Random warehouse in Manhattan
There were men in the warehouse, loading up the trucks.
"Hey! How many pounds do we have up till now?" A man shouted, holding a notebook.
One worker perked up, "About 1800 to 2000, Jim. The package will be ready by tomorrow."
"Alright, get back to work, boys!" He ordered as he noted down in his notebook.
He looked to his side, another worker, filling up the bags with cocaine. "You see Simon anywhere?"
"Boss is in his office, talking with the client." He responded.
"Okay," he patted the worker's back before he climbed up the stairs to Simon's office.
He jogged up to Simon's office, opening the door.
"Simon, we got about 2000 pounds as per what the boys are saying." He reported.
Simon didn't look up right away as he still examined some documents.
"Good," Simon said, finally glancing at Jim. "Make sure it's packed in tight, don't want none of that shit spilling in transit."
Jim nodded. "Yeah, I told 'em. Double-sealing everything. Got Ramon supervising the packing this time. He's OCD as hell."
Simon grunted approvingly, still flipping through the stack of papers in front of him. All the paperwork of a very illegal export business was running as smoothly as a Swiss watch.
Across from Simon, the client in question sat with his legs crossed and a look of bored indifference. Pale skin, sunken cheeks, dead eyes. Russian. Maybe Eastern European.
"Jim, this is Mr. Volkov," Simon said without looking up. "He's our buyer for the Rotterdam route."
Volkov didn't extend a hand. He just gave Jim a glance that felt like a background check.
Jim gave a half nod. "Pleasure."
Volkov spoke for the first time, his thick russian accent apparent, clipped. "Two thousand pounds. Street value?"
Simon leaned back in his chair. "Closer to sixty mil, easy. Higher if you cut it right."
Volkov smirked. "Good old fucking business, Simon."
"Good old fucking business," Simon grinned as he took out a bottle of expensive wine. "Join us, Jim. Let's fuckin' party. Order some booze for the boys, too."
Jim blinked, surprised. "You serious?"
Simon popped the cork. "Do I look like I'm joking?"
Volkov raised a brow, lips twitching at the corners. "Your American celebrations are… casual."
"Volkov," Simon said, pouring crimson into two glasses, "when you've got two thousand pounds of pure product ready to ship, and the streets are quiet? You celebrate. Because tomorrow?" He handed one glass to Volkov. "Tomorrow, we might be dead."
--------------------------------
The rest of the day was business for Dante.
Dante spent the morning in meetings with the capos, listening to reports about territory, collections, and the usual petty squabbles.
"I'm fucking bored." He grumbled as he sat leg on leg. "Unc VINCENT!" He called out.
The door opened, banging against the wall. "Dante! What happened?" He asked, looking around.
"I'm bored..." Dante repeated.
"You're bored?" He asked.
"Yes."
Vincent stared at Dante, his thick salt-and-pepper brows knitting together like they were conspiring against Dante's youth.
"You call me in here like someone's been shot... because you're bored?"
Dante leaned back, grinning. "Yes, and you love me, so you're gonna fix it."
Vincent huffed, muttering something in Italian that definitely wasn't a compliment. "You wanna fix bored? Fine. Get your coat."
Dante sat up, intrigued. "Oh? Are we going somewhere violent?"
Vincent just gave him that crooked, devil-may-care smirk. "Oh, you'll like this. It's loud, bloody, and definitely not legal."
Manhattan, Lower East Side. Nightfall.
They descended into an alley. Vincent banged twice on a rusted steel door, then twice more. A small slot opened, revealing two suspicious, bloodshot eyes.
Vincent leaned in. "Tell Rico the old man's here. And I brought his bored little prince."
The slot slammed shut. A moment later, the door groaned open, and they were swallowed by the dark.
The Underground Fighting Ring.
It was like stepping into Hell's rec room.
A crude square cage stood in the middle of the space, bloodstained and surrounded by a cheering, jeering crowd. Neon lights buzzed overhead. A guy with no shirt and too many teeth was currently getting his face caved in while people screamed bets in ten different languages.
Dante's eyes lit up. "Now this is my kind of therapy."
Vincent gave him a pat on the back. "I knew you'd like it. Wanna bet?"
"Depends," Dante said, scanning the ring. "Can I fight?"
Vincent barked a laugh. "Not unless you wanna break your pretty face, Princepino. These guys are killers. Ex-cons, cartel dogs, Eastern Bloc psychos—hell, one of 'em bit a guy's ear off last week."
"Sounds scary,"
"So, you wanna wat-"
"I'll fight."
Vincent froze mid-sentence like someone had slapped the thought right out of his mouth.
"You'll what?"
"I'll fight. I box, I spar."
"This is not boxing or a spar. They fight to kill."
Dante's mouth turned into a sinister grin. "Then I'll just kill them."
Vincent stared at Dante like he'd just confessed to being the Zodiac Killer. "Jesus Christ," he muttered. "You're serious."
Dante nodded slowly. "I've never been more serious in my life."
"Does your father know you're out here trying to die for sport?"
Dante looked at the cage, watching the blood get mopped up with a towel that used to be white. "He would if he thought I'd lose."
That shut Vincent up for a second. Not because he believed Dante was right—because he didn't know if he was wrong. There was something in Dante now. A calm that wasn't normal. A quiet, simmering danger that felt just a little too... controlled.
Vincent sighed and waved Rico over.
"Hey!" he snapped. "We got a special request. The prince wants to bleed."
Rico blinked, then burst out laughing. "Him? You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm in the mood for jokes?"
Rico looked at Dante again. The boy wasn't smiling. He wasn't bouncing on his toes or throwing air jabs like a cocky rich kid playing tough. He was still. Focused. Like a sniper waiting for the wind to stop.
"...Alright," Rico said finally. "I'll give him someone manageable. Not Misha, though—unless you wanna repaint the walls with his face."
"No," Dante said. "Give me Misha."
Rico blinked. "...You got a will written somewhere, kid?"
Dante's jaw flexed once. "I've already died once."
Vincent snapped, "What the hell does that mean?"
Dante ignored him. "Just get me in the cage."
Ten Minutes Later — The Cage
The crowd was louder now, partly because of the blood alcohol content, partly because they just heard that some nobody pretty-boy was fighting Misha.
The announcer stepped into the cage like he was introducing a circus act.
"In this corner, weighing in at 'whatever, who cares,' our own Belarussian bear, back again to rearrange someone's face—Misha 'The Bone Mule' Kirov!"
Misha stomped into the ring, beating his chest and roaring. His nose looked like it had been broken more times than it had been cleaned. His knuckles were split before the fight even started.
"And in this corner," the announcer continued, barely containing his laughter, "Dante... uh... just Dante. Maybe he's rich. Maybe he's crazy. Either way, you're about to watch a murder."
The bell rang.
Misha rushed at Dante, who smirked.
Misha expected Dante to move, but... he didn't. Misha grabbed him and threw him to the side.
Dante broke into laughter, the temperature rising in the room.
Misha raised an eyebrow.
"Dante! The fuck are you laughing for? You're gonna die!" Vincent shouted.
"It's fun, Vincent. Don't worry," he said.
Misha grabbed Dante's head and slammed it into the ground.
THUD.
The floor cracked beneath Dante's skull.
The crowd roared—a wave of bloodthirsty howls and whoops.
Vincent winced, grabbing the edge of the cage. "Madonn', he's gonna get his head kicked in…"
But Dante?
Still laughing.
Low and unhinged.
Misha pulled back, maybe expecting brains. Maybe a groan. But Dante sat up slowly, head tilted at a slightly unnatural angle, blood trailing down the side of his cheek like it was decorative.
Then he cracked his neck—once, twice—and straightened it out with a quiet pop.
"That hurt," he said casually.
Misha widened his eyes; there'd never been someone who survived that. Sweat rolled down his face. He rushed at Dante again, punching him in the chin. Dante fell down again, a smile on his face everlasting.
Misha loomed over him, panting, knuckles bleeding. "Stay down," he growled. "You freak."
Dante lifted his head, a grin still plastered across his face like it had been tattooed there.
"Why?" he asked, voice calm, unfazed. "You just getting warmed up?"
Misha didn't hesitate. He grabbed Dante by the collar, lifted him like a sack of trash, and threw him against the cage wall. The metal rattled. People screamed. Someone in the crowd threw a beer.
Dante landed on his feet—landed—and just... looked up.
He wiped blood from his mouth with his thumb, licked it.
"Tastes like victory," he whispered.
Vincent's jaw dropped. "What in God's hairy ass is happening?"
"I'm alive!" Dante shouted elatedly. But then the smile on his face disappeared. And his fist got red.
He jumped around, sparks of fire coming off his every step. He looked Misha in the eye. Misha saw fire; he saw fire in his eyes.
Misha stared at Dante like he was seeing a ghost—or worse, a god.
But Dante wasn't smiling anymore.
His fists burned, not metaphorically—literally. Heat shimmered off his skin like pavement in summer. Sparks licked the air around him, crackling with an energy that had no business being in a man's body.
The crowd backed up near the cage rails, confused and excited and a little terrified. Someone whispered, "Pyro?" Another, "Molotov implants?" One drunk voice yelled, "THIS IS AWESOME!"
Vincent didn't say anything. He couldn't. He just stood frozen, watching his nephew start to glow.
Inside the ring, Dante moved forward. Not running—stalking. Every step left a faint scorched imprint on the mat, like his very presence was rewriting the rules of physics.
Misha threw another punch—pure reflex.
Dante caught it. The fire didn't burn Misha's hand right away. It just boiled under the skin, like something inside him was suddenly cooking. He screamed and tried to pull away—
Too late.
Dante grabbed him by the wrist and squeezed.
Bone cracked.
Misha dropped to one knee, mouth open in silent agony, until Dante leaned in, forehead inches from his own, those glowing embers in his eyes flickering like coals being stirred.
"You feel that?" Dante whispered. "That's not pain. That's fear pretending to be pain."
And then he let go.
Misha collapsed onto the mat, clutching his arm like it might fall off. His face was soaked in sweat, terror, and disbelief.
Dante turned to the crowd, arms slightly raised.
Somewhere in the back, a camera phone flashed. The guy holding it didn't even realize he'd dropped it a second later. His hands were trembling.
Dante's body vibrated with excitement. He grabbed Misha and made him stand again.
Misha stumbled, dazed and half-limp, like his legs didn't know they belonged to him anymore. Dante held him up with one hand, fingers curled around the front of Misha's shirt like he was holding a punching bag, not a man.
Dante held Misha up like a meat puppet, letting him dangle for a moment, limp and twitching.
The crowd, once wild, had gone so quiet you could hear the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
Misha groaned, barely conscious.
"You done?" Dante asked softly, almost sweetly.
Misha didn't answer. Couldn't.
Dante smiled like he already knew the answer.
Then—THWACK—he drove a knee up into Misha's ribs, fast and mean. The sound was wet. Something gave. Misha jerked, let out a rattled wheeze, then slumped even harder.
Dante didn't let him fall.
"Oh no," Dante whispered, his face inches from Misha's ear. "You're staying awake for this."
He twisted Misha around and flung him across the cage like a sack of meat. Misha bounced off the chain links and crumpled to the floor. The cage shuddered. Dust fell from the ceiling.
Vincent shoved past Rico, grabbing the edge of the cage. "Dante, that's enough! He's finished!"
Dante didn't even blink. He stepped over Misha's body, crouched down—
—and punched him in the face. Once.
Then again.
And again.
Each strike came with a snap, a wet crack, the sound of cartilage separating from purpose. Misha's jaw went slack. His nose flattened. Teeth scattered like dice across the mat.
"That's enough, Dante," Vincent said.
Still, Dante kept punching.
Until the fire on his fists died out.
Until his knuckles steamed.
Until Misha wasn't a fighter anymore.
He was just a warning.
Finally, Dante stood up, breathing heavily. His hands dripped red. The front of his shirt was soaked. Misha didn't move.
"Vincent, he deserved to die. He killed people, too." Dante said.
Vincent didn't speak right away.
He just stared at Dante—really stared at him—as if trying to figure out if the kid he practically helped raise was still in there somewhere, under the blood and heat and god-knows-what.
Finally, he exhaled slowly, ran a hand over his face.
"You're not wrong," Vincent muttered. "But Jesus, Dante… you didn't have to unmake him."
The temperature suddenly decreased as steam came off Dante.
But then, the crowd cheered.