Page 28 of Until You Break

EMILIO

The terrace still held its breath. His finger stayed leveled at me, steady, unshaken. Every glance dragged toward it like metal to a magnet. No one spoke. No one laughed. Heat thickened.

Then Damiano moved. He stepped forward, hand leaving my nape, shoulders cutting through the crowd until the ropes bowed to let him in. Possession followed him like shadow.

My pulse slammed. Who was this? Who would come all the way into Bellandi territory, masked, to fight for me? To free me? To claim me? Did he mean to take me from Damiano, or save me from him? Fear burned sharp in my chest, but confusion tangled it, a dizzy mix of dread and hope.

Damiano’s body coiled as he faced him, black coat sliding off his shoulders, muscle cut in lines of heat and strength.

He looked carved for this, power rippling down his arms, veins rising as fists closed.

The sight hit me low, brutal, pride curling hot in my gut.

He was mine. My captor, my husband, my anchor in this storm.

“Brave,” Damiano said, low, dangerous. “But finished.” His voice sliced the air. The word rippled outward, snapped heads to me, to him, to the claim between us.

Luca prowled the edge, microphone hot in his grip, grin sharp. “Never seen him in the ring for anything but blood. What is it tonight, big brother? Sport or love?”

Damiano didn’t glance his way. He bared his teeth, predator’s smile. Silence stretched. Then he said it steady, brutal.

“For my husband.”

The terrace erupted. Money slapped wood. Hands slammed tables. The air shook itself into appetite.

The fighter shifted. Not away. Not mockery. Acknowledgment. The bell rang. They met in the middle.

Fists and shoulders collided. Boots scraped canvas.

Strikes echoed like hammers. My ribs clenched as though I’d been struck too, every blow ricocheting through my body.

My throat locked when Damiano’s guard dipped, heart stuttering as if I’d been the one caught.

Fear flooded me, but underneath it, heat.

Watching him fight for me, owning the ring, drove a sharp, shameful arousal through me.

His hook grazed the mask, veins standing out along his forearm.

Sweat gleamed across his shoulders, muscles flexing with every strike.

Each motion was precise, ruthless. My mouth went dry.

My palms damp. I wanted to look away but couldn’t.

Pride and desire tangled with dread until I shook from all three.

They circled, trading brutal flurries. Damiano’s fists punished ribs, his body a wall of relentless force.

Sweat sprayed into the front row. Luca shouted odds with manic glee.

Alessandro mocked each punch, his voice slicing through the roar.

The terrace fed on the spectacle, but my eyes stayed on Damiano, chest tightening with every strike he landed, every drop of blood that wasn’t his.

Minutes stretched. Neither man gave ground. My stomach knotted tighter, torn between terror that Damiano would fall and a darker terror that he wouldn’t. A sick part of me wanted him to crush the mask fast, to prove in front of everyone that he couldn’t be beaten.

Alessandro yelled, “Ten to one on the mask’s chin! Even money Damiano breaks him in half!” Coins changed hands faster than breath. Sweat sprayed. Blood streaked the mat. A low sweep nearly toppled Damiano. He retaliated with a brutal shoulder drive, the ropes shivering with the impact.

Damiano’s shoulder crashed into him, driving him down. The mask struck canvas with a crack that stilled half the terrace. Blood smeared bright across the mat as the fighter sagged to his knees. Damiano loomed over him, chest heaving, fists tight. His roar split the air.

“You come into my house? Try to humiliate me in front of mine? I’ll kill you for it!”

His arm drew back, muscles flexing for the final strike.

Then the fighter’s head snapped back, mask split, voice ragged and torn raw.

“Emilio!”

It wasn’t just my name. It was the way he said it. Shaking, desperate, breaking on the last syllable. A sound that belonged to dust-thick summers, to fists teaching me to guard, to nights when he swore he’d never let anyone touch me. Salvatore.

My chest caved. My body moved before thought. The sketchbook fell from my lap, graphite scattering. “Stop! Stop!” The words ripped out of me raw, scraping my throat.

I shoved forward, cutting through the press of bodies. Chairs toppled. Elbows struck back, curses hissed, but I didn’t care. “Move! Out of my way!” My shoulder slammed ribs, my palms knocked glasses to the floor. The ring was all I saw.

“Salvatore, you crazy fool!” My voice tore louder than the crowd itself. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Gasps split the terrace. Phones lifted. Flashes stuttered. Some shouted curses, others clapped, a few even screamed “Bravo!” as though blood was theatre.

Inside the ropes, Damiano’s fist hung half-cocked, ready to finish.

His knuckles bled, chest heaving, eyes blazing.

He froze for half a breath, looking back over his shoulder at me as I stumbled toward him, his gaze hit like heat.

Fury that I’d crossed him in front of everyone, and something more dangerous underneath it. Disbelief.

The ring filled with bodies, Bellandi guards forcing in from one side, Valente men surging from the other. Chaos shredded the ropes, boots and fists jostling, steel glinting under the lights.

And in the middle of it, Damiano and Salvatore, still locked, still straining to kill each other, with me breaking toward them as the terrace collapsed into war.

I shoved past a guard and fell against him. My brother. Blood soaked through his shirt, heat rolling off him, arms fierce as they closed around me in a bruised embrace.

“Papa wouldn’t move,” Salvatore rasped against my hair. “We couldn’t just leave you. Enzo opened the way. I tried to save you, E. Idiot plan, but it’s mine.” His mouth twisted, blood wetting his teeth. “Thought maybe I’d drag you out myself.”

Around us, the terrace sagged into a hush so complete I could hear his breath stutter. A capo near the rail exhaled one word—“Respect”—as if admitting it cost him.

I shook, tears burning, but held Salvatore tighter. Then I turned, voice breaking out into the terrace so every ear caught it. “I want to be here. But I won’t see my brother cut down for it.”

Salvatore pulled back, stunned. “What?” His voice cracked. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, throat tight. “But trust me. He’s… starting to grow on me.”

Damiano let out a scoff, rolling his eyes, mouth twisting in dark amusement. “Starting?”

Even under blood, Salvatore half-laughed, then grimaced. “You’re insane.” His eyes flicked to Damiano, then back to me. “But Enzo and I, we fought for you. Both of us.”

My chest split wider. Both of them. Both my brothers had risked everything for me.

Damiano stepped closer, blood on his cheek, eyes sharp. His voice was steady, brutal. “You’re a fool. But you came for your brother, my husband. And I respect that. Family is blood. He leaves alive.”

The Bellandi guards hesitated, then stepped back. Valente men closed around Salvatore, lifting him, shielding him. Blood dripped to the floor, each drop a vow.

My brother’s gaze caught mine one last time through the ruined mask. “Promise me,” he whispered. “That you’ll come and see us.”

I gripped his arm, pulled him close again, whispered fierce through my teeth. “Stay alive. That’s all I want. Nobody touches my brother.”

He pressed his forehead to mine once, a goodbye soaked in blood and promise. Then his men carried him off, boots leaving a red trail behind them.

The terrace bent to silence. Then murmurs swelled.

“Valente… Valente…” Phones caught every angle. Applause sparked from one corner, curses from another. Some crossed themselves, others muttered prayers, as if to name what they’d seen a sacrament of blood.

Alessandro’s voice rose above it, mocking, sharp as a knife. “If only Riccardo weren’t dragging that name through the dirt, eh? His sons bleed for each other, and the whole terrace applauds. Without him, the Valentis might have been worth something.”

The laughter that answered carried respect with it. Heads nodded. The name Valente hissed through the terrace like smoke, suddenly less curse, more legend.

Damiano’s hand stayed locked on me, iron and heat. “You chose,” he said quietly.

And I had. For him. For Salvatore. For both.