Page 50 of Marriage of Revenge

I don't give a fuck about French mafia politics right now.

Not when she's there, wrapped in blue silk that's both too much and not enough. The dress clings like a lover's hands, revealing new scars I want to trace with my tongue. She's a daydream dressed in night sky colors - the kind that makes me want to peel away each layer, discover every mark, taste every inch until she forgets any touch but mine. Desire burns through my veins like good whiskey, unwanted but impossible to deny.

But she's a nightmare too, because my heart shouldn't stutter when she meets my gaze. I shouldn't want to grab her, pin her against the nearest wall, make her feel exactly what she does to me. Make her understand that she hasn't won - that I have. That I will.

This is about vengeance. For my mother. For the life they stole from me. For the boy who died in flames while she watched.

Revenge, pure and simple.

Nothing less.

Nothing more.

(The last lie tastes like copper and sand on my tongue.)

The air crackles with bloodlust now. Henrik and I circle each other in the ring, predators sizing up prey. Only difference is, he doesn't know which of us is which.

"The rules are clear. No biting. No hits below the belt. This isn't ultimate championship. This is a fist fight. First one to hit the ground loses."

Henrik's snarl is all amateur bravado. "Those are rules for the weak."

I arch an eyebrow, letting my smirk cut deep. "No, those are rules for the ones who aren't afraid."

He tilts his head, eyes sliding to Isabella like oil on water. "I wonder if they'll give us two for the price of one. I can see myself with both of them."

The image hits like acid - his hands on her skin, his mouth where it doesn't belong. Rage floods my system, hot and deadly, but I cage it. Channel it. I didn't survive this long by letting anger control me in the ring. No, I know exactly where to strike to make him bleed.

"You wouldn't know what to do with them." My gaze drops deliberately south, my smile pure venom. "Clearly, they wouldn't be satisfied. But don't worry... You're not going to win."

The bell rings and he launches himself at me, all fury and no finesse. Each punch broadcasts his next move, burning energy like he's got something to prove. Huffing and pudding. Like an old engine running on fumes, all noise and no power.

Amateur.

This dance we're doing—him lunging, me evading—it's a brutal ballet, each move a mockery of the grace Isabella once commanded on stage. His fists slice air where my face should be, frustration rolling off him in waves.

"Fight me!" he barks, thinking my restraint is weakness. I'm just waiting, watching, letting the predator in me choose its moment.

The crowd holds its collective breath, the silence broken only by Henrik's desperate grunts and our feet sliding across the mat. My lips curl into the smile that earned me my reputation - the one that makes smarter men run.

"She's going to beg for more." Henrik's words drip poison. "And you know who else begged for more? Your mother."

Ice floods my veins. "Leave my mother out of this."

His laugh is all razor edges. "She was nothing but a—"

My look stops him cold. "Don't." One word, carrying years of promised violence.

But Henrik's too stupid to hear the warning. "She called for you, didn't she? And you couldn't save her."

The taunt hits deeper than any physical blow, ripping open scars that never truly healed. Rage explodes through my blood, but I leash it, channel it. He wants the Beast? I'll give him calculated destruction instead.

His fist catches my guard - one lucky shot that feeds his ego. His laughter bounces off the walls, the sound of a man who thinks he's won the war because he drew first blood.

And the surprise attack throws me off balance for a fraction of a second, a moment unseen by all but Franco.

His voice cuts through the noise, a quiet command in Italian, "Slow, now, punch."

Reacting with trained precision, I answer with my fist in Henrik's gut, feeling ribs give under the impact.

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