Page 8 of The Merciless Don's Bride

The man in front of me is good. Fast on his feet, solid form. One of my best. But it doesn’t matter. I watch him, cold and detached as he circles, looking for an opening that doesn’t exist. His fists twitch, weight shifting from one foot to the other, trying to feint me into making the first move.

I don’t.

I wait. When he finally lunges, I sidestep with ease and catch his arm mid-strike, twisting sharply. He lets out a grunt of pain as I wrench it behind his back and shove him to his knees in one fluid motion.

“Again,” I say, releasing him.

He scrambles up, breathing hard but determined. He throws a punch, fast and desperate. I duck, drive my shoulder into his ribs, and send him sprawling across the mat with a brutal thud. Murmurs ripple through the room. All my other men know better than to step in, to challenge but they still watch. They enjoy the fights, the bloodlust plain on their faces.

They’re all fucking savages. And I am the leader of savages.

I roll my shoulders, barely winded. Mycapostaggers upright, stubborn bastard that he is. He hasn’t worked for me long. Killan’s his name. He’s a kid in his twenties, big fucker with a nasty temper that isn’t currently doing him any favors. But he’s also a fighter, has had to be all his life because he grew up as an orphan. Most of my men have a sob story like that. Something that’s hardened them. Made them warriors.

Killan charges once again. This time I don’t move. I let him come. He swings, a wild right hook which I catch easily, twisting his wrist until he drops with a pained gasp. In the same motion, I sweep his legs out from under him and slam him onto his back, knocking the air from his lungs.

There’s a couple of cheers from outside the ring as I stand over him, heart pounding slow and steady in my chest. I feel the urge to stretch out this feeling of vicious satisfaction and control. To hold it tight, but I know it won’t last.

I extend a hand towards Killan and he grabs it, letting me haul him upright. There’s no shame in his eyes, only grim acceptance. He tried and he failed.

No one beats Damien Luciano.

“You did good, kid,” I tell him, slapping his shoulder lightly.

I yank the gloves off my hands, tossing them aside without ceremony, and wipe the sweat from my forehead with a towel Luca hands me. I step out of the ring, walking towards the showers in the locker room. I built this gym a couple of years ago on the compound. It has state of the art facilities, anything my men need to train. The ring is for letting off steam.

Luca waits for me outside, while I shower and get dressed. We’re headed for the double doors leading in the room when they creak open.

“Sofia,” I mutter as she strolls inside, bright and sweet, like a fucking daisy growing out of concrete.

My little sister surveys the scene, the tense air and the new fight that currently ongoing behind me. She smiles but there’s no missing the uneasiness in her eyes. I sigh softly before stepping towards her.

“Mia cara,”I call. “What are you doing here?”

She moves to link her arms around mine with a grin “Looking for you, of course, fratello,” she replies. “Did you fight someone?”

I nod, my gaze soft as I look at her. Sofia’s the most innocent thing that exists in my world. She’s much younger than me at twenty-three years old. She’s always been in this world but grew up sheltered and protected, like a princess. That’s made her a terrible fit for it. I wish our father would have raised her differently, to be stronger. But he’s left me with the responsibility to protect her in his death and I plan to do just that.

“Who did you fight?” she questions curiously, then her gaze drifts backward towards the men that are currently pretending not to notice her presence. They all make sure to avert their eyes. Lest I rip them off for daring to look at my little sister.

“Killan,” I answer, taking care to observe her reaction. “He put up a good fight.”

Her lips press down together and there’s no mistaking the concern in her eyes.

“I don’t understand why you have to beatdown your men, Damien.”

“It’s called training,cara,” I correct dryly.

“Mm-hmm. You should consider less violent hobbies,” she says. “Have you ever thought about pottery? Or painting little ceramic ducks.”

I scoff, “I don’t have the patience for arts and crafts.”

She wrinkles her nose, snuggling closer to me, “Seriously though,fratello. Why does it feel like you’re always trying to fight the whole world?”

“Because I am,” I say simply.

Her smile falters for a beat, “You don’t have to, you know. You deserve peace.”

I don’t have an answer to that. What I deserve or not doesn’t matter anymore. It hasn’t for a long time.

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