when fighting clean wasn't working."
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a cell phone, placing it on the coffee table between us.
"One number, one address," he says simply. "Everything you need to find her."
I grab at the phone, my hands shaking as I look at the screen. There's a contact labeled simply "Home" and a GPS coordinate that means nothing to me but feels like everything.
