3 Emma pov

"Gonna break you, little girl," he said.

Emmaline didn't respond. She just settled into her stance, weight balanced, hands up.

The bell rang.

Razor charged like a bull, all aggression and no strategy. Emmaline sidestepped, letting his momentum carry him past her, and snapped a low kick into the back of his knee. He stumbled but didn't go down, spinning to face her with a snarl.

He swung, a haymaker that would have taken her head off if it connected. She ducked under it, stepped inside his guard, and drove her elbow into his ribs. Once, twice, three times, feeling something crack on the third strike.

Razor roared and grabbed for her, but she was already moving, circling, staying light on her feet. He was strong, but he was slow, and she'd learned long ago that speed and precision beat raw power every time.

She let him chase her, let him tire himself out throwing punches that hit nothing but air. And then, when she saw the opening, she took it.

A feint high, then a sweep low, taking his legs out from under him. He went down hard, and she was on him immediately, transitioning to his back, her arm snaking around his throat in a rear-naked choke. He thrashed, trying to buck her off, but she had her hooks in, her legs wrapped around his waist, and she squeezed.

Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.

His hand slapped the canvas—tap, tap, tap—and she released immediately, rolling away and standing.

The crowd erupted. Money changed hands. Marco stepped into the cage and raised her arm, declaring her the winner.

Emmaline barely heard it. The adrenaline was still singing through her veins, her heart pounding, her breath coming fast. This was the only time she felt truly alive—in the cage, with violence as her language and victory as her reward.

She collected her winnings from Marco—$840, a good night—and was pulling her shirt back on when she felt it.

Eyes on her. Watching.

She looked up, scanning the crowd, and that's when she saw him.

He stood at the edge of the cage, arms crossed, leaning against one of the support posts. Tall—maybe six feet—with dark hair that fell across his forehead and eyes so dark they were almost black. He wore ripped jeans and a leather jacket, and there was something about the way he held himself, the casual confidence, the predatory stillness, that set off alarm bells in her head.

This was someone dangerous.

Their eyes met across the warehouse, and Emmaline felt something electric arc between them. His gaze was intense, assessing, like he was trying to figure her out, peel back her layers and see what lay beneath.

She didn't look away. She never looked away first.

He pushed off from the post and started toward her, moving through the crowd with an ease that suggested people got out of his way without him having to ask. As he got closer, she could see the details—the sharp line of his jaw, the small scar above his left eyebrow, the way his lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"Il Assassino," he said when he reached her, and his voice was low, rough, with an edge that made her think of whiskey and smoke. "Hell of a fight."

"Thanks," she said, keeping her tone neutral, her walls up.

"You train somewhere? Your technique is too clean for someone who just learned in the cage."

"I train," she said, not offering more.

He studied her for a moment, and she had the unsettling feeling that he was seeing more than she wanted him to. "You move like someone who was trained to kill, not just fight. Military? Private security?"

"Does it matter?" She shouldered her jacket, preparing to leave.

"I'm Matteo," he said, not answering her question. "Matteo Valentino."

The name meant nothing to her, but the way he said it suggested it should. Like he was used to people knowing who he was, reacting to it.

"Good for you," she said.

That almost-smile widened into something more genuine, like he was amused by her attitude. "You got a name? A real one, I mean."

"Il Assassino works just fine."

"Come on," he said, and there was something almost playful in his tone now, though his eyes remained intense. "Let me buy you a drink. Celebrate your win."

"I don't drink with strangers."

"Then let me not be a stranger. Five minutes. One drink. If you hate me, you can walk away, and I won't follow."

There was something about him that drew her in despite her better judgment. Maybe it was the way he looked at her—not like she was a piece of meat, not like she was something to be conquered, but like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve. Maybe it was the danger that radiated off him, calling to something reckless and self-destructive in her own nature.

Or maybe it was just that she was tired of being alone.

"I don't think so," she said, but her voice lacked conviction.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a phone. "At least give me your number. In case you change your mind."

"I won't."

"Humor me."

She should have said no. Should have walked away right then, disappeared into the crowd like she always did. But instead, she found herself smirking, a challenge in her eyes.

"If you can find me, you can have my number," she said.

And then she turned and melted into the crowd, moving quickly, using her smaller size to slip between bodies, heading for the exit. She could feel his eyes on her back, could sense him starting to follow, but she was faster, more agile, and she knew this warehouse better than he did.

By the time she hit the street, she was alone.