In Love With The Mafia Kings Son

Chapter 17

The air in the locker room was thick with the metallic scent of adrenaline and old sweat. Dante Rossi sat on the bench, stripped down to only a pair of black compression shorts, his magnificent, 187-pound body a sculpture of controlled power. He systematically wrapped the thick, leather laces of his MMA gloves around his fists, preparing for the violent performance ahead.

His mind, usually a perfect, empty slate of combat focus before a fight, was betraying him.

He pictured Letty. He recalled the soft gasp when he spanked her, the sheer honesty of her pleasure, and the frightened, yet yielding, look in her eyes as he issued commands. He felt a profound sense of anticipation—a hunger to perform for her, to feel the specific, charged tension her presence brought to his world. This distracting warmth, this need for her presence, was a dangerous anomaly.

He furrowed his brow, surprised and almost irritated.

He had never felt this way about anyone. His relationships were transactions; his focus was always on the win.

“Round one starts in five minutes, Dante!” a voice yelled through the door.

Dante stood, rolling his massive shoulders, the movement popping his joints. He took a deep, steadying breath, shutting down the thoughts of the timid, brilliant girl who enjoyed being spanked. Focus.

Back in the arena, the lights dimmed, and the music volume swelled, signaling the start of the main event.

The announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers, reverberating through the structure. “In the blue corner, weighing in tonight at one hundred and eighty-six pounds! He holds a record of twenty-one wins and six losses, the ‘Oklahoma Hammer’... REXFORD ‘REX’ O’CONNELL!”

The crowd gave a respectable cheer for the challenger, but the sound was quickly overwhelmed as the announcer turned to the main attraction.

“And now, entering the ring! Undefeated in thirty-seven amateur fights, weighing in tonight at one hundred and eighty-seven pounds! Give it up for ‘The King,’ the ‘Italian Stallion,’ the reigning champion… DANTE ROSSI!”

A wave of deafening noise washed over the arena.

Spotlights tracked the main tunnel as Dante emerged, walking with the slow, disciplined swagger of a man who knew the crowd was his.

At the ringside table, the squad went wild. Chloe was the most excessive, standing up to obnoxiously scream Dante’s name and blow kisses, desperate to publicly stake her claim.

Dante ignored her completely. His eyes were scanning the private table, past his sister and his friends, looking for one specific, small figure.

And then he saw her.

Letty was stunning. The bold makeup, the gleaming dress, the subtle fear in her wide eyes—it was a perfect fusion of the timid girl and the woman he commanded. She was smiling and clapping, her face alight with genuine excitement and support.

And then she yelled it, her voice surprisingly clear, cutting through the noise and the roar of the crowd.

“Go get him, Dante!”

For the first time in his life, Dante felt his heart skip a beat. The sheer, unforced support in her voice, untainted by the expectation or obsession of his other conquests, hit him like a physical blow.

Without realizing it, the predatory smirk that usually defined his public face melted away. He smiled, a real smile. One that wasn't forced, wasn't fake, but was a deep, genuine acknowledgment of the only person in the room who truly saw him.

He lifted a hand, gave her a small, private nod, and entered the cage, his focus sharpened by a new, dangerous motivation.

The bell clanged, and the noise level in the arena spiked, but Letty barely noticed. She was already halfway through her Watermelon Margarita, the sweet, potent mixture quickly warming her core. She sat on the edge of her seat, her eyes glued to the cage.

Dante was magnificent. For a man of his colossal size and bulk, he was incredibly quick and agile. He danced around his desperate opponent, Rex O'Connell, evading heavy swings with effortless grace. He wasn't aiming to finish; he was toying with him, throwing quick, surgical jabs that were more psychological pinpricks than damage.

Letty’s heart raced with a panicked rhythm every time O'Connell managed to grapple Dante or got a hit in, but Dante instantly countered everything, his movements fluid and precise. She could see the predatory patience in his posture.

The bell rang, ending Round One. The fighters separated, walking to their respective corners.

Dante was breathing heavy, his chest heaving, his powerful body glistening with sweat. He looked across the cage, his eyes finding Letty. She was smiling at him, a wide, genuine expression of relief and support.

Dante smirked, and in a private gesture meant only for her, he winked.

It was then that Chloe decided to intervene. Noticing the intimate exchange, she stood up, her heavily made-up face contorted into a desperate mask of lust and ownership. Not subtly at all, she screamed Dante’s name and, leaning over the table, she dramatically threw her underwear at the cage. She then licked her lips and gave him an aggressive wink.

Dante looked at the strip of silk draped over the steel mesh, then back at Chloe. His brow furrowed in disgust. He slowly shook his head, an expression of cold rejection. Chloe was instantly confused; normally, this act earned a wink back.

Chloe slowly sank back into her seat, her jaw tightened. She narrowed her eyes at Letty, directing a look of pure, concentrated venom at the scholarship girl. Letty, already focused on the impending chaos, didn't notice the glare.

Round Two began, and the action became more intense. O'Connell, realizing he was being humiliated, fought with desperate aggression. The round ended without a decisive blow, both fighters bruised, the air thick with tension.

Round Three, the final round, started with both men immediately surging into the center of the cage. O'Connell was swinging wildly, banking on a lucky punch. He got it.

In a messy exchange, O'Connell managed to clip Dante with a solid right hook that split Dante’s right eyebrow.

Letty gasped, covering her mouth with her hands, the sight of Dante’s bright red blood terrifying her. She leaned so far forward that she was practically out of her seat.

Isabella, sitting next to her, merely chuckles, sipping her margarita. “Stupid f**k,” she muttered, referring to O'Connell. “Now he did it.”

As soon as Dante saw his own blood, it was as if a switch went off inside him. The patient, analytical fighter vanished, replaced by a pure, primal engine of violence. His chocolate eyes went cold and hard, focused only on destruction.

He roared, shedding the last vestiges of civilized restraint. He moved in, unleashing his true power. He threw punch after punch, a relentless storm that drove O'Connell against the cage. The opponent’s blood sprayed everywhere—onto the canvas, onto the cage, and even onto the ringside seats. Dante didn’t let up; he just kept raining down blows, his controlled discipline replaced by a savage fury.

The attack culminated in a massive, powerful roundhouse kick that connected brutally with O'Connell's head, sending the opponent crashing to the canvas, knocked out cold.

The bell clanged, deafening. And just like that, Dante won. The crowd erupted, showering the ring in cheers and shouts.

The post-fight pandemonium of the arena was a world away. Dante sat on the locker room bench, shirtless, his chest heaving, his powerful body glistening with sweat and adrenaline.

The group poured in, slightly drunk from the continuous flow of champagne and margaritas, congratulating him loudly. Chloe immediately lunged for him, trying to be clingy and making a dramatic fuss over the split above his eyebrow, but Dante kept brushing her off, his focus distant.

Isabella chuckled, observing the scene with amusement. "Alright, let's go. We'll meet you outside, Dante. We're heading over to the club." She grabbed Chloe's arm and dragged her toward the door, followed by Dylan, Marcus, and Lisa.

Letty, however, remained rooted to the spot. She stood there, staring at the raw, physical spectacle of his body—sweaty, powerful, and still vibrating with violence. Her pulse quickened at the sight.

Dante looked up, noticed she was still there, and a slow, satisfied smirk curved his lips. He was bleeding, but he looked like a god.

“Did you enjoy the show, little one?” he asked, his voice rough.

Letty smiled, a genuine, soft expression of relief. She was about to speak, but the blood welling from his eyebrow cut her off. She took a step forward, her eyes fixed on the cut, and gently touched the skin near the wound.

Dante winced slightly, the sharp intake of breath a rare sign of vulnerability.

Letty looked around, quickly locating the first aid kit taped to the wall. Her heels clicked on the hard floor as she walked over, grabbed the kit, and returned to the bench. Without asking permission, she knelt beside him on the bench.

She gently dabbed the cut with hydrogen peroxide. Dante took a sharp inhale, his muscles tightening.

Letty paused, meeting his eyes, the watermelon margarita warm and sweet on her breath. She gave him a small, teasing smirk of her own. "Sorry." Then, she leaned in closer, bringing her face next to his wound, and gently blew on his cut, cooling the sting.

The intimate proximity was a brutal shock to Dante. He could feel the soft heat of her breath, and he inhaled the intoxicating scent of margarita and her perfume. As she leaned in, he could see down her dress slightly, giving him a perfect, fleeting view of her perfect breasts against the shimmering gold fabric.

Letty gently pressed a butterfly bandage over the cut. She tilted her head, her eyes slightly glazed with alcohol, her cheeks flushed. "I don't think you'll need stitches, but it might scar a little," she murmured, her voice soft but steady, the intelligence still shining through the tipsiness.

Dante looked at her face. He could tell she was slightly drunk—the glazed eyes, the flushed skin, the faint scent of alcohol. Yet, she was taking care of him without being asked. No one had ever done that without demanding something—a favor, a hookup, a display of devotion.

Without thinking, Dante gently reached for her face, his thumb gliding under her eye. He pulled her closer, his gaze dropping to her newly reddened lips. He was about to pull her in to kiss her, to finally claim the mouth that commanded him.

"There you are, Nicolette!"

Isabella’s voice was sharp and sudden. She had walked back into the locker room and stopped dead, her eyes immediately assessing the intimate proximity—Letty kneeling, Dante's hand on her face, the palpable tension. Isabella wore a look of utter amusement.

She grabbed Letty's arm and started pulling her up and toward the door. "Girl, you are not going to lose your virginity in a nasty locker room. Hurry up! Dante, we don't have all night."

Letty gasped, her face instantly turning a deep, painful red with embarrassment.

Dante couldn’t help it. The pure shame on Letty's face, coupled with Isabella's perfect timing, was too much. He chuckled, a deep, rich sound of genuine amusement. He loved how easy it was to embarrass her.

He shook his head, his desire momentarily redirected by the absurdity. He stood up to get dressed, the chase now continuing.