Page 36 of Celestial Combat

Francesca nodded, taking a slow sip of her drink. “Like it was nothing.”

I let that sink in.

Tony was sixteen.

I had known him since he was a kid, all sharp features and restless energy. But I hadn’t seen him in months. The last time I did, he was still following his sister around with a smart mouth and something reckless in his eyes.

I let out a low whistle, shaking my head. “Damn.”

“Yeah. Damn right.” Francesca leaned back again, reaching for her drink. “Beat his ass when we got home.”

I smirked. “Really?”

“Little shit had it coming.” She stretched.

“And how’d that go?”

“Not great. He’s got arms like iron bars now. No idea when that happened.”

“So, he’s getting that strong?”

“Mm-hmm. Dad was impressed.”

That made me pause. Enzo DeMone was never impressed.

“I thought he’d lose his shit, but no. He said it was good for Tony to ‘release his anger productively.’ Like he’s some attack dog that needs to be exercised.”

I snorted. “I mean… Not completely wrong.”

Francesca laughed. She took another sip, then added,“The fight club is underground some gym in Midtown calledPython.”

My heart stilled.

“Python?”

“Yeah. Surprised you don’t know it. This guy, Zane Takashi, that runs the place, works with Trevor. And your family.”

I didn’t say anything to that.

I just stared at the way the light hit the water, thoughts forming in the back of my mind.

I sipped my water, the ice clicking against the glass.

A slow, dangerous idea creeping in.

One I wasn’t going to say out loud.Yet.

The late afternoon air was thick with the scent of asphalt and gasoline, the last traces of daylight stretching long shadows across the near-empty Bronx parking lot. I leaned against a shiny, red motorcycle, my arms crossed over my chest, watching the entrance of the gym. The sky above was painted in a muted blend of burnt orange and dusky blue, a quiet contrast to the steady pulse of the city beyond.

The heavy metal door to the gym groaned open, and a group of guys spilled out onto the pavement, still high off the adrenaline of their workout. Their football jerseys clung to their sweat-slicked chests, and they laughed and shoved at each other as they made their way toward their cars, tossing casual goodbyes over their shoulders.

And then, finally, he walked out. Just the man I was looking for.

Antonio DeMone.

Gym bag slung over his shoulder, white shirt damp at the collar, jaw still tight with exertion. He wasn’t as tall as his older brother or cousins yet, but he had that same dangerous, easy confidence that ran in the DeMone blood.

His steps slowed when he saw me, sharp black eyes flicking up from the pavement.