Crushed under

Franco’s POV

Il Campo di Sangue.

The name of the field we were to fight on.

Blood and soil, a canvas made for me to paint in red.

I smiled slowly, letting him see just enough of my teeth to make it unclear if it was amusement… or hunger.

“I love the name,” I purred, my voice low, savoring the syllables as if they were already dripping with his blood.

In my head, I saw it clearly—his body folded under me, his breath rattling as I drove the life out of him. The great Matteo, brought to his knees in his own sacred field.

Would I survive him? Maybe not. His strength radiated off him in waves, a predator’s dominance. But arrogance was my armor, and cruelty was sharper than steel. If I could not overpower him, I could unmake him. Break him from the inside out.

I tilted my head, feigning curiosity, but every word was a sharpened barb.

“Are we using weapons,” I asked, voice slow, deliberate, “or are you too much of a pussy to stand with only your hands?”

His jaw flexed. For the briefest flicker, I saw his composure tremble—just enough to make my lips twitch in dark satisfaction.

“You’ll regret it,” he said, stepping closer, his shadow falling over me like a threat. “You’ll be begging for the weapons.”

I grinned wider, stretching the expression until it was almost a sneer.

The butler’s voice broke the tension, his tone neutral, clinical. “Are the contenders ready?”

I bit down on the mouthguard, the bitter taste of rubber mixing with the iron tang already on my tongue. My hands tightened into fists, the wrap snug and familiar.

The whistle cut the air.

Matteo moved first. Too fast. Faster than I expected. A blur of muscle and fury closing the space like a storm.

I dodged at the last second, breath sharp, the rush of wind from his strike brushing past my cheek.

“What the fuck—” I hissed under my breath, adrenaline spiking. He wasn’t just strong. He was a monster in motion.

I pivoted, ready to counter, but his fist met me square in the chest before I could slip away.

I felt a pure crushing impact.

The world jolted sideways as I was thrown back, air ripped from my lungs, bones humming with the force. My footwear skidded in the dirt, my body catching itself just before I hit the ground.

Pain bloomed, sharp and electric, across my ribs.

The last time I’d been hit like that—knocked off my center, sent flying—was years ago. Years. And I’d sworn then that no one would ever do it to me again.

Yet here I was, breathless, body thrumming, staring at Matteo with a slow, feral grin stretching across my face.

“Oh,” I rasped, spitting blood to the ground like an offering, “I’m going to enjoy killing you.”

Matteo’s smug look twisted sharper, his voice a bass growl.

“What did you say?”

But I had no interest in answering with words. My reply came sharp and fast—fists slicing through the space, the hiss of my breath syncing with every strike.

He met me, blow for blow, the ground beneath us trembling with the rhythm of our violence.

His punches were brutal. Each one carried the kind of weight that could end a lesser man. They cracked through the air with enough force to rattle bone, to break ribs, to shut down lungs. And still, I refused to fall.

I cut low, my body coiling like a predator, sweeping for his legs—fast, vicious, intending to tear him down from his arrogant height. He twisted, graceful as sin, evading by the skin of his teeth.

He snapped right back, dropping low to scythe at my legs, a brutal hook meant to crush me to the dirt. My body bent backward, spine singing, slipping from his reach by a breath.

Dust spiraled around us, the crowd’s hush thick with anticipation.

Matteo’s eyes glinted. “Not bad. Most men crumble after my first strike. But you—” he tilted his head, almost admiring, “you’re still standing.”

I barked a laugh, sharp and mocking. “Those?” I spat blood, tongue savoring the metallic taste. “Those aren’t punches. I’ve had sparring dummies hit me harder without even trying.”

His gaze dropped to the crimson streak smeared against my lips.

“Funny. Because that same punch has you bleeding all over the field.”

My heart thudded, not from fear, but from the wildfire racing through my veins. Blood sang in me. Muscles burned alive. My body was screaming. But my arrogance didn’t give a damn.

He thought I was just another opponent, another challenger to break beneath his fists. But I wasn’t. I was something else. Something he had no idea he’d invited into the ring.

And with a low, dangerous chuckle, I straightened, shoulders rolling back, eyes flashing with feral light.

“Do you think blood frightens me?” I purred, voice slicing between us. “I was baptized in it.”

My fists rose again.

I lunged, reckless and precise, but Matteo’s fist slammed into my ribs before I could twist away. A sickening crack rippled through me, pain flaring white-hot.

He grinned like the devil himself, voice slick with venom.

“I’ve been taking it easy on you, little man. But let me show you why they whisper my name like a curse.” His gaze flicked to my face, lips curling with disdain. “That androgynous mug of yours? Don’t worry—I’ll fix it. My punches don’t just change destinies… they rearrange faces. Maybe after tonight, you’ll finally look like the man you’re pretending to be.”

My heart skipped a beat. No. It couldn’t be fear. I refused to name it fear.

I couldn’t lose. Not when I hadn’t even begun my mission.

Matteo’s shadow loomed, his fists hungry. I twisted, ducked, dodged, his laughter following me like a cruel echo.

“What happened to the smug Franco?” he taunted, fists striking the air inches from my face. “Where’s that sharp tongue now, huh? Gone soft already?”

My breaths came short, ragged, every step of retreat stoking the fire in my chest.

My ribs screamed with every breath, the dull throb threatening to splinter into something far worse. If it broke further, if I collapsed, I’d be dragged off to the infirmary or—gods forbid—the hospital. And then? Then my identity exposed.

But one faltering thought was all it took, and he was on me.

He lunged, taking me down. The ground slammed into my spine, and in an instant he straddled me, raining blows.

I raised my arms, elbows locked, blocking, covering my face as his fists hammered down. Every strike rattled my bones, each one a promise of the storm still to come.

No. I wouldn’t go down like this.

His next punch reared back—and I snapped forward, fist striking first.

The crack of impact silenced the ring.

Matteo’s head snapped aside, blood spraying from his lip. He froze, then turned back slowly, eyes burning into mine. For a breath, the world held still.

And in that stillness, memory betrayed me. This wasn’t the first time I’d been beneath him like this. That one night flooded back. His hands hadn’t been fists then. His weight hadn’t been a cage. And gods help me, it had been the most breathtaking, maddening, consuming thing I had ever felt.

Why the hell am I thinking about that now?

I braced for his final blow, ready to feel my bones shatter beneath it.

But instead—Matteo spat blood across my face. His jaw clenched, eyes unreadable, and without a word, he pushed off me and walked away.

The silence was deafening. Every gaze burned into me, shock heavy in the air.

A sharp whistle split the stillness.

The butler stepped forward, his voice as calm as it was cutting. “The fight is over.” His eyes swept me, lingering with something like disdain before he added, “Mildly impressed, Franco. But don’t ever try this shit again.”

I won’t. Not like this.

If I ever kill Matteo, it will be when I have the upper hand, when I can control the blade, the silence, the way his breath leaves his chest. But brawling like an idiot in the open? Never again. That little fantasy gets crossed off the list permanently.

I pushed myself up, ribs aching with every movement. Pain radiated through my chest, sharp and relentless, but I forced my body to stand tall. The butler stepped forward and pressed a small card into my palm.

“This is to your room,” he said flatly, already turning.

I followed him, each step stabbing through my ribs, the burn of humiliation heavier than the injury. When we reached the first floor, he paused, his voice carrying authority that brooked no argument.

“Each floor here has its own hierarchy,” he explained. “Since you’re a new recruit, you’ll remain on the first floor.” His eyes flicked toward me, hard and cutting. “But remember this—anyone can be promoted, or demoted, depending on the level of shit they pull. Don’t do more than you should.”

His gaze lingered like a blade at my throat before he finally walked away.

I stared down at the card. My hands shook slightly—pain, exhaustion, anger, all blurring together—before I followed the numbers to the door that matched. The lock clicked open when I swiped it.

The room was ordinary. Plain walls, a single bed, a desk shoved against the corner. Nothing impressive, nothing comfortable. The kind of space meant to remind you exactly where you stood in the pecking order: at the bottom.

I staggered inside, every breath dragging fire through my ribs. I clutched at them instinctively, teeth gritted, before sinking onto the bed.

My chairman wouldn’t be pleased if he learned I’d managed to get myself broken on the very first day. So I wouldn’t tell him. Not ever, if I could help it.

The knock at the door jolted me upright. My body tensed, and I moved with caution, opening it just enough to see who it was.

And my heart stopped.

Standing there, holding first aid supplies, was the last face I expected to ever see again.

Antonio.

My ex. The man who shattered me into a thousand pieces and left me to bleed.

I froze, staring at him, every old scar burning open.