6 months ago…

Fuck me, she’s beautiful. 

With that long, almost waist-length, thick ebony hair and those dark eyes, she blows me away. 

The entire crowd is cheering for her, chanting her name, or rather, her fighting name Black Slayer, and it’s fitting. Black like her hair, and she does indeed slay her opponents. She practically owns that ring and the crowd that surrounds it. I hate to admit it, but me, too. 

From the moment she stepped into that ring, she caught my attention. She was most definitely Italian, but there was something so exotic about her, including the way her hair curls so naturally. I thought she was beautiful, but that was it. And then I saw her fight. That’s what attracted me to her even more. 

She’s so strong, so fast, moving swiftly and landing hit after hit against her opponent. The look in her eyes, though, is something else. Her dark eyes, almost as black as her hair, narrow at her opponent, and there’s murderous intent in there. For example, when she lands a hit, she means to hurt you. And fuck, if that doesn’t cause my cock to throb in my pants. 

It’s quite uncomfortable, but I can’t take my eyes off her. From the way she moves. From the way her hair bounces in the air. From that look in her eyes. I know I’d devour her, and she’d thank me for it. 

I’m broken out of my thoughts when the referee announces her win, and I look away from her for a brief moment just to see her opponent out cold on the ground. She doesn’t smile, maintaining that stoic expression on her face, one that I’ve spent my life practicing. 

To my disappointment, this was her last fight of the night. She disappears so quickly that I would’ve missed it had my eyes not been glued to her. 

I’m quick to rise to my feet, ready to follow after her to do lord knows what when my brother speaks. 

“You good?” he asks, but I see the glint in his eyes, his lips curled up into a smirk. He saw how I reacted to her. Fuck. This is the last thing I needed—him knowing just how affected I was by that woman. 

“You should go after her,” his wife, Caterina, says with an encouraging smile on her face. 

I hesitate. I don’t want to give them the satisfaction, but my mind is still fixated on that woman. Black Slayer. I can’t help but wonder.

Who is she? What’s her real name? Where does she come from? And why have I never seen her here before?

“Go, Dante,” Luciano urges. “I won’t tease you.” 

He glances at his wife, and I believe him. If there’s anyone who’s pussy whipped and deserves a teasing, it’s him.

Without another glance, I follow after her and walk through the door I saw her go through. When I get to the other side, there’s a big room with all the fighters lounging on couches, some getting ready for their matches and others wincing through their injuries. 

And there she is. My Black Slayer. At the very end of the room. 

Something goes through me at the thought of her being stuck here, the only female amongst all these disgusting and vile men. Whatever it is, I don’t like it. Not one bit. 

“Mr. Romano.” One of the fighters gasps, and immediately, they all get to their feet and bow their heads to me. But my eyes are only on her, the woman who seems to freeze upon hearing my name. 

I walk past all of them, heading her way with her back still to me. I stop right behind her, leaving merely a few inches between the two of us. She doesn’t acknowledge me, and so I glance over her shoulder, watching her as she wraps her bloody knuckles. She landed more than a few good punches with those, and so of course they’re bruised and battered. 

A protective feeling goes through me that has me wanting to beat up her opponents even further for causing her to get hurt despite her being the one who landed the hits. The feeling is foreign to me. I haven’t felt this feeling since…

Shaking that thought off me, I walk around her and grab the wraps, causing her movements to halt. She doesn’t look up at me, but I see her throat bob as she swallows. She knows who I am. 

“Let me help you,” I find myself saying, and surprisingly, she lets go and lets me finish off the job. The entire time I wrap her up, she doesn’t glance up at me once, her eyes glued to where I’m touching her, and I’m not even really touching her. 

When I’m done, I don’t let go of her hand, holding the tips of her fingers in between mine. 

“Do you know who I am?” I ask her. The fact that she can ignore me without even being tempted to glance up at me bothers me, but I swallow the urge to grab her chin and force her to look at me. Why? I don’t know. Usually, I take charge. But with her, I want her to do things on her own terms and because she wants to. 

“Dante,” she suddenly murmurs, her voice so soft I nearly don’t catch it. Then her dark eyes meet mine, knocking all the air out of my lungs. “You’re Dante Romano.”

I’m not sure how I expected her to look at me, maybe with fear or even defiance, but not this. 

There are tears welling up in her eyes I can see she’s desperately trying to hold back, and the look on her face is one of nostalgia and longing. 

She’s looking at me like she’s staring at a long-lost lover.