Reckless

Rosa’s POV

My mouth was still hanging open like an idiot when I finally found my voice. “What the hell are you doing here, Raffaele?”

He tilted his head, that infuriating half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’d been waiting for the question all morning. “I’m here to see you, of course.”

Mateo cleared his throat behind us, shifting his weight. “Rosa, maybe we should—”

“Later,” I cut him off without looking back, fingers already curling around Raffaele’s wrist. I yanked hard, dragging the six-foot-three wall of trouble toward the locker room corridor. He let me pull him, amused, like a panther deciding to humor a kitten.

I shoved open the nearest door, hauled him inside, and slammed it shut. The echo bounced off the tiled walls. We were alone in the dim fluorescent light, surrounded by the faint smell of sweat and liniment.

He glanced around, then back at me, smirk widening. “Wow. I didn’t know you liked enclosed spaces.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I almost saw yesterday. “You have five minutes. Say whatever it is you came to say and get out.”

He leaned one shoulder against the lockers, crossing his arms, looking far too comfortable in my space. “Five minutes? Generous. I thought you’d give me thirty seconds before you tried to knee me again.”

“Clock’s ticking.”

Instead of getting to whatever point he had, he studied me like I was a case file he wanted to memorize. “Tell me about your family, Rosa.”

I stiffened. “What?”

“Your family. Parents. Siblings. The people who made you this… interesting combination of fire and steel. I want to know.”

My stomach twisted. “That’s none of your business.”

“Everything about you is my business now.”

I laughed, sharp and bitter. “You really think that’s how this works? You show up, throw around possessive bullshit, and suddenly you get access to my past? No. Your time’s up.”

I turned for the door.

His voice dropped, I could hear how dangerous it was all the way from here. “I’m not done talking. It’s bad manners to walk away when someone isn’t finished.”

I paused, hand on the knob. Bad manners? This mafia man actually thought he was some posh English prince holding court? The arrogance of it burned hotter than the gym lights.

I hated the sound of his voice right then, smooth, commanding, certain I would obey.

I didn’t say a word. Just opened the door and walked out.

He didn’t follow me. Thank God.

I changed into my gear in record time, wrapped fresh tape over my knuckles, and headed to the mat. Mateo was already there, bouncing lightly on his toes, golden hair damp from warm-up. First champion. Undefeated against me. Every single time we sparred, he’d found the opening, taken the point, left me sprawled and cursing.

Today felt different.

We circled. He grinned that easy, sunlit grin. “Ready to lose again, Stewart?”

“Keep dreaming, golden boy.”

The whistle blew.

He came in fast, testing, jab-jab-hook. I slipped the hook, countered with a low kick that grazed his thigh. He laughed, surprised, then pressed harder. Our bodies brushed… chest to chest for half a heartbeat when I blocked his cross. His breath was warm on my cheek. My pulse kicked up, not just from the fight.

Was he doing this on purpose? Lingering a second too long when we clinched, letting his fingers trail over my forearm when he pushed me back, eyes locked on mine a little too intensely?

I hooked his arm, spun, tried to throw him. He countered, used my momentum, and suddenly we were both going down. He landed on top, weight pinning me to the mat, forearms braced beside my head. Our faces were inches apart. His eyes flickered to my mouth.

For one stupid second I forgot how to breathe.

I was still trying to process it when I heard a thrilling sound.

A gunshot ripped through the gym.

Screams erupted with chairs scraping. Feet pounding. Another shot, then another. Chaos exploded like someone had kicked over a hornet’s nest.

Mateo rolled off me instantly, grabbing my arm. “Come on… back exit…

I slipped his grip like water, already scanning the room through the sudden haze of panic. People were diving behind equipment, scrambling for doors. The shots kept coming, deliberate, controlled.

And then… they stopped.

Dead silence except for my ringing ears and distant sobs.

I straightened slowly, chest heaving.

Through the drifting smoke and dust walked…Raffaele.

Calm. Untouched. Hands in his pockets. Like he’d just strolled in from a coffee run.

I shook my head. No. He couldn’t be…

“You…” The word scraped out of my throat.

He stopped a few feet away, head tilted. “Did I have to go through such lengths to get your attention?”

Rage boiled up so fast it tasted like copper. “Are you sick? People could have gotten hurt! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Rosa…” His voice was quiet, almost gentle. “You shouldn’t have walked away when I was talking.”

His face was unsmiling, hard and cold.

I should have been scared. Any sane person would be terrified.

Fuck him. Fuck him over!!!

I don’t bow to any man.

I stepped closer. Close enough to smell the faint gunpowder on his shirt, close enough to see the faint bruise already blooming on his knuckles.

Then I swung.

My palm cracked across his cheek…hard, clean, ringing.

The sound echoed louder than any gunshot.

His head barely moved. But his eyes flared.

“How’s this for attention?” I hissed.

I turned on my heel and walked away, through the stunned silence, past overturned benches and wide-eyed teammates, out the side door into the blinding daylight.

My hand stung.

My heart was a war drum.

I'd probably dug my grave but, that thought was something I would panic over later.