Leandro’s POV
The stink of sweat and blood hung heavy in the air, just how Albert liked it.
I shoved open the battered metal door to the underground club, the bass of the crowd’s roaring hitting me like a punch. Albert’s place was always packed on fight nights, and that night was no different.
Rooster versus BigRock.
I knew who my money was on.
"You're late, you bastard," Albert hollered from the makeshift stage where he was hyping the crowd. He grinned wide when he saw me and pointed at the fighters in the cage. "Last chance for bets!"
I slid a hand into my jacket, pulled out a thick wad of bills, and tossed it toward him.
"BigRock," I said, my voice flat.
Albert caught the cash with a laugh. "Good choice."
I made my way to the VIP lounge—a rickety balcony patched together with steel pipes and plywood—and dropped into a torn leather seat. From there, I could see everything: the cage, the sweaty masses screaming for blood, and Albert counting money like it was Christmas.
BigRock was already bouncing on his toes, eyes locked on Rooster across the cage.
Albert jogged up the stairs to me, dropping into the seat beside mine.
"Got plans after this?" he asked, elbowing me.
"Work," I said.
He groaned. "Come on, man. Party on the East Side. Girls, booze, the works."
I grunted, noncommittal.
The bell rang, and the crowd lost its mind. BigRock charged forward like a freight train. Rooster ducked, danced, threw a few quick punches. Good fight.
Halfway through the second round, my phone buzzed.
Uncle Lucian.
I flipped it open with a flick of my thumb.
Dispose of the trash. Now.
No need for more words. I knew what he meant. The two thieves we had caught snooping around our docks yesterday. Uncle Lucian had finished his "conversation" with them.
"Gotta bounce," I muttered to Albert, pushing to my feet.
He pouted like a kid denied candy. "You're missing the best part!"
I didn’t bother answering. Duty came first—or else, things could get messy. Especially with Uncle Lucian. The cold air outside slapped me in the face the moment I stepped out. The fight’s noise dulled behind the thick walls of the club. I headed toward my car parked in the alley.
That's when I heard it—the sound of soft, broken sobbing.
I stopped. It sounded close.
I turned, following the noise. A few steps later, tucked into the shadows behind the dumpsters, I saw her.
Torn wedding dress. Bare feet. Blood on her knees. Mascara streaked down her cheeks like black rivers. She looked up at me, and for a second, neither of us moved.
Recognition punched me in the gut and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
Isabella D'Angelo.
The daughter of Isaac D'Angelo. The D'Angelos, the old enemy, the family my father had taught me to hate before I even knew what hate was.
I’d heard whispers about her wedding that day. Didn’t care enough to pay attention. But seeing her now—alone, dirty, broken—was better than any headline.
This was interesting. Very fucking interesting.
If I brought her back to my uncle, he'd probably throw a parade in my honor. Trade her for territory. Or better yet, use her as leverage to burn the D'Angelos down.
She stared at me with wide, tear-glossed eyes, her chest heaving. I crossed my arms, staring down at her.
"You lost or just stupid?" I asked, my voice rough.
She flinched like I'd hit her.
Good. Fear meant she was smart enough to know when she was in trouble.
She tried to wipe her face, tried to sit up straighter, but her body gave out. She collapsed back against the wall, a broken doll in a ruined dress.
Pathetic and yet…
There was something about the way she sat there, refusing to beg, refusing to scream, refusing to make a scene. Pure steel buried under all that silk and lace.
"Take me away," she whispered, and I narrowed my eyes.
She didn’t recognize me. Not yet. She thought I was some random street thug. A little rich princess offering herself to a stranger because she was too scared to go home.
"Please," she said, louder. "I can't go back. I'll—I'll pay you. I'll give you anything. Money, jewelry—anything. Just take me somewhere safe."
Money. Jewelry. She had no fucking clue who she was talking to.
I could have ended her right there and no one would have known until tomorrow's papers printed the scandal.
And still…
Still, something in her voice—something broken and fierce all at once—caught me off guard.
I stepped closer. She didn’t shrink back. Just stared up at me with those big, desperate eyes. Maybe it was the wreckage of her pride I saw there. Maybe it was the fact that, for once, a D'Angelo wasn’t looking down at me like I was trash or maybe I was just bored.
Either way, I made my choice. I grabbed her arm—not gently—and hauled her to her feet. She gasped in pain, her injured ankle buckling, but I caught her before she fell.
"You wanna run away?" I asked, my mouth close to her ear. “Are you sure?”
She nodded frantically, tears still leaking down her face.
I pulled my jacket off and shoved it around her shoulders, covering the worst of the dress. I tightened my grip on her arm and pulled her with me, leading her through the back streets, away from the club and the noise. She stumbled beside me, limping badly, but she didn’t complain. Just followed, clutching my jacket tighter around her shoulders like it might shield her from the world.
My car was parked two blocks down, tucked between two busted streetlights. When we reached it, I unlocked the door and shoved it open.
"Get in," I barked.
She hesitated for half a second—fear flashing in her eyes—then climbed in without a word.
I slammed the door behind her, glanced once over my shoulder, and climbed into the driver's seat.
As I pulled away from the curb, the city swallowing us whole, one thought kept hammering in my head.
This was gonna change everything.