I can still feel his fingerprints on my wrist. Still smell him on his jacket like he poured himself into the lining. Warm leather and gunpowder dreams. Or nightmares. I can’t tell. It’s just musky and smoky. The kind of scent that stains your soul and leave its imprint for a long time.
And now as I watch him walk toward the ring like he owns the f*****g underworld and everyone in it.
Because maybe he does.
Massimo Bianchi sheds his shirt like he’s peeling his skin and the crowd explodes. Like rabid, drunk on the spectacle of him. It’s a sound that rattles in my ribs. Cheers and those damning screams. It’s maddening.
The lights are harsh, white and spotlighting sin like it’s holy. And he stands there, bare-chested, tattooed and terrifying. His eyes are blazing like someone lit a match i
