His Little Boxer

I wake up in a room that isn’t mine. Scanning the place, I don't see a woman. Normally when I’m in a hotel it’s with someone, so where the hell is she? My head’s pounding as I try to piece last night together. I’ve got this faint impression of her, like I wanted her more than I’ve wanted anyone in a long time. After that… nothing. Not the first drink, not the sex, not a single clear moment.

I glance at the bin. Used condoms. Plural. Looks like I didn’t hold back. Shame I can’t remember any of it.

Normally I’m the one slipping out before they wake up. This time I stayed. I know I stayed because I actually liked her. Christ, I’m so hungover I can’t even remember her face properly.

I drag myself into the shower, pull on yesterday’s clothes, and leave. The whole walk my brain’s churning, trying to drag her name or her laugh or anything back up, but, I've no luck.

I know I shouldn’t drink that hard, but it’s always one of three things with me—drink, fight, or fuck. Yesterday I apparently went for the full combo. Impressive, even for me.

When I step into the house Marco’s waiting. My gorgeous, terrifying brother. The Don. One look at his face and the memories from earlier in the night slam back. Shit. I’m in trouble.

“You didn’t come home,” he says. “And you’re late.”

I grin. “Yeah, but I feel fucking amazing.”

He actually laughs, short and dry. “Get cleaned up. Then come to the office. Now.”

I do what I’m told, well, mostly. I change into fresh clothes first.

I bounce down the stairs and drop into the chair between Matteo and Dario.

“Fun night?” Dario asks, smirking.

I shrug. “No idea. Can’t remember a thing. But I feel great, so I’m guessing yes.”

“Lorenzo.” Marco’s voice cuts through. He slides a photo across the desk. My handiwork stares back at me, a nice clean break. I can’t help the small smile.

“Don’t fucking smirk,” he snaps. “That was being handled. Quietly.”

I lean back. “Yeah, you said that. Then I saw him and thought… why wait?”

“Why wait?” Marco’s eyes narrow. “Because you stay clean. You’re lucky the people who saw it kept their mouths shut. I was sending a message, not caving his fucking face in.”

“Broken jaw sends a pretty clear message.”

“Enough.” His tone drops and becomes cold now. “You can’t keep going rogue. You crossed a line, Lorenzo. Publicly. Everyone saw. I can’t keep turning a blind eye to this shit.”

I meet his stare, shoulders squared. “So you’re gonna teach your little brother a lesson?”

“If I have to. This makes us look sloppy and weak. You know better.”

I let out a slow breath and give him a small nod.

Message received, big brother. Loud and fucking clear.

“So why?” Marco asks, voice low. “The real reason. None of this ‘he was there’ bullshit. Why’d you go looking for him and smash his face in?”

Everyone’s staring at me now, waiting, like I’m some clueless kid who doesn’t see what’s right in front of him. They love acting like I’m blind to it all.

“I’m not a fucking child,” I say. “I’m sick of you all treating me like one.”

“You act like one.”

“Fuck you, Marco. How would you know? You went straight from nappies to putting a bullet in someone—no in-between.” I stand up, glancing around the room. “I’m good enough to keep the family name shining in the ring, right? But not good enough to be let into the actual family business. That it?”

I head for the door. His hand catches my arm and grips me firmly.

“No one’s saying you’re not good enough, Lorenzo. Just… live your life before you get blood on your hands.”

I laugh, sharp and bitter. Patronising pricks, the lot of them. “Yeah, sure. Live my life. Next time I get pissed and flatten some random, that’s me ‘living,’ is it?”

I yank free and storm out. The door slams hard behind me.

That good buzz from this morning? Gone. Burned up and turned to ash in my chest.

I get in the car and drive straight to the gym. My head keeps drifting back to last night. I wish I could at least remember her name.

Inside, I head right for the ring, tape up quickly, and climb in. Wayne steps up with the pads. I start moving—jab, cross, hook—hitting clean each time. He’s calling out adjustments, giving feedback, but I’m not hearing it. I should’ve just worked the bag today. He’s already grating on me and he’s barely said a word.

Marco’s voice keeps looping in my skull. I hate how easily he switches it all off. How he buries everything and pretends it’s not there.

It’s all there.

It all burns.

It all fucking tortures.

Then the black rushes in and pulls me under.

Don’t breathe. The voice screams louder. Don’t breathe. They’ll come. I know they will. I fight the grip, but her hand twists tighter in my hair and I gasp.

I breathed. Water floods in, burning. I thrash, desperate to break free. I fucking breathed.

A sharp crack to my jaw yanks me back.

I blink. I’m on the mat, Carlos pinning me down. He’s the only one here who’d hit me that hard.

“What the fuck, son?” he says. “Trying to kill the help?” I glance over and see Wayne’s nose and eyes are streaming blood.

“What was that?” Carlos asks again.

“Nothing.” I shove up, push past them, and head for the showers.

I lean my forehead against the cold tiles, water pounding down my back.

Thanks, Mother. For your fucked-up idea of love.