Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The club smelled like sweat, canvas, and ambition.

It was late summer in San Fran, 1978. The ceiling fans spun lazily overhead, doing little more than stirring the heavy air. Miguel’s fists were wrapped, his boots laced, and the ring glowed under a wash of yellowed fluorescents. The world outside might’ve been moving forward—roller discos, new wave, gas shortages—but inside this place, time held still. Punch by punch.

Caleb stood across from him, taller by a few inches, a little broader in the chest. But Miguel wasn’t rattled. He never was. Not when he danced across the ring like a matador, eyes sharp, body lean from mornings chasing buses and nights shadowboxing beneath the overpass near his apartment.

On the edge of the ring, a small crowd had gathered. Friends, hopefuls, and the occasional would-be scout. But what caught Miguel’s eye was Riley—soft-eyed, smiling—and Miriam, arms crossed, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. The two of them looked like they belonged in another movie, a coming-of-age comedy with heart and big hair. But they were here now, watching him like he was something mythic.

Riley nudged Miriam and whispered something. Miriam chuckled. Probably about how Miguel’s legs looked in those vintage red trunks—the old-school kind that rode high on the thigh. The coach insisted on keeping it classic style. Short trunks, long socks, leather gloves. "None of that flashy satin garbage," he’d said. "This ain’t Vegas."

Miguel bounced on his heels, rolled his shoulders, and gave a nod to the ref, an old man named Geri. Caleb did the same, jaw tight.

The bell rang.

What came next wasn’t just a fight. It was rhythm and poetry. Miguel ducked a jab, countered with a hook that skimmed Caleb’s temple, and spun away. The crowd murmured. Riley’s eyes widened. Miriam leaned forward, intrigued despite herself.

And for a moment, Miguel forgot about the heat, the pressure, the weight of his family’s hopes. There was only the music of the match—the way bodies moved and collided, the space between two fighters that said everything about pride, pain, and the boy you used to be.

Miguel’s left fist snapped out, fast as a whip. Caleb caught it with his glove—but the impact still made his head jerk. He staggered back, blinking. The crowd buzzed louder now. The first round had been measured, almost respectful. Now Miguel’s rhythm was changing. Less dance. More war.

He moved in close, breathing through his nose. Caleb tried to clinch, to buy time, but Miguel slid under it and punished him—left to the ribs, right to the body, then an uppercut that grazed the chin. Caleb’s mouthguard flashed pink.

The bell rang, sharp and sudden. Round over.

Miguel turned without flourish, shoulders heaving. The old vinyl stool was waiting in his corner. Elio was already there, looking a bit too young to be inside the ropes but acting like a pro. He wore a wide-collared polo shirt under his cornflower-blue corner jacket, sleeves rolled up, sweat already beading on his brow from the inside heat.

“Here, sit,” Elio said, pressing a cold towel against Miguel’s neck.

Miguel didn’t speak, just sat and spit into the bucket. Elio handed him water in a battered plastic bottle. Miguel drank, swished, spat again.

“He’s starting to breathe through his mouth,” Elio said, voice low. “Your body shots are working.”

Miguel nodded. “I’m gonna break him next round.”

Elio hesitated, then knelt closer. “Just don’t lose yourself in there, okay? You fight like you’ve got something to prove. But you don’t.”

Miguel’s eyes flicked toward him—dark, unreadable. “You ever been hit, Elio?”

“I don’t need to be hit to know you’re better than this.”

The bell rang again.

Miguel stood.

He came out like a different fighter. Gone was the loose grace. What remained was steel. Caleb swung wild, trying to create space—but Miguel crowded him, cut off every angle. Left hook. Right cross. Body-body-head.

The sound of gloves hitting flesh echoed through the club.

By the midpoint of the round, Caleb was retreating, hands high, nose bleeding. The crowd was no longer cheering—they were watching, silent, mesmerized by the way Miguel kept coming. It was surgical. Ruthless.

He drove Caleb into the corner. Two brutal hooks to the ribs. A jab. Then—

Crack.

Caleb’s head snapped back, and he slumped forward, clinching blindly.

Geri jumped in. “Break!”

Miguel stepped back, fists still raised, eyes wild.

From the edge of the crowd, Riley flinched. Miriam, jaw tight, muttered, “He’s going full animal now.”

Back in the corner, Elio was quick again—towel to the face, more water, a little Vaseline for the cheekbone that took a grazing hit. Miguel’s breathing was ragged now, more like a furnace than a boy. His eyes still burned.

“You’re scaring him,” Elio said. “But don’t scare yourself too.”

Miguel stared forward. “I want him to quit.”

“You want to win. There’s a difference.”

Miguel didn’t answer.

Across the ring, Caleb barely made it to his stool. He was dazed, his coach barking at him, slapping the side of his head, trying to keep him in it. But everyone could see it—his legs were jelly. His pride was cracked.

The next round would be the last.

And Miguel knew it.

The bell rang.

And Miguel was already in motion.

No more patience. No more poetry.

He barreled forward with a low guard, daring Caleb to try something. Caleb lifted his gloves, sluggish now, swinging an arm out like he was underwater. Miguel ducked under it and dug—a left to the liver, then a right over the top that rocked Caleb’s jaw.

The taller boy stumbled.

Miguel didn’t let him breathe.

He crowded him, forehead pressed to Caleb’s cheek like they were in a dance too close and too violent. Then—BAM—a right cross so clean it looked painted. Caleb sagged. Miguel ripped an uppercut, and Caleb's head jolted back as a spray of blood burst from his nose.

The crowd gasped.

Caleb reeled—one step, two—

And then crumpled. Like a marionette with its strings cut.

The area was still.

Geri jumped in, waving his arms. “OUT! He’s out!”

Miguel stood over him, chest rising and falling like a piston, gloves trembling at his sides. Blood streaked his brow, sweat clung to every inch of his skin. His red trunks clung like a second skin, legs stained with splatter.

Then—

Cheers.

Riley shrieked. Miriam let out a half-laugh, half-whistle. The club erupted as the crowd surged forward, everyone shouting his name.

“Miguel! That was crazy!”

“Animal!”

“Dios mío, he killed that kid!”

Miguel turned and walked back to his corner, slow now, like every step was underwater. Elio met him with a towel, looping it around his neck. His small hands went right to work—wiping, dabbing, holding Miguel steady.

“You okay?” Elio asked, voice tight.

Miguel didn’t answer at first. He slumped onto the stool, arms resting on the top rope. Blood dripped from his nose—maybe his, maybe Caleb’s.

His mouth cracked into something like a grin. “Tired,” he muttered.

“I bet.” Elio poured water on his head, cooling the furnace. “You did it, though.”

Miguel’s eyes flicked to Caleb, still sprawled on the mat, attended by his cornermen.

“I always do,” he said. But there was something hollow behind the words.

Elio pressed the towel to Miguel’s chest. “You won. Let that be enough.”

Miguel let out a soft chuckle, though it sounded more like a cough. “You should see the other guy.”

Elio rolled his eyes but smiled—relieved, if nothing else. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up before your legs give out.”

Miguel nodded.

He had blood on his gloves, a bruise forming under his right eye, and sweat pouring down his back.

But the crowd was roaring.

And for now, he was the king of it all.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Chapter Text

The showers roared.

Miguel stood under the hot spray, water pounding his back like the heavy blows he’d taken in the ring. The heat felt good, burning away the grime and blood, though the ache beneath his skin stubbornly remained. He scrubbed at his bruised face, fingers trembling against the rawness.

Across the locker room, Caleb lay on a wooden bench, his head lolling to one side, eyes half-closed. Blood still stained his gloves and soaked his trunks. His breathing was shallow, ragged—a defeated rhythm that filled the stale air. He didn’t move.

Elio sat nearby, quiet, shoulders hunched. His gaze flicked between Miguel and Caleb, concern written all over his face. The fight had drained something out of them both—one victorious, the other broken.

The heavy door creaked open.

A gust of cologne and cheap aftershave swept in, followed by a larger-than-life figure striding into the room. Ercole Visconti.

He wore a gaudy gold chain that glinted under the flickering fluorescent light, a silk shirt half unbuttoned to reveal a chest as loud as his personality. His slicked-back hair shone like oil, and his thick Italian accent wrapped around his words like a velvet rope.

“Ahhh, ragazzi!” Ercole bellowed, waving a manila envelope like a prize. “The spoils of war!”

Miguel turned from the showers, water still dripping from his face. Elio stood, brushing his hands on his pants, eyes narrowing.

Ercole’s grin was wide enough to split his face. “No bets this time—pity!—but the people came. Attendance was magnifico!” He tossed the envelope on the bench. “From the gate. Your paychecks, boys. Earned every cent.”

Miguel wiped a hand across his face, catching his reflection in the cracked mirror. “Thanks, Ercole.”

Ercole spun on his heel, then paused, leaning in conspiratorially toward Caleb’s bench. “And you, my friend? Still alive, eh? You put on a show!”

Caleb didn’t move.

“Good,” Ercole said, clapping his hands. “Tonight’s just the beginning. We’re gonna build this into something big. Something fabulous.”

Elio exchanged a glance with Miguel. “You sure about that, Ercole?”

Ercole’s laugh was rich and theatrical. “Kid, I live for this business. This is my art. Boxing is opera—and you two are the stars.”

Miguel sat down on a bench, the weight of victory heavy in his chest.

Stars or not, the fight wasn’t over.

The locker room felt heavier once Ercole left, the faint buzz of the flickering lights filling the silence.

Miguel sat on the bench, towel draped over his shoulders, fingers absently tracing the edge of the silver crucifix hanging around his neck. It was small, worn smooth from years of handling — a quiet talisman, a reminder of something steadier than fists or fights.

Elio sat beside him, breaking the silence with a low voice. “You did good tonight, Miguel. Real good.”

Miguel shrugged, a tired smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “It wasn’t pretty.”

Elio shook his head. “Sometimes pretty don’t win. You fought with heart. That’s what counts.”

Miguel nodded, eyes distant.

From the bench behind them came a slow, rasping breath.

Caleb stirred.

His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused at first, then sharpening as they settled on Miguel.

“Hey,” Caleb croaked.

Miguel looked back, wary but silent.

Caleb swallowed hard, shifting painfully to sit up. “Hey… Miguel.”

Miguel nodded, waiting.

Caleb rubbed at his swollen jaw. “Look, man… I want to say sorry. Before the fight. The things I said—I was outta line.”

Miguel’s eyes flicked to Caleb’s face. There was no anger there, just something raw and tired.

“I don’t hold it against you,” Miguel said finally. “Everyone got their reasons.”

Caleb’s gaze dropped to the crucifix on Miguel’s neck.

“That necklace—”

Miguel touched it gently. “My abuela gave it to me. Keeps me grounded.”

Caleb nodded slowly. “I get that. my grandparents survived the Holocaust, that's all I really knew before they died not too long ago… other than that, I just lash out.”

Miguel leaned back, the tension in the room softening.

After a moment, he pulled a battered guitar from the corner of the room—an old acoustic, its wood scratched and worn like him.

He strummed a slow, tender chord.

Elio smiled softly. “You play?”

Miguel’s fingers danced lightly across the strings. “It’s the other fight I know.”

The notes hung in the air—hopeful, bittersweet.

Caleb watched quietly, the fight momentarily forgotten.

For a few minutes, there was just music.

Miguel’s fingers traced the fretboard, coaxing a slow, melancholic melody from the old guitar. Each note seemed to carry a memory, a whisper of home, and the weight of all the fights—inside and outside the ring.

He began to hum softly, the words tentative but raw:

“Underneath the city lights,
I’m fighting more than just these fights.
For every bruise, for every scar,
I carry hope inside my heart.”

Elio listened, nodding, eyes closed as if the song made the bruises and blood fade away.

Caleb shifted, leaning back against the locker, letting the music wash over him.

A few minutes later, the locker room door creaked open again.

Riley stepped inside first, eyes lighting up the moment she saw Miguel sitting there, guitar in hand.

“Migs!” she called softly, walking over with a smile so wide it could light up the darkest corner.

Miguel’s tired smile grew at the sound of her voice. “Riley.”

Behind her, Miriam followed, arms crossed and an exaggerated pout on her face.

“So this is where the big bad boxer hides, huh?” Miriam teased, voice playful but sharp. “Looks more like a lovesick poet.”

Riley rolled her eyes but grinned. “Come on, Miri. He’s been through hell tonight. Give him a break.”

Miguel set the guitar down gently.

Riley moved closer, slipping an arm around his shoulder, her touch warm and grounding.

“I was worried about you,” she whispered, voice soft.

Miguel looked at her, eyes shining with something beyond exhaustion. “I’m here.”

Miriam snorted, stepping forward. “You better be. I’m keeping an eye on you, boxing hero.”

Riley shot her a mock glare. “Jealous much?”

Miriam shrugged with a sly smile. “Maybe. Someone’s gotta keep you in check.”

Miguel laughed quietly, the sound light and genuine.

Elio stood nearby, watching the easy camaraderie with a small smile.

Later, Miguel would think back to his great grandmother’s words as he played that night, the faith and fire that kept him steady:

“Mi Miguelito, remember: the fight outside is only half the battle. The real strength is inside your corazón.”

TO BE CONTINUED.

Chapter Text

The walk home was quiet. Elio’s arm was looped through Miguel’s, head resting lightly on his shoulder as they waited at the corner for the bus. It was past 11 now. The streets shimmered in the summer night heat, neon signs flickering in the distance. The bus hissed to a stop and groaned as they climbed aboard.

They didn’t talk much. They didn’t have to.

By the time they reached their neighborhood—a narrow block tucked between an overpass and a shuttered laundromat—the moon hung high and silver, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. The apartment building rose ahead, tired bricks and rusted balconies.

Miguel walked Elio up to the second floor. His aunt Olga’s apartment was near the stairwell, and she was already waiting in the doorway with a worn bathrobe and curlers in her hair.

“There you are, mi niño,” Olga sighed, ushering Elio in with a hug. “You hungry? You need tea? You need a priest?”

“No, Tía,” Elio chuckled sleepily. “Just sleep.”

Inside Olga's place, Miguel could barely glimpse past the half-open door, but what he saw was enough: stacks of boxed documents, scattered notebooks, a few small cameras perched like watchful eyes, and a whole wall of photos (one of them Miguel swore looked like Ercole) and printed articles taped up like a conspiracy map. The windows were completely covered in thick fabric, not even a crack of moonlight slipping through.

It looked less like an apartment and more like a makeshift intelligence office—FBI, CIA, or something out of a spy movie. Made sense to Miguel. Olga never left the apartment without checking the locks at least twice, and when she did go out, it was fast, surgical, and quiet.

Whatever she was doing in there, she was serious about it. And Miguel had no doubt that same seriousness applied to how she protected Elio.

Miguel offered a small wave. “Goodnight, Olga.”

“You watch over that boy, Miguelito,” she said, wagging a finger as she gently shut the door.

Miguel turned, walked down the hall, and unlocked the door to his family’s apartment. The second it creaked open—

“MIGUEL!”

His little sister Socorro launched herself into his arms, pajamas bunched up, braids half undone.

“You’re not dead!” she declared into his shirt.

Miguel chuckled, holding her close. “Nope. Still breathing.”

Enrique and Luisa appeared from the kitchen, both visibly relieved.

Luisa wrapped her arms around her son. “Gracias a Dios. You scared me half to death.”

“I didn’t even get hit that much,” Miguel said softly, though his split lip betrayed the truth.

Enrique nodded, placing a callused hand on his son’s shoulder. “You brought home the win. That means something.”

They sat down briefly at the small kitchen table, its edges fraying and covered with an old vinyl cloth. A few shoeboxes sat on the floor nearby—half-repaired soles, tangled thread, and scraps of leather peeking out.

Luisa set down a plate of rice and beans, still warm from earlier. “You need to eat. You’ll never grow into a heavyweight on an empty stomach.”

Miguel grinned tiredly and dug in.

Between bites, talk drifted around the table: how much Ercole paid this time, if it would cover next month’s bills, whether the landlord would finally fix the leak.

Then the subject turned.

“So what now?” Enrique asked gently. “You keep training? You stick with Fredricksen’s gym?”

Miguel hesitated.

He wiped his mouth, looking down at his half-eaten meal. “I guess. It’s working, isn’t it?”

Luisa reached across, brushing his knuckles. “We only want what’s best for you, mijo. You know that.”

“I know.”

But the answer echoed inside him, feeling thin.

His bedroom was the smallest in the apartment. Just a twin bed, a shelf with worn shoes, a dresser that used to belong to his cousin, and one prized possession: his guitar from earlier, leaning on the wall near a sandbag he rigged up with chain and hooks.

He shut the door, locked it, and sat on the bed, letting the hum of the apartment quiet around him.

Outside, the subway passed on the overhead tracks. Its distant rattle was steady and strange comfort.

Miguel strummed his guitar—soft, slow chords, nothing more than sketches of melodies he didn’t yet have words for. His knuckles were sore, swollen. But his fingers still moved.

He stared at the ceiling.

He thought of the music that poured out of him when no one was watching. The songs he never finished. The dreams he never said out loud.

He thought of Carl Fredricksen, the crusty old man with a broken leg and a no-nonsense attitude, who gave Miguel his first gloves and said, “If you’re gonna hit people, do it in the ring.”

He thought of his father’s cobbling hands. His mother’s soft voice singing lullabies in Spanish while patching soles. Their shop was barely staying open.

He thought of his sister, clinging to him like he was her superhero.

And then…

He looked down at the cross hanging over his chest.

“God…” he whispered, voice barely audible.

He closed his eyes.

“…when do I stop bashing faces in… and start singing instead?”

The subway rumbled past again, just outside the window.

And Miguel waited for an answer.

Meanwhile at Elio's place, in his room which remained unaffected by Olga's work, filled with all kinds of sci-fi stuff, a Star Wars poster on the wall, the Kenner figures here, some Green Lantern and Silver Surfer comics there, Astrology and Space books in one shelf, he was laying on his bed engaged in a similar prayer... only his was more awkward in delivery than the typical prayer.

"Uh, hey God... uh, just saying that I hope my Mom and Dad are okay up there, give me a reply if you can, thanks"

From there, Elio drifted to sleep.

The night air was cool and soft as Riley stepped through the front door of her apartment, the sounds of the city muffled behind her like a distant heartbeat. She dropped her bag by the door and kicked off her shoes, her legs still buzzing with adrenaline from the fight.

She moved through the dimly lit rooms, passing family photos and the hum of late-night TV, but her mind was miles away—back in that crowded club where Miguel had fought with everything he had, sweat and blood and determination.

She thought about Miguel—the way he moved, fierce and unyielding, every punch a promise. And cornerboy Elio—that little bugger, his support a shield behind the chaos. Both had fought together, like a unit, but something about Miguel stood out to the blonde, he fought for something bigger—something unspoken, something maybe just for her.

The thought made her stomach flutter in a way she barely understood.

Upstairs, she climbed into bed, the cool sheets a contrast to the heat still simmering in her chest. She curled up, hugging a pillow close, and stared at the ceiling.

It was like watching a warrior, beautiful and bruised, bleeding for her attention, for something she hadn’t yet named.

A silly part of her wanted to laugh—who did she think she was, a damsel in distress waiting for her Hispanic hero to save her, like some kind of Zorro or Cisco Kid movie?

But deeper down, she felt a thrill—a spark she couldn’t ignore.

She closed her eyes, letting the night wash over her, the distant sound of the city mingling with the echo of gloves hitting flesh and the soft hum of a guitar somewhere far away.

And in the quiet, Riley wondered how long this fight for her heart would last.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Chapter Text

The heavy metal door creaked open with a familiar groan.

Miguel stepped inside, the scent of sweat and leather hitting him like a punch to the gut. Elio followed close behind, broom in hand, ready for his daily grind—both literal and figurative.

The gym was alive as always: the dull thuds of gloves against bags, the scrape of shoes on worn canvas, the low murmur of grunts and coach’s barked orders.

Carl Fredricksen sat perched on a battered stool by the corner ring, his eyes sharp beneath thick brows, the lines on his weathered face etched by decades of hard fights and harder lessons.

He looked up as the boys entered.

“Well, well,” Carl said, voice gravelly but not unkind. “Freshly bruised Mexican boy walks in like he owns the place.”

Miguel’s lips twitched into a tired smile.

Carl’s eyes twinkled with that sardonic spark. “Heard any rumors about retiring?”

Miguel stopped, brow furrowed. “Yeah?”

Carl leaned forward, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret nobody really wanted to hear. “Well… think about it.”

Miguel blinked, unsure if the old man was serious or just teasing.

Carl chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “I’m kidding… mostly.”

Elio chuckled from the corner, sweeping under a bench.

“Boxing ain’t like it was,” Carl continued, voice dropping. “The crowds ain’t what they used to be, the money’s thinner, and the old-school fighters? They’re fading, one by one.”

Miguel nodded slowly, absorbing the weight behind the words.

“But the heart?” Carl said, voice rising with a hint of fire. “That’s what you gotta have. The guts to keep swinging when the world’s knocking you down.”

Miguel looked at Elio, who gave a small, encouraging nod.

Carl gestured at the ring. “Get in there. Show me that heart.”

Miguel squared his shoulders, slipped on his gloves, and moved toward the bag.

Elio grabbed a rag and started wiping down benches, the sounds of the gym filling the space between them like a steady pulse.

And for a moment, the old gym felt like home.

The gym door swung open again.

Luca stepped inside, shoulders hunched, eyes darting nervously around the room. His sneakers squeaked softly against the scuffed floorboards as he moved toward the changing area.

Unlike Miguel’s steady, almost predatory confidence, Luca’s presence was quieter, more hesitant. His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted his gloves, lips pressed in a thin line.

Carl’s sharp gaze flicked to the new arrival.

“Ah, Luca,” Carl grunted, voice rough but not unkind. “You're late, but better that than never, now get in the ring and show your moves!”

Luca swallowed hard but nodded.

Miguel glanced over, offering a small nod of encouragement. Elio gave a brief thumbs-up from the sidelines.

Luca stepped into the ring, bouncing lightly on his feet. He wasn’t the natural beast Miguel was, but there was a careful focus in his eyes — a determination to learn, to grow.

Carl barked out a series of quick instructions, his voice like gravel over gravel.

Luca responded, throwing punches — precise but lacking the fluidity Miguel carried. His movements were stiff, his breathing uneven.

But he kept at it.

Carl watched, arms crossed, a flicker of approval beneath the gruff exterior.

Miguel wiped sweat from his brow, then leaned close to Elio. “He’s nervous, but he’s got heart.”

Elio nodded. “Everyone’s got their fight. Luca’s just got a different one.”

Carl grunted in agreement. “He's a bit of a sweetheart out of the ring, but when he fights... hohoho, the other boy is in for a ride.”

The gym settled into its rhythm again — the mix of punches, grunts, broom strokes, and quiet determination.

Two boys. Two fighters. Two paths crossing under one battered roof.

Later that afternoon, Luca walked home alone.

His gym bag bounced against his side, hands still stinging from the gloves, wrists aching. His hoodie sleeves were tugged over his palms, a nervous habit that made him look younger than he was, being 15 like Miguel.

His building was older than Miguel’s, a few blocks deeper into the neighborhood. More cats than people outside. The elevator didn’t work, so he took the stairs — slow, quiet steps, like he didn’t want to be heard.

Inside his apartment, the atmosphere was hushed.

The living room was tidy, but not warm. Plastic covers still clung to the couch. His father Lorenzo sat reading the paper, cigarette smoke curling near the window. His pregnant mother Daniela stirred something on the stove, humming softly in Italian.

Luca slid into the kitchen. “Hi, Mama.”

She turned, her expression warming as she saw him. “Ciao, piccolo. How was training?”

He hesitated. “Tiring. But good.”

His father was curious without looking up. “You make progress?”

Luca nodded. “Yeah. Carl said I was focused.”

“Hmm,” Lorenzo muttered. “Focused doesn’t win fights.”

Luca looked down. “I know.”

“Wash up,” Daniela said gently to her little boy. “Then you can help me with the gnocchi.”

Luca moved toward the bathroom, but not before catching a glimpse of his reflection in the hallway mirror — sweat-damp hair, faint bruises under his eyes.

He didn’t look like a fighter.

But maybe that’s why he had to be one.

Meanwhile…

Riley and Miriam sprawled out on Riley’s bedroom floor, half-buried under sketchbooks, iced coffees, and shared bowls of Fruit Brute cereal as Player's "Baby Come Back" played in the background.

Riley stared at the ceiling, earbuds in one ear, the other dangling. “That fight last night…”

Miriam groaned. “Here we go.”

“It was… I dunno. Kind of beautiful. Terrifying. But beautiful.”

“You would say that,” Miriam snorted, tugging a scrunchie tighter around her hair. “Two boys bleeding out in front of a crowd and you’re ready to hand them roses.”

Riley laughed. “Come on. You saw Miguel. It’s like every punch was for something.”

“Yeah, for your heart,” Miriam teased, then rolled onto her stomach. “But, there's another boy that's been catching my interest from the local fight scene...”

Riley’s looked with curiosity, "Who would that be?"

Miriam scooped up some of the fruity cereal witn her spoon and took a bite. “His name is Luca, he's like a cutie imported from Italy, and yet I hear he's pretty ferocious... that sounds pretty attractive frankly”

Riley rolled her eyes playfully and said "Looks like you got yourself a boxer boyfriend of your own!"

Miriam smirked. “Girl. Please.”

Riley tossed a pillow at her. “Okay, maybe there’s something there. But I’m with Miguel.”

“I know.” Miriam chewed thoughtfully. “Still. You and Miguel are fire and rhythm. but i'm still curious to see Luca in action, I hear he's got a match next week with Bryce Gilmer.”

Riley gave a smug look. “I smell another black vs. white bout.”

Miriam laughs in mock offense. “It ain't about race Ri, they have more to them y'know.”

"I know... but you can't deny it, it's visually gripping seeing two teens of different skin colors just... beating each other senseless and clinching it out like two gladiators in roman times..." Riley said with no guilt.

Miriam replies "You are a total weirdo... and I love you for that."

They laughed, and the conversation drifted into silence, but a thought lingered in Riley’s mind:

Is Luca really that fierce, and if so, how would he fare against my Miguelito?

TO BE CONTINUED.

Chapter Text

One week out.

The air in the gym was thick with dust and sweat, the kind that clung to your throat and made your nostrils sting. The floorboards creaked with every bounce of the jump rope, rhythm steady, hypnotic—tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Luca Paguro was locked in, his face drenched, his T-shirt clinging to his back. His legs, tied at the ankles with an old boxing strap, worked furiously to stay balanced.

Carl leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, chewing a toothpick and not saying a word. Watching. Just watching.

Near the corner of the ring stood two new figures—his figures. Alberto Scorfano, shirt half-tucked, curls bouncing with every emphatic gesture, shouting louder than the radio blaring Donna Summer from the back. Next to him, Giulia Marcovaldo, red curls tied up in a makeshift bandana, stopwatch around her neck, a notebook clutched in one hand.

“Come on, Lucaaa!” Alberto hollered. “Pump those legs! You wanna be fast or just pretty?”

“He's not gonna get fast if you keep yelling in his ear,” Giulia snapped without looking up. “Time: fifty-six seconds. Keep it tight, Luca!”

Luca grunted, jumping rope faster, sweat flinging off his jaw. He dropped the rope, hit the floor, and cranked out push-ups like a machine. Each push sank deeper into the mat.

Miguel Rivera sat nearby on a bench, half-lacing his gloves. He wasn’t scheduled to spar today, just there to keep warm. He watched Luca in silence, head tilted slightly, one brow raised.

Luca didn’t have flash. No swag, no trash talk. Just rhythm. Focus. Precision.

The kind of fighter that gets underestimated until he doesn’t.

Miguel leaned back, letting the thought settle.

Carl finally spoke. “Giulia.”

“Yeah, coach?”

“How long since his first lap?”

Giulia flipped her notebook. “Eighteen minutes.”

“Cut it at twenty. Then cool down, ice, and church.”

Luca didn’t protest. He just kept going.

The church sat at the end of a narrow street off North Beach, its façade weathered by salt air and time. An old neon pharmacy sign across the street buzzed faintly, flickering pink and green over cracked asphalt. A few cars passed, their engines humming low, their headlights trailing streaks in the night.

Luca walked alone, hoodie draped over his shoulders, gym bag slung by his side. He stepped through the wooden doors, the creak echoing into the hollow quiet.

The sanctuary was dimly lit. Candles flickered beneath a statue of Saint Michael. A whiff of incense still lingered in the air, like a memory that hadn’t quite left.

He dipped his fingers in the holy water, crossed himself slowly, then knelt at the front pew.

No one else was there.

Not even God, maybe. But Luca spoke anyway.

“Tomorrow’s the fight. I’m not asking for a win... just... don’t let me freeze. Don’t let me lose who I am in there. I want to make them proud. Alberto. Giulia. Carl. My folks, wherever they are now.”

He paused.

“And maybe, just once, let me feel like I belong here.”

He lit a candle.

It burned low and quiet, like a heartbeat.

“Grazie,” he whispered.

As he stood to leave, the old priest—Father Fellini—emerged from the shadows of the back hallway, wiping his hands on a cloth. He recognized the boy.

“Paguro,” he said gently. “Fighting tomorrow?”

“Yes, Father.”

The priest nodded, stepping closer. “The Lord favors the humble, ragazzo. Win or lose... stay true.”

Luca gave a quiet nod and walked back out into the soft streetlight.

Another humid Friday night in San Francisco. Outside the converted warehouse venue, under flickering neon lights and the rumble of lowriders and muscle cars in the distance, a line of eager patrons wrapped around the block. Inside, the thick air of cigarette smoke, sweat, and cheap whiskey clung to the crowd like static. They weren’t here for a dance or a disco. They came for blood. For youth. For spectacle.

The locker room was dim, lined with metal lockers with chipping paint, the kind that echoed slightly when banged. Luca sat shirtless on a folding chair, his slim back glistening under the overhead light, his pale skin flushed from the warm-up jog. Alberto stood behind him, gently rubbing a cooling balm across Luca’s shoulders and spine. It was the kind of slow, knowing touch of a best friend who knew exactly where the tension liked to hide. Luca’s eyes were closed, not because of exhaustion but from trust—trust in his people.

“You're all loosened up,” Alberto murmured, his tone playful but grounding. “Like spaghetti ready for the pot.”

Giulia, focused and firm as always, stepped forward, wrapping Luca’s hands tightly with white gauze and medical tape. She gave a tug now and then to check the security of the layers. “Don’t give me that look, Paguro. I’ll be the one picking your teeth up if you don’t block right.”

Luca smiled, just a flicker. He never talked much before a fight. Giulia knew this.

After the wrappings, the gloves came—green leather with white trim, worn but still strong. Giulia laced them up, tugged, looped, double-knotted. Luca flexed his fingers inside. Good fit.

Finally, the robe. Satin, deep green with white edges, and LUCA stitched on the back in white like paint strokes, with a little sea ripple underneath. Alberto held it open for him.

“Go get him, kid.”

Luca slipped into it slowly, pulling the hood up and letting it fall just low enough to half-conceal his face. His eyes were barely visible—just a shimmer of youthful innocence beneath the shadow. A moment of quiet. He faced the wall, making the sign of the cross in quick, humble fashion. A silent Italian prayer passed through his lips.

“Dio mio... tienimi forte. Fammi forte.”

In the audience.

Riley adjusted her denim jacket as she sat front row, arms crossed but her attention sharp. She glanced over at Miguel beside her, who had one boot resting on the metal rail in front of them, chewing bubblegum like it was going to help Luca win.

“Can’t believe you got me here,” Miguel muttered, smirking. “You just wanted an excuse to stare at boys punching each other.”

Riley grinned. “And you just wanted to see Luca get his nose broken so you could take his spot.”

Behind them, little Elio sat perched on the edge of his seat, eyes wide under his mop of hair. Even as a cornerboy, he wasn’t used to places like this—the noise, the sweaty aggression, the electricity in the air—but he was curious. This was the world Miguel trained for. This was what Luca prepared for. He wanted to see what the fuss was about.

The rest of the crowd? Older men in crumpled suits, blue-collar workers off the clock, and shady figures counting bills or nodding to unseen partners in the dark. Some girls too, in high-waisted jeans and bangs curled to perfection, here for thrills and heat.

The lights dimmed slightly. Music started up—a funky 70s beat with a touch of brass swagger.

Enter Bryce Gilmer.

He strutted into the ring, maroon robe shimmering, throwing jabs into the air as he walked. He moved like a miniature Muhammad Ali, legs light, hands up, chin high.

“Y’all ready to see me knock some sense into whitey?” he called, flashing a gold-toothed smile and pointing straight to the entryway.

The crowd hollered, a mix of cheers and jeers. Bryce didn’t care. He loved the noise.

Then—

Luca enters.

Slow walk. Hood down. Eyes hidden. Silent. Focused.

A hush fell for a moment, just long enough for the crowd to feel the change in air pressure. That kid... didn’t look like much, but something about him—something sharp and ghostly behind that hood—was electric.

Riley sat up straighter. Miguel stopped chewing. Elio’s mouth parted in quiet awe.

The bell hadn’t rung yet, but the crowd was already swelling with noise, buzzing like a restless beehive. The smoky hall reeked of beer, cigars, and eager testosterone—this wasn’t a place for innocence, and yet two boys no older than thirteen were about to step into the ring and fight like men.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The San Francisco dusk draped the Mission District in gold and violet, the air thick with the scent of tamales from a pushcart rolling down. Upstairs in the flat, Olga Solis fastened the final clasp on her hoop earrings. Her dress shimmered slightly under the glow of the bedroom lamp. She leaned closer to the vanity mirror, applying mascara with the precision of a woman used to blending in and standing out, depending on what the job called for.

Behind her, a turntable spun a Santana record — the softer side of Moonflower.

From the hallway came a voice: “Tía, where are you going dressed like that?”

Elio stood in the doorway in his socks, a Star Wars comic book tucked under his arm. Olga turned, dabbing perfume at her neck.

“A business meeting, cariño.”

“At a disco?”

She smirked, brushing past him with a light touch to his cheek. “Adults do business differently sometimes.”

Before he could pry further, the knock at the building entrance crackled. Elio rushed down the hall to press the door release. A few minutes later, Riley, Miriam, and Miguel filed in, jackets draped over their arms, one of them clutching a bag of licorice, glass soda bottles clinking together.

“We brought entertainment,” Riley said, holding up a stack of 8mm cartoon reels and a portable projector. “And snacks. The good kind.”

“Got everything but a disco ball,” Miriam added.

Olga joined them at the front door, handing Riley a small sheet of notepaper. “Numbers where you can reach me, pay phone across the street, and one in the club lobby if needed. Don’t let him talk you into staying up late, and no guests.”

Miguel looked her up and down, eyes widening. “Señora Solis, you look like... Donna Summer just walked off the album cover.”

Olga gave him a pointed look. “I’ll pretend that’s not flirting, niño.”

He held up his hands in surrender, grinning.

Riley leaned in as Olga grabbed her clutch. “So, seriously. What kind of business meeting happens at Club Luxo?”

Olga didn’t answer right away. She adjusted her shawl, checking the small revolver holstered at her thigh beneath the dress. Hidden. Secure.

“The kind where you smile, dance, and hope nobody notices you're listening.”

She stepped out into the night, heels clicking against the pavement as a passing lowrider blasted Earth, Wind & Fire down the street. Club Luxo awaited — glitter, danger, and Ercole Visconti at its velvet-lined heart.

Olga Solis stepped off the Muni bus and onto the buzzing sidewalk, her heels clicking rhythmically as she made her way past neon-lit storefronts and the low throb of a city just hitting its stride after dusk. The pulse of Club Luxo could already be felt from down the block—basslines rolling out like slow thunder, bassy funk and disco vibrating the windows.

Chapter Text

The floorboards creaked softly as Elio padded through the modest apartment barefoot, arms full of records and 8mm film reels stacked higher than his head. The warm yellow glow from the wall lamp gave the living room that sepia-tone coziness unique to lived-in San Francisco flats. The scent of fresh-cooked Totino’s pizza filled the space, mingling with the faded incense burned earlier by Olga before she left.

Miguel sat cross-legged on the shag carpet, strumming a few idle notes on his guitar — nothing serious, just warm-up chords and bits of melodies he didn’t even realize were Mexican lullabies until they left his fingers. Riley lay sideways on the corduroy loveseat behind him, flicking through a Teen Beat magazine while Miriam struggled to set up the portable film projector on a coffee table stacked with old issues of Jet, TIME, and TV Guide.

“Nope… nope… this thing’s definitely older than dirt,” Miriam muttered, tapping the stubborn switch. “I bet it saw Woodstock.”

“That’s not even that old,” Elio piped up from the corner as he carefully arranged his stack of Super 8 cartoon reels. “Just wait—sometimes you gotta jiggle it.”

Miguel glanced over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “That the official instruction manual?”

“Trust me,” Elio grinned. “Olga said if it breaks, she’ll blame the Soviets.”

Riley snorted. “Your aunt is hardcore.”

“You have no idea.”

The projector sputtered to life with a soft whirrrr and soon cast a flickering image of Looney Tunes onto a white bedsheet hung against the far wall. The room dimmed, and the familiar sounds of Bugs Bunny’s wisecracks bounced off the walls.

“Okay, okay, now it’s a party,” Miguel said, leaning back and letting his guitar rest against the couch.

As the cartoons played, Miriam snuck over to grab another bottle of orange soda from the fridge, while Riley finally rested her head on Miguel’s shoulder. He smiled, just slightly. Moments like this were rare — the in-between times. No punching bags, no bell rings, no ice packs. Just him, the girls, the weird kid, and some old-fashioned cartoons on a summer night.

“Do you think your aunt’s gonna be late?” Riley asked gently.

Elio nodded, but there was a small flicker in his eye. “She said she might be out all night. Business meeting.”

Miguel gave him a skeptical glance. “She’s really in real estate?”

“She’s... in something,” Elio muttered.

But the thought passed like a cloud, and the group settled into the room's warmth again. There was an Ampex cassette deck in the corner playing a Commodores tape at low volume, blending with the projector hum. A lava lamp bubbled lazily on the windowsill next to a bonsai tree Olga had started pruning lately “to reduce stress,” though Elio said she mostly just stared at it after bad phone calls.

They laughed during Daffy Duck’s usual meltdowns, passed the pizza box back and forth, and took turns telling the corniest jokes they could muster.

“Why don’t boxers ever have beef for dinner?”
“Why?”
“’Cause they’re always throwing punches!”

Even Elio cracked a genuine laugh.

Later, after the last cartoon reel spun out and the room grew quieter, Riley and Miriam laid side by side on the couch, whispering jokes into each other’s hair. Miguel and Elio stayed on the floor, heads against a shared pillow.

“You’re really gonna fight again soon?” Elio asked Miguel, voice softer now that the buzz had faded.

Miguel stared up at the ceiling. “That’s the plan.”

“You ever think about stopping?”

“Yeah,” Miguel said quietly. “Every day.”

The apartment was still. Safe, for now. Outside, the sound of a distant BART train rolled across the city like a sleepy heartbeat. For this one night, the world beyond their little slice of North Mission Street could wait.

Because tonight, there were no gangsters, no punches, no masks.
Just kids. Just laughter.
And the quiet before whatever came next.

THE NEXT MORNING...

Morning crept in through the wide glass windows of the Marina District high-rise, light bleeding in through sheer curtains like milk spilling across marble. The view was incredible — boats bobbing in the bay, the Golden Gate just visible in the far mist, the city still yawning awake.

Olga lay still beneath silk sheets, staring at the ceiling.

Her dress was draped carelessly over a nearby armchair, her heels crooked beneath it. Her earrings were on the nightstand beside a pack of Gauloises, an empty crystal tumbler, and a single gold condom wrapper. The scent of cologne still lingered in the air, thick and sweet like rotting fruit.

Next to her, Ercole Visconti slept like a king. One arm over his eyes, hair tousled, a faint smirk curling the corner of his lips even in sleep. He looked younger like this. Softer. Less like a man who trafficked cocaine through wooden statues and more like some Roman princeling who didn’t understand why the empire was falling.

Olga blinked slowly, then sat up, careful not to stir the mattress too much.

She was still in her undergarments. Her skin still buzzed with the intimacy of the night before, but her stomach coiled with guilt and something worse — doubt.

What have I done?

It had been calculated. She told herself that. Playing along, being charming, letting her guard down just enough. Getting into his space. Into his files. His world. But this? Sharing a bed with the man responsible for her brother’s death?

She reached for the tumbler, found only a drop of melted ice, and rubbed her face instead. Thank God he used protection. That at least — that baseline of control — kept her from unraveling completely.

The sheets rustled beside her.

“Mmm,” Ercole grunted, voice gravelly. “Going somewhere, Lola?”

She turned to look at him. Her expression was unreadable. Cool. Composed. The same way she used to look at perps across a two-way mirror back in Santa Fe.

“Just needed some air,” she said.

He smirked lazily. “Air’s better in here. I got a filtration system imported from Switzerland. Best money can buy.”

She smiled faintly and slipped out of bed, wrapping the sheet around her. Her eyes darted discreetly across the room — a wall of dark walnut cabinets, a bar cart, an old reel-to-reel tape deck playing something orchestral low in the background. And there — a glass desk in the corner, metal briefcase tucked underneath.

That’s where it is. That’s what you came here for.

“I had a great time,” she said smoothly. “Didn’t expect you to be so… interesting.”

He propped himself up on one elbow, his chest still bare, gold chain glinting. “Most people don’t. They just see the suit. Or the gold. Or the accent.”

“Or the girls.”

He grinned. “You’re different.”

She walked toward the window and stared out, sheet still wrapped around her. The city below shimmered in the morning haze. Kids biking near the docks. Fishermen prepping the day’s haul. Somewhere out there, Elio was waking up. Probably eating cereal with too much sugar. Probably still thinking she was just at a “business meeting.”

If he knew…

Her throat tightened.

“Lola,” Ercole said, swinging his legs off the bed. “You wanna grab breakfast downstairs? They do this thing with sourdough and anchovies. It sounds disgusting. It is. But you’ll never forget it.”

She turned, smiled like nothing was wrong. “Sure. Let me freshen up.”

As she disappeared into the bathroom, she let the door close gently behind her — locking it with a quiet click — and leaned hard on the sink.

The mirror didn’t offer forgiveness. Just her reflection. The woman who got into bed with a monster.

And the agent who was getting closer to exposing him.

The lobby of the high-rise was the kind of place where people wore sunglasses indoors and asked for sparkling water instead of tap. A cascading fountain burbled near the elevators, and a bellhop in a too-clean uniform stood at perfect attention even though nobody was waiting.

Olga walked beside Ercole through the high-ceilinged corridor leading into The Harbormaster Café, the building’s luxury bistro tucked behind glass and chrome. The kind of place where the toast cost four dollars and the waiters wore black gloves to pour your coffee.

She wore one of Ercole’s white button-up shirts as a cover-up, tied stylishly at her waist, with her heels back on and hair pinned into a hasty bun. She looked effortless — almost too effortless.

Ercole, for his part, looked freshly showered, black slacks, half-buttoned silk shirt, aviators hanging from the collar, the picture of mafia chic. People looked at him when he entered, but not with fear — with admiration.

They took a small table by the window, overlooking the bay. Boats dotted the horizon. Olga crossed her legs and smiled like she wasn’t calculating the number of seconds it would take to sprint to the elevator if this went bad.

A waiter — probably a college kid in a vest — came over, nervously adjusting his tie.

“Uh, good morning, Mr. Visconti. Your usual?”

Ercole flashed a grin. “Double espresso, buttered sourdough, anchovy spread on the side. And the lady…”

“Black coffee,” Olga said. “And plain toast. No anchovies.”

Ercole chuckled as the waiter left. “Americans,” he muttered. “Always scared of flavor.”

“Or maybe we just know what we’re avoiding.”

Ercole raised a brow but let the comment slide.

The sun cut in across the table, streaking golden lines between their cups and silverware.

“So,” he said, stirring his espresso. “Tell me something. What do you actually want, Lola?”

She sipped her coffee. No sugar. No cream. No tells.

“I told you. A little business, a little pleasure.”

“You don’t strike me as the type that mixes the two often.”

“Maybe I’m reinventing myself.”

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

“See, I don’t believe in reinvention. I believe people are what they are. Like cities. You can polish the sidewalks, sweep up the garbage, but the rats always find a way back in.”

“Speaking from experience?” she asked, cool as ever.

Ercole smirked. “I’m from Portorosso. Grew up sweeping fish guts off the docks. Came here with twenty dollars and an accent. Now I eat anchovy toast in a tower looking down at this city. If that’s not reinvention, I don’t know what is.”

Olga tilted her head. “And yet you still smell like the docks.”

He laughed — too loud, too theatrical — but something about it was real. She was getting to him. Testing boundaries.

The toast arrived. Ercole slathered on the anchovy spread with a small gold-plated knife, biting into it like it was filet mignon.

Olga glanced casually toward the lobby — her brain not focused on the salt or the coffee anymore, but on the briefcase beneath his desk, the names he’d dropped the night before, and the moment — any moment — he might say too much.

Ercole, chewing, studied her again.

“You ever think about switching teams, Lola?”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

He smiled. “I mean whatever team you’re on. You ask good questions. You listen. You don’t shake when the guns start rattling.”

“Maybe I just like dangerous men.”

“Or maybe you’re dangerous yourself.”

A pause. For a moment, nothing but the clink of a spoon on porcelain.

Then Olga smiled again, slow and unreadable. “You’ll find I’m full of surprises.”

He leaned back in his seat, folding his napkin across his lap.

“I like that. I really do.”

She raised her coffee in a faux-toast. “To dangerous company.”

He returned the gesture. “To mornings that last longer than the night before.”

They drank. They smiled. But under the table, Olga’s foot tapped softly — nerves, maybe, or rhythm. Or maybe just a reminder:

She was still in the game. And closer to her target than ever.

LATER...

Ercole’s penthouse was quiet when they returned.

“Mi scusi, principessa,” he muttered, loosening his belt slightly and stretching with a yawn as they stepped into the grand living room. “I’m going to clean up the espresso from my teeth. Be right back. Don’t go falling in love with my view while I’m gone.”

He sauntered into the marble-tiled bathroom, humming something vaguely Sinatra, and left the door half-open. The running faucet covered any noise she might make for a short window of time.

The moment the door clicked behind him, Olga moved.

Quick, barefoot, careful not to make the hardwood floors creak. She let the silk shirt slip slightly off one shoulder for comfort — or perhaps to feel less like a traitor to herself.

Get in. Get what you can. Get out.

She went straight to the glass desk tucked into the corner of his study — chrome legs, polished edges, modern design imported from Italy. Below it: the matte black briefcase, the same one she'd noticed the night before, half-hidden behind a fake ficus and an unread newspaper.

Olga knelt, her fingers expertly working the latch. It was locked, of course. But this wasn’t her first rodeo. A quick tug on the flap of her purse, and out came the smallest tool — a thin tension wrench and a torsion pick.

She’d learned from the best. Her brother, Marcelo Solis, once opened a bank vault in a sting operation using a hairpin and chewing gum. She wasn’t far behind.

Click

The latch opened with a satisfying snap. She exhaled sharply and cracked the briefcase just an inch.

Inside:

• A black notebook — thick, dense, with handwritten notes in Italian and clipped receipts from places in Cali, Medellín, and Cartagena.

• A folder labeled “ORDINANZA 412-B” — with stamped manifests in Arabic, invoices for crates of "spare automobile parts" bound for Tripoli.

• And at the bottom… photographs.

She thumbed through quickly — blurred shots of cargo ships, crates being offloaded, and a handful of familiar-looking men in trench coats. But then, her breath caught.

A surveillance photo of two agents in Rome. One of them was her brother. The other, his wife.

The date scribbled in the corner: 26/04/74.

Her throat tightened. For a moment, her hands shook. Then she shoved the photo inside her bra and closed the briefcase fast. Re-locked it. Stood up.

“Lola!”

Ercole’s voice rang out from the hallway. Olga shot across the room and perched herself casually at the corner of the couch, pulling the silk shirt closed again as if nothing happened. She grabbed a magazine — California Living — and opened it to a random page showing avocado recipes.

He walked out in a clean shirt and fresh cologne, drying his hands with a small towel.

“What’re you reading?” he asked, throwing the towel onto the back of the couch.

“Apparently the secret to a happy marriage is sharing breakfast,” she said, looking over the top of the page with a knowing smile. “So I guess we’re doomed.”

He chuckled, then took the seat beside her, slinging one arm around her shoulders.

“Doomed never looked this good.”

She smiled.

But inside, she wasn’t thinking about his cologne or the tension between them.

She was thinking about the photo in her bra, the Colombian paperwork, and a shipping manifest to Tripoli.

Ercole Visconti was deeper in than she ever feared.

And now?

Now she had proof.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Chapter Text

The curtains fluttered softly in the open kitchen window of the modest second-floor apartment, letting in the smell of sea salt from the nearby docks and the clatter of a passing cable car far below. Seagulls cried faintly in the distance, their song a permanent fixture of life in North Beach.

Luca Paguro sat at the small kitchen table, his face still visibly swollen from the fight with Bryce. His left eye was colored with a fading bruise, and his jaw held a stiffness that made chewing difficult. Every so often, he touched his temple gently, like pressing would answer a question still lingering from the match.

In front of him, a bowl of homemade minestrone steamed gently.

His mother Daniela stood nearby, gently rubbing her round belly with one hand and using the other to ladle more soup from the pot into a second bowl. She looked more tired these days, but not in the heavy way — more like someone full of motion and hope, constantly preparing for something beautiful.

“You’ve barely touched it,” she said, nudging the spoon toward him with a mother’s practiced insistence.

“It’s hot,” Luca murmured, voice softer than usual. His tone wasn’t sulky — just slow. Tired. The kind of tired that didn’t come from lack of sleep, but from waking up changed.

“Blow on it, tesoro. It’s not going to eat itself.”

He obeyed. A breath. A spoonful. Carrot, zucchini, tiny shell pasta. Warm. Familiar. Almost too nostalgic to chew.

Daniela sat across from him, her hand resting on the soft curve of her belly. “Your father’s working late again. A shipment came in this morning. Crates from Naples, he said. He’ll be home for dinner.”

Luca gave a small nod.

She watched him, eyes softening. “You scared me, you know.”

Luca looked up. “It was just a fight.”

“It’s never just a fight when it’s your son in the ring.”

A silence hung there, not heavy — just honest.

“You did well,” she added gently, “but I don’t want that to be the only thing you’re proud of.”

“I’m not,” he said quickly. “It’s not… I just… don’t know what else I’m supposed to do. I’m good at it.”

“You’re good at a lot of things.”

He hesitated, tapping his spoon against the bowl. “What if I’m only good at taking hits?”

She reached across the table, her hand warm and dry against his bruised knuckles. “You’re good at feeling. That’s rarer than you think.”

They sat there, soup slowly cooling, the baby inside her shifting slightly as if reacting to the silence.

“Do you think she’ll like me?” Luca asked suddenly, eyes fixed on her belly.

“Who?”

“The baby.”

Daniela smiled. “Of course she will. She’ll have you wrapped around her little finger before she can even speak.”

“I don’t want to be scary to her,” Luca said, almost whispering. “I don’t want her to see me with cuts and bruises and think that’s all I am.”

His mother reached over, brushing his hair back like she used to when he was little. “Then show her something else.”

He looked up.

“Sing to her. Draw with her. Teach her what it means to be strong without fists.”

Luca blinked back the sting of sudden tears, then cleared his throat and nodded.

Outside, another cable car clanged its bell.

Daniela smiled and stood, waddling gently toward the stove. “Finish your soup. Then maybe you'll feel better about being a big protector brother.”

Luca gave a small smile and lifted the spoon again.

And somewhere deep inside, something started to settle. The fight was over. The bruises would fade. And in time, a little sister would arrive — someone new to protect, yes, but also someone new to inspire.

Maybe, Luca thought, he could be more than a boxer after all.

The buzzer crackled through the apartment’s entryway like a dying fly. Daniela wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and walked over, pressing the button.

“Yes?”

A layered response came in a jumble of voices:

“It’s us—Miguel—Riley too—”

“—And me!” Elio piped in brightly.

Daniela smiled. “Come up.”

Luca blinked in surprise, halfway through a second bowl of soup. He sat up straighter, brushing a napkin across his lips, and tried to fluff out his hair with one hand. The bruises were still there, but at least the swelling had eased slightly.

Within moments, the front door opened and in spilled the crew — Miguel in a faded red bomber jacket, his curly hair tousled from the wind, Riley in bell-bottom jeans and a cropped corduroy jacket, Miriam in a thrifted army coat over a glitter-print t-shirt, and Elio, the smallest of the bunch, clutching a bottle of orange soda like it was an offering from the gods.

“You look alive!” Miguel called out, flashing that crooked grin of his.

“I feel like soup,” Luca replied, managing a smile.

“Well that’s good,” Miriam said, slinging her arm over the back of a kitchen chair. “'Cause you smell like soup.”

“Shut up,” Luca laughed, already glad they were here.

Daniela ushered them in warmly, offering more bowls and soda. They settled in quickly like they’d done it a hundred times before — Riley perched beside Luca, gently nudging his arm, while Elio eagerly explained their route across the city.

“So we took the 14 bus to Market, then hopped the Powell cable car,” he began, eyes wide. “Miguel said it was gonna be too much walking but Riley dared him so—”

“Okay okay, we walked like three extra blocks,” Miguel cut in, mock-defensive. “I ain’t scared of hills, I just don’t like ‘em.”

“You ran outta breath after the first one,” Riley teased.

Miguel narrowed his eyes. “That was intentional breath control training.”

Luca laughed again, his ribs still sore, but the sound felt good — a release.

Miriam looked around the cozy kitchen. “This is a nice spot. Real quiet. Smells like garlic and… motherhood.”

“That’d be me,” Daniela said, rubbing her belly gently as she walked past. “Six months along now. The little one kicks every time the foghorn goes off.”

“Oh, I like her already,” Elio smiled, "Luca is going to be a big brother!".

They chatted, letting the city noises filter in through the windows — cable car bells, someone playing Billy Joel down the block, the occasional bark of a dog.

Riley leaned closer to Luca. “So… how you really holding up?”

He looked at her, then the others. The bruises, the exhaustion — it was all still there. But with them here, it didn’t feel as heavy.

“I’m okay,” he said. “Sore. But… glad I did it. Not for the win — but just to prove I could stand in the ring with someone like Bryce and not run.”

“Dude, you danced in that ring,” Miguel said, nudging him with a knuckle. “I mean, yeah, you ate some fists. But you gave ‘em right back. Respect.”

Luca flushed a little. “Thanks.”

Elio looked around the room and asked the important question: “Can we watch some Price is Right?”

Everyone laughed at the choice of program, and Luca nodded. “TV’s in the bedroom. Just don’t sit on the side with the guitar.”

The crew migrated naturally — Miriam grabbing a bag of chips, Riley tossing her jacket over a chair, and Miguel putting on a vinyl record that Daniela had on the shelf.

The room filled with the sounds of Frank Sinatra, mingling with laughter and the soft hum of life in a city full of fight and friendship.

And for that one afternoon, everything felt okay.

TO BE CONITINUED.

Chapter Text

By midday, the haze over San Francisco had lifted, the sun casting sharp glints across the rooftops of the Marina. The streets bustled with joggers, dog walkers, and the occasional hangover in motion. None of them would have guessed that on the top floor of a luxury high-rise, a criminal kingpin and a federal agent just played an elegant game of deception in silk and aftershave.

Olga stood before Ercole Visconti’s mirror, her expression unreadable. She reapplied a soft coral lipstick and slid a gold hoop earring back into place with the kind of precision that had once been used to wire transmitters into embassy vents. She smoothed her shirt, checked for creases. The photo — her brother and sister-in-law, April 26th, 1974, Rome — now folded flat inside the lining of her purse.

In the living room, Ercole was still on the phone. Something in slick Italian, something about a “modified delivery schedule” and “no heat in Panama.” His voice floated in from down the hall, light and cocky. Not a care in the world.

Olga took one last breath.

You’ve slept next to the man who murdered your family.
And now you walk out, like you never knew it.

She stepped into the hallway as Ercole hung up.

“You’re not gonna stay for lunch?” he asked, strolling over in his open shirt, still damp from a half-hearted rinse.

She smiled. Cool. Controlled. “Tempting, but no. My nephew’s probably eaten all the cereal and crashed the television by now.”

He chuckled, unaware of the trap she’d laid in her phrasing. “The little guy you mentioned? You’ve got family here?”

Olga shrugged. “Just a kid I watch out for. His parents aren’t around.”

“You like playing mamma, huh?” he said, handing her a coffee from the percolator.

“Let’s just say I like to keep boys off the streets and out of trouble.” She sipped. “Boxing gyms help.”

Ercole scoffed. “That Miguel kid — the fighter? Yeah, he's got that corner boy tagging along with him, right?”

“Elio,” she said calmly.

Ercole didn’t flinch. “That his name? Cute kid. Thought he was just some stray.”

Olga smiled gently. “Strays have the best instincts.”

She let it hang there, then leaned in to kiss his cheek — close enough to feel the warmth of his skin, far enough not to mean it.

As she stepped toward the elevator, Ercole called out one last time, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt.

“You know… I still don’t know what you do, Lola.”

She turned in the doorway, silhouetted by sunlight.

“I dance,” she said with a wink. “Just... never in the same place twice.”

Ding.

The elevator doors slid open. She vanished inside.

By late afternoon, Olga’s heels clicked along the sidewalk near Church and 22nd, far from the Marina high-rises. She ducked into a dry cleaners with a "Back in 10 min" sign half-hanging in the window.

Inside, in the far back, she slid behind a plastic curtain and handed a tan envelope to a stocky man pretending to refill garment bags. No words. Just a nod. He slipped it into a hidden slit behind a wall poster of the Bee Gees.

Mission accomplished. For now.

Back at the penthouse, Ercole poured himself a scotch and leaned against the balcony rail.

“Elio,” he muttered.

He squinted a little.
Somewhere in the haze of memory...
The name felt... vaguely familiar.

Nah, he thought, tossing the notion aside.
Just another street kid in the ring.

And in that moment, he turned his back to the skyline, completely unaware that the very child he dismissed — the quiet boy with big eyes and a battered gym towel — was the son of the agents his men buried in a vineyard outside Rome.

And that the woman he just called “Lola” was the last person he should’ve ever let into his bed.

The apartment on Mission and 19th was still and warm when Elio stepped inside, unlocking the door with the spare key around his neck. Miguel followed behind, carrying a brown paper bag full of leftover pan dulce and some fried plantains they picked up from a bakery near Dolores Park.

“Place is still clean,” Miguel muttered, peeking into the living room. “That means she’s not back yet?”

Elio frowned, checking the clock on the wall. Nearly 5:30 PM.

“She said it was a meeting,” he mumbled, setting his soda down on the kitchen counter. “Didn’t think it’d take all day.”

Miguel sat on the edge of the couch and leaned back with a sigh, his bruised knuckles still stiff as he reached into the bag for a pastry.

“You sure it wasn’t like... some secret disco meeting?” he joked, mouth half-full. “Maybe she had to negotiate over Bee Gees tracks.”

Elio cracked a smile. “She does like that one song. The one that goes ‘ahh ha ha ha stayin’ alive’ like ten times.”

They laughed, and for a moment the silence of the apartment felt normal again — lived-in, cozy. Miguel tossed his shoes off and turned on the TV, the black-and-white static flipping over to CH 20, where Wonder Woman reruns were just starting.

Then…

The jingle of keys at the door.

The knob turned. The door opened slowly.

Olga entered.

Hair slightly windblown, sunglasses still on despite the fading light, a shawl thrown over her sleeveless blouse. She carried herself like she always did — like someone who’d just stepped out of a matinee and couldn’t remember if she liked the ending or not.

“¡Hola, mijo!” she sang softly as she shut the door behind her.

Elio looked up, blinking. “Tía?”

Miguel straightened slightly, then sat up more fully. “You okay? We didn’t know where you were—”

“Oh, just a meeting,” she said breezily, walking toward the kitchen. “Started late. Got dragged out. A whole lot of talking and no action, if you can believe it.”

She ruffled Elio’s hair as she passed him and gave Miguel a nod. “Did the place burn down while I was gone?”

“Nah, just cartoons and snack raids,” Miguel said, grinning.

She opened the fridge, reached for a glass bottle of Coca-Cola, and popped the cap off against the counter edge with a practiced motion.

“You boys behave yourselves?”

Elio nodded, but narrowed his eyes slightly. “You look... tired.”

Olga chuckled, leaning against the counter as she took a sip. “That’s because I am tired, mi vida. Next time I’ll let you go sit through five hours of people not making decisions.”

“You were wearing different earrings this morning,” he said without thinking.

Olga paused mid-sip. A beat. Then she smiled.

“You caught that, huh?” she replied. “One fell out, I think. Had to switch sets. That’s my little detective.”

Miguel was too busy reaching for a second pan dulce to notice the shift in tone.

But Elio kept watching her. Not suspicious, not angry — just quietly observant. Like he was putting together a puzzle he didn’t quite know he was working on yet.

“Hey, I was thinking,” Olga added, breaking the silence as she sat down. “We should all go out sometime. Maybe the movies. That new Grease one just came out. Bet it’s right up your alley, huh, Miguelito?”

Miguel looked up and smirked. “I dunno. I’m more of a Rocky guy.”

“I’ll take either if I get popcorn,” Elio said, hopping onto the couch.

Olga smiled. Not the kind of smile she wore at Club Luxo.
This was the real one — tired, but present.

She watched them for a moment — her boy and the fighter he idolized — and wondered how many nights like this she’d get before the world came crashing in again.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Chapter Text

The old gym on 24th and Bartlett smelled like what it always smelled like—liniment, leather, and tired ambition.

Old Man Carl stood near the heavy bags, arms crossed, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. His face didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched every time Miguel landed a clean jab or Luca kept his footwork tight for longer than ten seconds.

The boys were in sync, in opposite corners of the room.

Miguel, shirtless and wrapped, slammed combinations into the mitts held by a wiry assistant trainer. The rhythm was fast and sharp—jab, cross, hook, dip, body shot. He grunted with each shot, sweat pouring down the back of his neck.

Luca, on the other end, was more methodical. He bounced, shifted weight, threw two jabs and slipped left, practicing keeping his chin tucked. Giulia barked at him between rounds while Alberto sprayed cold water onto his neck and pressed a wet towel to his back.

Two different styles. One explosive, one technical.
Two different boys, both chasing the same kind of victory.

Carl grunted, walking past them.

“Luca—your right foot’s slipping again. I ever tell you what happens to pretty boys who don’t plant their feet?”

Luca winced. “I go down.”

“You go down fast, and in front of a girl who won’t date you afterward,” Carl snapped. “Fix it.”

He kept walking.

“Miguel!”

Miguel looked up, breathing hard. “Yeah?”

“You’re overreaching on the left hook again. If that Tyler kid you’re fighting sees it, he’ll tag your ribs like a damn dinner bell.”

“I’m fighting Dash, not Tyler.”

Carl blinked. “Whatever. They both punch like lawnmowers. Tuck your elbow in, you hear me?”

Miguel nodded and got back to work.

On the gym bench, Caleb and Bryce sat watching the session unfold, both bandaged and still healing from their own fights.

“Man,” Caleb said, rubbing his jaw. “They’re gonna kill each other one day.”

Bryce leaned back, arms behind his head. “Nah. They got that brotherly thing going. Mutual respect and all that.”

“Still. You fought one. I fought the other. I’m just sayin’—Miguel hits like a Buick.”

“And Luca hits like he studies your face,” Bryce added. “Makes a whole thesis on it before punching.”

They both chuckled.

Bryce adjusted his seat. “You seen this Dash kid fight before?”

Caleb nodded. “Yeah, fast as hell. Like someone spiked his cereal with jet fuel.”

Bryce raised an eyebrow. “Miguel better not blink then.”

Later in the ring, Miguel finished a round and leaned into the corner where Elio stood on a stool, dutifully holding water and a small towel.

“Did I look faster this time?” Miguel asked, wiping sweat from his eyes.

Elio nodded. “Faster. But Carl’s right—you still leave your side open when you go big.”

Meanwhile, Luca’s corner had its own chaos.

“Your balance is still shifting forward,” Giulia muttered as she tightened the laces on his gloves. “You need to keep your core steady, or you’ll fall into Tyler’s traps.”

Alberto smirked. “He’s still cute, though.”

Luca groaned. “You guys know I’m literally right here, right?”

“Yup,” they said in unison.

Carl checked his watch.

“One week,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Two fights, one damn night. If one of ‘em doesn’t end up in the ER, I’ll consider it a miracle.”

He turned to the gym wall where a hand-painted sign had been hanging for decades, curling at the corners:

“Leave your ego at the door. Take your heart into the ring.”

And for a moment, Carl almost—almost—smiled, just then... the clang of the gym door echoed against the cinder block walls.

Heads turned. Gloves paused mid-punch. And Carl muttered under his breath as Riley Andersen and Miriam Mendelsohn strutted in like they owned the joint — one in cutoff jeans and a faded Bay City Rollers tee, the other in a floral t-shirt and blue bellbottoms.

“Smells like boys in here,” Miriam said, waving a hand with exaggerated flair. “Sweaty, hormonal, borderline desperate boys.”

Riley snorted. “Basically heaven.”

Carl growled from across the gym, “This ain’t Studio 54. If you ain’t throwing punches, don’t block the light.”

“We’re supporting staff, gramps,” Miriam quipped, hands on her hips. “Gotta keep morale up.”

On the side bench, Caleb and Bryce perked up instantly.

“Ohhh damn,” Caleb whispered, elbowing Bryce. “Here come the muses.”

Bryce leaned forward, grinning. “Place just got a whole lot prettier.”

“Better be careful,” Caleb added. “I think Riley might actually bite if you look too long at her fighter boy.”

Bryce smirked. “Please. We’re just two battered warriors paying tribute to the new gladiators... and their fan club.”

Miguel spotted Riley first.

He paused, chest heaving, gloves drooping at his sides. She gave him a knowing smirk and slow wave, her hair glowing under the afternoon sunlight streaming through the high windows. He smiled back, involuntarily — just the smallest curl of the lip before he looked down, pretending to adjust his gloves.

“Elio,” Miguel said quietly as he took his headgear off, “is my hair messed up?”

Elio blinked. “You’re literally soaked in sweat.”

“So... yes?”

Elio rolled his eyes and handed him a towel.

Across the gym, Luca was mid-step when Giulia hissed, “Don’t look.”

“What?” he asked, already craning his neck.

“You looked. Great.”

Miriam had caught his eye and gave him a wink — one hand tucked under her chin with that mock-innocent look she always wore when she was clearly up to no good.

Luca stumbled slightly and tripped the rope on his next jump. Alberto burst out laughing.

“Bro, your brain short-circuited,” Alberto wheezed. “Gotta get your girl-blindness under control.”

“I wasn’t expecting her,” Luca mumbled, cheeks flushing even as he tried to keep jumping. “I didn’t know—”

“Dude, just say hi next time instead of pretending to forget how knees work.”

Caleb leaned back on the bench, arms behind his head. “It’s always the quiet ones who fall the hardest.”

Bryce cracked a grin. “Between Luca stuttering and Miguel pretending not to be in love, I give it two weeks before someone writes a poem or gets matching bracelets.”

Caleb laughed. “Riley would probably get a tattoo instead.”

“Of Miguel’s glove print on her back,” Bryce said with a chuckle. “Right next to her disco ball.”

Back in the ring, Carl blew his whistle, loud and sharp.

“Break’s over! Pretty girls don’t win fights — punches do! Get your asses back in gear!”

The gym snapped back into motion. The bell rang again.

But the energy was different now.

The punches were sharper. The movements more precise. The air practically hummed with competition and something a little sweeter than sweat.

The boys fought harder with eyes on the balcony, hearts somewhere between the ring and the girls watching from the sidelines.

The final bell of the session rang out with a clang, and both boys hit the ropes like dishrags after a long wash.

Miguel, chest heaving, slumped into Elio’s arms, the boy holding a towel to his brow like a trusted squire after battle.

Luca, equally gassed, leaned against the opposite rope with his arms draped like spaghetti noodles, his chest still rising and falling with hard-earned breath.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

They’d given everything in the gym today — and it showed.

Riley stared at Miguel, her bottom lip slightly bitten. “Damn,” she whispered to Miriam. “You ever see a boy that tired look so good?”

Miriam, eyes locked on Luca, nodded dreamily. “Just imagine how they look when they're tired... and still trying to impress you.”

They both giggled, but the moment was shattered by the sound of sneakers slapping the concrete.

SLAP SLAP SLAP.

Then a voice — loud, unbothered, and just a little too rehearsed.

“Whew! Smells like failure and Old Spice in here!”

Tyler Nguyen-Baker swaggered in like the gym was his own personal stage. Sleeveless crop tank top, purple running shorts with BAKER printed bold across the waistband, and an ego that could fill the rafters.

Caleb let out a groan. “Oh great.”

Bryce rolled his eyes. “The Blasian Menace himself.”

Tyler pointed a finger around the room like a game show host. “Well, well, well! If it ain't Golden Boy Miguel and that Italian string bean over there—what’s up, Spaghetti?”

Luca, still wiping sweat off his neck, raised an eyebrow but didn’t reply.

Carl didn’t even look up from his clipboard. “What do you want, Baker?”

Tyler’s face twitched.

“It’s Nguyen-Baker,” he corrected, annoyed. “Not my fault someone keeps cutting my damn name in half on the flyers.”

Carl shrugged. “Not my promos. Not my problem.”

Tyler turned back to the crowd, arms stretched wide. “I swear, I get no respect in this place! You’d think being undefeated would earn a brother something. But noooo, still second billing to Miguel ‘Papi Chulo’ Rivera and Luca ‘Ciao Bella’ Paguro!”

Miguel just gave a half-lidded glare from his stool, too winded to take the bait.

Riley, however, didn’t hold back. “You’re not even cute enough to have a nickname.”

“Oooh!” Caleb barked with a laugh.

Miriam smirked. “You always this loud, or are you just compensating?”

Tyler turned to her with a grin like he was flipping a switch. “Mmm. Girl, you don’t even know what I’m compensating with.”

Miriam just stared flatly at him. “I know it ain’t class.”

Even Bryce winced. “Bruh... just stop.”

Tyler chuckled, already backing away toward the exit.

He pointed two fingers like fake guns at Luca. “I see you next week, Venice.”

Then turned, middle fingers high in the air, both hands.

“Y’all can kiss the name Nguyen-Baker, baby!”

The gym door slammed behind him.

Long pause.

Giulia looked at Carl. “You sure we can’t just cancel his fight?”

Carl muttered without looking up, “I’d pay not to watch him, but we can't upset Ercole.”

As the gym exhaled collectively, Miguel sat back against the post, Riley gently rubbing the towel down his arms.

“Was he always like that?” Miguel asked.

“Don’t let him in your head,” Riley whispered.

Luca sat quietly, sipping water as Miriam sat cross-legged beside him. “He’s not your problem. He’s just noise.”

Luca nodded slowly, jaw tense.

But noise or not…
Tyler was coming.
And Luca wasn’t going to let a loudmouth with half a name and no soul steal his spotlight.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Chapter Text

The backstage area smelled of liniment and nervous energy, as it always does.

Dim lights flickered overhead as Elio knelt behind Miguel, hands moving expertly over the young boxer’s tense muscles. His thumbs pressed into the knots along Miguel’s shoulder blades and down the thick, worn muscle of his back, tracing the path of hours spent throwing punches and absorbing blows. The room was quiet except for the steady rhythm of Elio’s breath and the faint scrape of boxing tape unraveling.

“Hold still, Miguel,” Elio murmured, his voice low but steady, a balm in the chaos. “Gotta loosen you up if you want to dance in the ring.”

Miguel winced as Elio worked deeper into a stubborn knot just above the spine. Sweat glistened on his skin, catching the overhead light like tiny stars. The scent of eucalyptus ointment mingled with his own sharp, clean sweat.

From the doorway, Riley and Miriam both leaned against the frame, arms crossed but eyes soft, watching the ritual with the kind of admiration reserved for secret moments shared between warriors.

Miguel glanced over his shoulder and caught their eyes. His lips twitched into a faint smile — tired, but sure.

Elio moved down to Miguel’s lower back, kneading in slow circles. “You ready for this, chico?”

Miguel took a slow breath. “I’m ready to spill some blood, even if it's mine.”

Elio’s fingers tightened just a bit, then relaxed with a bit of dark sarcasm. “That’s the spirit, you sadist!.”

The hand wrapping began next. White gauze and tape spiraled around Miguel’s wrists and knuckles, securing every joint, every bone. Elio’s fingers were deft, practiced — tying off the final knot with a careful tug. He handed Miguel his gloves, slick with fresh leather and a faint scent of polish, as boxing gloves should be.

One last step: the robe.

Riley stepped closer as Miguel pulled the dark red satin robe over his shoulders. The fabric caught the light, the letters “RIVERA” embroidered across the back in shining gold thread over a decal of a skull. Her smile was subtle, but in it lay a thousand unspoken words—hope, pride, and the quiet promise to be waiting no matter what.

Luca had just arrived, sliding through the door with his usual nervous energy, his eyes flicking between Miguel and Elio. He nodded curtly, wiping his palms on his pants, already feeling the weight of his own upcoming fight.

Miguel took a deep breath and stood, muscles humming, eyes sharp. Elio stepped back, the corner boy’s job done — for now.

The crowd’s roar could be heard even from the locker room hallway, a rising tide that would soon swallow the boys whole.

"Rivera, you're up!" said a janitor.

The lights dimmed, and a hush fell over the warehouse-turned-arena. The crowd’s restless murmur simmered into a low buzz as Ercole Visconti strutted into the spotlight, his tailored suit gleaming under the harsh stage lights. His slicked-back hair and too-bright smile were the perfect mask for the sleaze beneath.

He grabbed the microphone with theatrical flair.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Ercole’s Italian-accented voice boomed, dripping with showmanship and a healthy dose of ignorance. “Welcome to tonight’s main event — Two bouts for the price of one!, the battle of young gladiators, here in the heart of San Francisco!”

The crowd erupted in cheers, some waving homemade signs, others hooting and whistling.

“First up, Fight #1… from the fiery streets of The Mission District — the pride of every taco truck and salsa dance! The boy who punches like a storm and fights with the heart of a matador…” He paused, raising his hand for dramatic effect. “Miguelito Rivera!”

Miguel stood at the edge of the ring, robes hanging heavy on his broad shoulders, face calm but eyes blazing with focus. Riley’s hand found his in the crowd as he nodded once, ready.

Ercole barely gave the applause time to die down before flipping the spotlight to the other corner.

“And his opponent, hailing from the dusty backroads of nowhere — the scrappy kid they call… Dash Parr!” Ercole sneered lightly, the casual barb hanging in the air like cigarette smoke. “Fast on his feet, can this white boy beat the hispanic boy?”

Dash stepped forward, head high, jaw set. His eyes scanned the crowd without flinching, both boys unfazed by Ercole’s casual racism.

Miguel shrugged off the robe, letting it slide down his shoulders and pool on the canvas. The arena lights washed over him, turning the faint sheen of sweat on his chest and arms into a warm glow. Riley’s eyes followed every line and contour; she’d seen him like this plenty of times, but it never lost its charge.

Miguel stepped to his corner, looping one arm over the ropes to stretch, his muscles flexing with the motion. He spat into his mouthguard before snapping it into place, rolling his neck once. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he pounded his gloves together—thump, thump—a silent promise to the crowd that the blood was coming.

ROUND 1

The bell rang sharp, and Dash Parr sprang forward like someone had shot him out of a slingshot. His fists were a blur—quick, precise, but almost too eager. Miguel had seen this before. The blonde speed demon was all flash in the first round, hoping to overwhelm his opponents before they could breathe. But Miguel had studied him. He’d watched enough film of him and memorized enough habits. He wasn’t going down like the other boys who’d been eaten alive in Dash’s whirlwind.

Miguel’s gloves came up, elbows tucked. Dash’s first flurry met leather instead of skin. The crowd roared at every thwap, but Miguel didn’t flinch, didn’t bite. He let Dash burn energy, sidestepping, rolling his shoulders, throwing the occasional jab just to remind him he wasn’t a punching bag.

From Riley’s seat, it didn’t even look like a fight—it looked like choreography. Every duck, every pivot, the flex of Miguel’s back under the bright lights—it was all so smooth, so precise. The red gloves slicing the air. The way sweat already glistened on his collarbone. To the rest of the audience, it was combat. To her, it was ballet with leather.

Dash lunged again, a jab-cross-hook combo meant to trap Miguel in the corner, but Miguel’s counter came fast—a sharp left to the ribs, a short right to the chin. Not enough to drop Dash, but enough to halt his rhythm. Riley bit her lip, Miriam meanwhile was yelling some encouragement. The sound of leather smacking flesh, the sheen of sweat beginning to form, the occasional flash of Miguel’s mouthguard as he gritted his teeth—it was all intoxicating. She hated Ercole for many reasons, but… she had to admit, the man had a gift for putting the most dangerously good-looking boys under those lights.

Blood hadn’t been drawn yet, but the heat was building. Riley knew it wouldn’t be long before this dance turned into something redder. Miguel was ready for it.

MINUTES LATER

ROUND 3

From the moment the bell rings, Riley’s breath catches — she knows this is where Miguel, black and blue, turns the fight into something unforgettable.

Dash, also black and blue with a hint of purple, explodes forward first, swinging a jab-cross that snaps Miguel’s head to the side. She sees the ripple through his light brown skin as the force travels down his neck into his shoulders. Sweat sprays in a halo from his hair, catching the harsh overhead lights like glitter. Miguel takes the shots, rolls with them, and comes right back, slipping inside Dash’s guard with a savage left hook to the ribs.

Dash’s pale skin flushes red instantly where the glove lands, the mark blooming like a brand. Riley sees the muscles in Miguel’s back flex and stretch with every twist of his torso, each movement fluid, purposeful. His body is an instrument, and right now, it’s playing a song of violence.

Dash tries to keep distance, but Miguel cuts off the ring, throwing combinations — a jab that pops Dash’s head back, a cross that splits his lip. The first trickle of blood glistens against Dash’s pale skin, sliding down his chin. Riley bites her lip; she’s seen Miguel make boys bleed before, but the focus in his eyes tonight is intoxicating.

Sweat pours down both of them now, running in rivulets, dripping from Miguel’s chest and shoulders, soaking the waistband of his trunks. When Dash lunges, Miguel counters with a brutal uppercut that sends a spray of blood and spit into the air. Riley swears she can see every droplet as if time slows, the deep brown of Miguel’s skin and the milky pallor of Dash’s contrasting like oil and milk colliding under the lights.

They clinch for a moment, muscles straining, sweat-slick arms sliding against each other, foreheads pressed together. Riley sees Miguel’s gloves digging into Dash’s sides, short punches thudding against bruises already turning dark purple. Dash grunts, but refuses to back down, answering with his own blows — each one making Miguel’s back ripple like a wave.

The crowd is roaring now, but to Riley it’s muffled, distant. She’s watching Miguel breathe, the rise and fall of his chest, the subtle wince when a punch grazes his ribs, the flash of teeth when he grins at Dash as if to say, is that all?

Then it happens — Miguel slips a looping hook, pivots, and unleashes a right cross that lands flush on Dash’s cheek. Dash’s knees buckle, his pale skin already swelling, red blooming under the surface. He stumbles but stays upright, defiant until the bell rings.

Both boys stand there, chests heaving, skin glistening with sweat and streaked with blood — a masterpiece of brutality.

Riley swallows hard. In her eyes, this wasn’t just a fight. It was a painting in motion, with Miguel as both artist and weapon.

MORE MINUTES LATER

ROUND 5, THE FINAL ROUND

The tension before the bell is electric. Riley can feel her own palms sweating, eyes locked on Miguel. She sees the thin sheen of perspiration on his skin, the way the light catches his shoulders, every contour standing out.

Dash charges. His punches are wild now — swinging for a miracle. Miguel’s guard is tight, but when he throws, he throws hard. A straight right from Miguel rocks Dash back, and Riley watches his pale cheek ripple from the impact. Dash stumbles, feet tangling, but Miguel doesn’t rush — he stalks.

A left hook to the ribs — Dash bends. An uppercut to the chin — Dash snaps upright, eyes glassy. Blood is mixing with the sweat running down his face, leaving faint pink streaks over his chest.

Riley’s pulse is in her ears as Miguel corners him. Three punches — jab, cross, hook — each one cracking, each one forcing Dash to sag deeper against the ropes. Dash swings back, one last attempt, but Miguel slips it, pivots, and lands a clean right cross square to the jaw. He crumples to the mat, sweat and blood pooling on the canvas under him. Geri the ref starts the count.

"One!"

Dash’s legs go loose.

"Two!"

Dash is trying to push up, trembling, but his arms won’t obey.

"Three!"

The blonde speedster tries his best, but to no avail.

"Four!"

Ercole was completely crossed, "ALZATI, CAZZO! NON SEI DI ARIANO PURO CHE SPERAVO!" he yelled in Italian.

"Five!"

Miguel tried to stay up as best he can against the ropes.

"Six!"

Dash struggled more, climbing up the ropes before falling off again, his vision clearly not helping him.

"Seven!"

Riley held her breath.

"Eight!"

Dash at this point accepted fate, Miguel was too good.

"Nine!"

Ercole was ripping his hair in anger and slamming his fist like a kid throwing a tantrum.

“Ten!”

The fight is over.

Miguel’s chest is heaving, skin glowing under the lights, bruises forming on his ribs, a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. Riley can’t take her eyes off him. To the crowd, he’s the winner. To her, he’s something else entirely — a work of art, carved from grit, speed, and the will to stand taller than anyone else in the ring.

The bell’s clang still echoed as Riley practically jumped out of her seat, her voice breaking the roar of the crowd.

“Yes! That’s my Miguel!” she screamed, fists pumping the air, eyes shining like fireworks.

Beside her, Miriam was right there—clapping, laughing, eyes wide with that electric fangirl glow. “Did you see that? That was art! Miguel just made that fight!”

Riley threw an arm around Miriam’s shoulders, her grin infectious. “I told you, he’s fire and rhythm, babe. Nobody moves like Miguel.”

As Dash was being carried away on a stretcher whilst Miguel got out like a king, Ercole Visconti appeared, calming himself down, smoothing his tie and forcing on his best salesman smile. His dark eyes flicked to Miguel — the Latino boy who had just knocked down his preferred type, a white, blonde and blue eyed opponent — and he looked a little embarrassed, like he hadn’t expected that.

Clearing his throat, Ercole boomed into the mic with practiced flair, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, for Fight #2… Let’s see if this one can put on a show!”

Miriam leaned closer, voice low and teasing, “Okay, now we're talkin', Luca’s up next… and Tyler? Well, we've seen him, he’s loudmouth city. This is gonna be good.”

Riley laughed softly, but her eyes never left Miguel. “You watch, babe. These fights? They’re about more than just punches. It’s a whole damn story.”

Miriam smirked, settling in for the show, already half-dreaming of the next round of blood, sweat, and leather.

The overhead lights flared, and the announcer’s voice rang out.

“Entering the ring, from North Beach—LUCA PAGURO!”

A cheer rolled through the venue, thicker and warmer than the usual rowdy noise. This wasn’t just the standard mix of gamblers, drunks, and the creeps who came to watch boys fight. No—this time, scattered through the front rows and up in the balcony, there were familiar faces.

Italian flags waved. Voices called his name with that rolling accent.

“Vai, Luca!”
“Forza, ragazzo!”

And there—near the corner—Lorenzo Paguro’s co-workers and even boss from the docks, still in their work jackets, grinning and clapping for their favourite employee's kid.

Luca stepped out in his deep green robe, hood low over his damp hair. Calm. Measured. The kind of focus that didn’t need to shout. But under the robe, his chest tightened—not from fear, but from the weight of knowing these people weren’t here just for the fight. They were here for him. For their boy.

The crowd’s roar washed over him.

Miriam, seated a few rows from the ring, leaned forward and let out a piercing whistle, followed by a long, playful “Wooooo! My Italian stallion!”

Luca’s mouth twitched—almost a smile—as his eyes briefly found her in the crowd before snapping back to the task ahead. His steps were steady, almost ceremonial, as he approached his corner. 

This wasn’t just another fight. Not tonight. The crowd barely had time to settle before the announcer’s voice cut through again.

“And his opponent… from the Sunset District—TYLER BAKER!”

The cheers for Luca were instantly drowned out by a wall of boos. It wasn’t the polite kind, either—this was the full venom of a crowd that knew exactly who they didn’t like.

And Tyler loved it.

Striding out in a rich purple robe with gold trim, chin high and smirk already plastered across his face, he looked like he’d been waiting all night for this reception. He didn’t shrink from the noise—he leaned into it, cupping his hand to his ear and mouthing, “Come on, louder! That all you got?”

A plastic cup of beer narrowly missed his boots. He just laughed, tossing his arms wide as if the insults were confetti.

A few in the back jeered with creative profanity, but Tyler strutted down the aisle like he was walking a victory parade, the robe catching the light with each arrogant step. At ringside, he paused, pointing at Luca’s cheering section, shaking his head with mock pity before tapping his temple—“He’s not ready.”

Sliding into the ring, Tyler showed a deliberate confidence that dared anyone to think he wasn’t already in control. He cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, and shot Luca a slow, taunting grin.

If Luca’s entrance was about pride and belonging, Tyler’s was pure provocation—and the crowd was already falling for it.

The ref called them forward for the pre-fight check. After that, both boys went back to their corners slipped off their robes in practiced, almost casual motions.

Luca’s lean, pale frame caught the light first—smooth, unscarred, the kind of body that hadn’t been bulked up with weights but still carried the quiet tone of someone who trained every day. Tyler’s, by contrast, showed a warmer light-brown complexion, just as smooth and just as free of bodybuilder bulk. For Riley and Miriam, this was the sweet spot—boyish lines, clean skin, all definition born from speed and repetition rather than raw size.

It was, in its own strange way, a shared vulnerability before the violence. No padding, no armor, just skin, sweat, and the knowledge that in minutes, those same bodies would be marked with bruises, welts, and crimson.

Even Miriam, Luca’s devoted cheerleader, couldn’t help but give a reluctant mental nod to Tyler. For all his smugness and the venom he inspired from the stands, his body told its own truth—he did train, and he did take this seriously.

Standing opposite each other, the contrast was striking to the naked eye: Luca’s almost marble-white skin, calm and unreadable, against Tyler’s light-brown sheen, restless with coiled energy. It was as if the bout had already begun in the silent way they stood there, each color and posture a challenge to the other. The ref gave them each a quick glance before nodding to the corner. Mouthguards went in—Luca’s quiet and methodical, Tyler’s with a sharp snap as if sealing a promise. Then, Luca brought his gloved hand up and made the sign of the cross over his chest and forehead, eyes shut for a heartbeat of focus. Tyler answered not with piety, but with a smirk and a loud, deliberate pound of his gloves together—bang—the sound echoing off the walls like a taunt.

ROUND 1

From Miriam’s place at the front of the crowd, the bell was almost drowned out by her own pulse. Her eyes locked on the ring, but in her mind there was this flicker of awareness—an uncomfortable one—that she wasn’t supposed to enjoy this this much.

She knew.
She knew these boys weren’t old enough to buy a beer, knew that every jab and hook carried the risk of real damage, knew that Ercole, for all his flashy smile and crowd-working flair, wasn’t exactly the guardian angel of adolescent fighter safety.

But she also knew where these boys came from. Luca, the dockworker’s kid, the quiet one who’d carved discipline out of shyness. Tyler, the brash street-slicker with too much attitude and enough skill to back it up. Neither was dragged here—they chose this. They put their well-being on the line every time the bell rang, and tonight they were doing it under the eyes of hundreds.

And God help her, they looked good doing it.

The ropes framed them like a photograph: Luca’s pale skin catching the overhead light, smooth and steady, his chest rising and falling slow; Tyler’s warm light-brown tone gleaming with an early sheen, his body just as lean and sharp, but moving with a restless bounce. Every step, every faint twitch of a shoulder muscle, every flicker of glove felt impossibly heightened through her gaze.

The crowd noise bled out around her—it was just these two, circling, closing in. The way Luca’s foot slid forward. The way Tyler’s eyes tracked him like prey. The first jab was thrown and landed like a spark, and Miriam realized she’d been holding her breath since the bell.

The moment they closed the distance, it was obvious—this wasn’t just a match, it was personal.

Luca’s jab snapped out first, not testing, but stinging, forcing Tyler’s head back just enough to earn a grunt. Tyler answered with a hook that Luca barely slipped, the leather grazing the side of his face. Even with the mouthguards in, the low, muffled growls between them told the story.

"Mmf... you’re mine tonight," Tyler’s voice, thick with challenge, bled through the guard.

"Come get me then," Luca’s muffled reply came right before he dug a shot into Tyler’s ribs.

Every exchange had an edge to it—no feeling-out period, no polite circling. They both knew each other’s rhythm from past bouts and sparring; now, they were tearing into those patterns to hurt the other, not just win. Gloves clashed, heads moved, sweat already starting to bead at their temples under the bright lights.

Tyler pressed forward, a grin showing under the mouthpiece as he ripped a body hook that made Luca’s back arch slightly. Luca answered with a sharp one-two to Tyler’s face, snapping his head sideways. The crowd roared, sensing the grudge—two young fighters who didn’t just want the victory, they wanted the other humiliated.

Their eyes never left each other, and in that stare was the promise: This ends my way.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Chapter Text

ROUND 3

The bell cracked through the arena, sharp and urgent. Luca and Tyler surged from their stools like twin storm fronts meeting in the middle. No testing jabs now — this was personal.

Gloves collided with forearms, temple, ribs. Their breaths came hard through mouthguards, words mangled but meanings unmistakable.
“Ghh-off me—”
“—gonna put you down, twerp—”

Luca’s eyes narrowed, his lip split and darkened. Tyler’s left cheek was already swelling, a red welt creeping under the eye. They circled with a predator’s rhythm — no wasted steps, only violent purpose.

Tyler pressed forward, digging to the body, his hooks low and mean, each one meant to sap Luca’s legs. Luca answered with sharp combinations upstairs, fists smacking into the purple-trimmed gloves guarding Tyler’s face. The crowd roared louder with every clean shot.

From her seat just behind the press row, Miriam leaned forward, elbows on her knees. She could see every muscle flex, every bead of sweat flick into the lights. She wasn’t cheering — not exactly — but her gaze lingered on the sheer physicality of it: two young bodies honed for speed and power, colliding again and again. It was brutal, yes, but there was something magnetic in watching them refuse to yield.

Tyler’s frustration leaked through in heavier swings, his grunts sharper, angrier. Luca caught one glove on his forearm and shot back a jab that snapped Tyler’s head a fraction — not a knockout blow, but enough to earn a gasp from the crowd.

The final seconds ticked away with both boys still locked in their hateful dance, neither giving the other the satisfaction of stumbling. When the bell rang, they didn’t separate right away — the ref had to step in and shove them back to their corners, both still glaring like Round 4 couldn’t come fast enough.

The bell rings, both fighters head to their corners.

In Luca’s corner, Giulia is right there on the apron, leaning in, eyes fierce.
“Breathe, Luca, breathe! You’re doing fine—keep moving your feet!” she fires off, her voice full of fight for a girl half the size of her fighter. Luca leans forward, sweat dripping, gulping air. Alberto works quick, pressing a dripping ice sponge to the back of Luca’s head, sliding it down over his shoulders and chest, then back up along the spine. He dabs at Luca’s temple, then splashes cold water into the bucket and wrings the sponge again, every motion quick and rough.

Across the ring, Tyler sits on his stool like a smug king on a throne. His purple robe draped over the stool behind him, his cornermen work with calm precision—one holds an ice-filled towel to his jaw, another wipes the sweat from his chest and shoulders, the third offers a sip of water. Tyler’s scowl never fades, but there’s an air of self-satisfaction in the way he lets them fuss over him, like the boos from the crowd are part of his royal tribute.

Ten seconds. Both corners give their last words, the fighters rise.

ROUND 4

The bell clangs, and Tyler surges forward like a storm finally unleashed. He’s had enough of playing games — tonight’s the night he sends one of the Italian-American community’s little golden boys tumbling face-first into the canvas. He pounds away at Luca’s guard, heavy, thudding blows that make the crowd wince. Then, with a savage left hook, he catches Luca clean on the temple.

The smaller boy crumples forward, arms limp for a moment before he sprawls on the mat. The roar of the crowd, mostly from the dock guys, turns into gasps, and some boos from those who've seen Tyler before.

The referee starts counting. Tyler grins through his mouthguard, chest heaving. "Gotcha, baby face. This is in the bag."

“…Six… Seven…”

And then, impossibly, the count stops.

Tyler turns around, his eyes widen.

Luca is pushing himself up — one glove planted on the mat, sweat dripping from his chin. His legs are trembling, but he’s on his feet before the ref can say “Ten.”

The crowd explodes. Tyler’s grin turns into a furious snarl. "The little Italian bastard got up."

The crowd noise swelled, but over it all came Miriam’s voice, sharp and clear like a starter’s pistol.

"Come on, Luca! Get him!" she shouted, practically bouncing out of her seat.

Around her, the dock guys were on their feet, fists pumping, faces red from excitement and maybe a few too many beers.

"Don’t you quit, kid!" one bellowed.
"Hit him in the ribs! Drop him!" another roared.
"Make him eat that mouthguard!"

Their voices melded into a chaotic chorus, all of it flooding Luca’s ears as he shook the stars from his vision, chest heaving. He could feel the fight pulling him back in—this wasn’t over, not by a long shot.

Tyler drove forward like someone possessed, fists hammering into Luca’s guard and slipping through to rattle his head.
A hard left to the jaw—Luca stumbled.
A crushing right to the body—Luca’s knees dipped.

Each time, Tyler smelled the finish. Each time, he pressed in to seal it. And each time, Luca clung to the ropes like they were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

The crowd gasped, roared, cursed—it was like watching someone try to chop down a tree that refused to fall. Tyler’s expression hardened into disbelief. Sweat dripped from his brow as he muttered between clenched teeth.

No matter what he threw—hooks, crosses, body shots—the Blasian menace just could not keep this stubborn Italian boy on the canvas for good. Luca’s gloves would lift, his legs would sway, but his eyes stayed locked forward, defiant.

The bell blared, signaling the end of Round 4, and both fighters staggered back to their corners like battered gladiators.

Giulia was instantly at Luca’s side, roughly but expertly pressing a wet, cold sponge to his temples and down his neck. “You’re still with me? Still standing?” she barked, but her eyes were sharp with encouragement. Luca’s chest heaved, sweat and water dripping down, but he managed a nod, stubborn pride etched into every line of his face.

Alberto wiped the sweat from Luca’s shoulders and back with a damp towel, then dabbed at a forming welt near his eye. “Breathe, amico,” he said, gritting his teeth along with Luca’s effort. “Make him come to you… then hit back.”

Across the ring, Tyler was on his stool, red-faced, furious, and fuming. His cornermen fussed over him with cold water-filled sponges and wet towels, pressing against his jaw and cheeks, smoothing the sweat from his chest and shoulders. Tyler scowled through the mouthguard, muttering threats at Luca, but even with their attention, his frustration was clear.

The seconds ticked down. Giulia leaned close again, whispering, “Five more minutes of this. You can do it.” Luca nodded, mouthguard snapping into place, hands up, eyes blazing, ready for Round 5.

The bell would signal the final clash.

ROUND 5, THE FINAL ROUND

The bell rang and the final round exploded into motion. Both boys surged forward, gloves a blur, sweat flying, skin gleaming under the harsh lights. Every punch landed with a wet, stinging thud—left hooks to the jaw, uppercuts snapping heads backward, body blows that rattled ribs. Blood spattered across forearms, dripping onto the canvas, onto the judges’ tables, even flicking onto a visibly irate Ercole Visconti at ringside.

Tyler roared through his mouthguard, desperate, wild, trying everything in his arsenal to finally put the stubborn Italian down. Luca’s defenses were sharp, precise, refusing to crumble. Every time Tyler thought he’d found an opening, Luca’s arms blocked or deflected, his own fists snapping back in counterattack.

The crowd was a frenzy, Miriam and Riley shrieking in exhilaration, Elio covering his eyes, Miguel watching from the hallway, the dock guys hooting and stomping. Sweat mixed with blood, the scent of leather and iron filling the air. It was chaos, a ballet of brutality, and neither boy gave an inch.

Five brutal minutes passed in what felt like an eternity. Every blow had been thrown, every strategy tested. Then the bell finally rang.

Both fighters swayed, trembling, dripping from every pore. They collapsed toward each other in the center of the ring, chests heaving, gloves still clinched as if expecting another round. Luca’s eyes were glazed with exhaustion, his body tired but undefeated. Tyler lay flat on the canvas, staring up at the lights, finally forced to confront it: the supposed “baby-faced twerp” had lasted every brutal second. He hadn’t gone down for good.

The referee moved in, calling the match, but for the fighters and the crowd, the moment hung in the air like the last note of a savage symphony — a symphony of sweat, blood, and unbreakable will.

The corner teams swooped in, hauling the two boys to safety. Luca sagged against Giulia and Alberto, chest heaving, sweat and blood dripping from his brow, but a triumphant spark still shining in his eyes. Miriam couldn’t hold back any longer—tears ran freely down her cheeks as she clutched her hands to her chest.

Chapter Text

The Southern California sunlight streamed through the slatted blinds of the modest office, dust motes dancing lazily in the warm morning glow. Lucius Best leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest. Beside him, Joe Gardner, coach and part-time jazz teacher, flipped through a notebook filled with scribbled fight notes and training logs, humming a soft jazz riff under his breath.

The office door opened, and Robaire Simmons strolled in, all teenage charm and easy confidence. Lucius raised an eyebrow at the sight of the seventeen-year-old, frontman energy radiating off him even in jeans and a casual tee.

“Sorry I’m late,” Robaire said, grinning. “Stacy’s been on me all morning. I told her, ‘I love you, sweety, but right now I got some work to do… and it doesn’t involve smashing some faces in the ring.’”

Lucius let out a short laugh but quickly waved a hand, cutting him off. “Kid, that’s cute and all, but we’ve got actual business. And that business involves some street kids I saw last night.”

Robaire’s eyes lit up with curiosity as Lucius slid two photographs across the desk. One showed Miguel Rivera, the young Mexican fighter from the Mission District, eyes locked with an unseen opponent, and a fierce intensity radiating from every line of his body. The other showed Luca Paguro, his face still damp from the fight with Tyler, hair plastered to his forehead, a small smear of blood on his cheek, but the calm, unbroken defiance in his stance impossible to ignore.

“Street kids?” Robaire asked, leaning forward to inspect the images more closely. “You mean… these guys? They’re tough?”

“They’re more than tough,” Lucius said, voice low but serious. “Miguel Rivera — that Mexican boy — has the fire, the technique, the crowd knows him already. Luca Paguro — the Italian kid — lost by decision, but he gave every ounce he had and still walked out with the crowd on his side. And between the two of them… I’m torn.”

Robaire tilted his head, chewing on the edge of his lower lip, the spark of intrigue growing. “So what are you thinking, Lucius? One of these kids could be my next contender, my big 100th match?”

Lucius leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Exactly. But it’s not just about skill. It’s about heart. About who can handle the pressure, the spotlight, and the fights that actually matter.”

Joe Gardner hummed again from his side, raising an eyebrow. “And don’t forget, kid, we’re not talking music now. This is blood, sweat, and ringside drama.”

Robaire chuckled, brushing back his hair. “I get it. Show me what you see in them. I want the full picture. Give me the story, not just the stats.”

Lucius nodded. “Then let’s start with last night. Double feature. Miguel Rivera vs. Dash Parr. Then Luca Paguro vs. Tyler Baker. Both fights were brutal, beautiful… and honest. You dig?.”

As Lucius began recounting the matches, Robaire leaned back, already imagining the sparks flying in the ring, eyes alight with the hunger for competition, the thrill of scouting raw talent that could one day stand on the same canvas as him.

Lucius leaned back, letting the memories of last night play out in his mind as he recounted each punch, each fall, each desperate rise of the fighters. “Rivera, he’s raw fire. Fast hands, sharp reflexes, knows how to read a fight. Crowd loved him—he wins with heart, not just strength. Then Paguro, that Italian kid… he lost by decision, but damn, the way he stood through everything Tyler threw at him? That’s something you can’t teach. He’s more than just a white boy to bash, Robaire. There’s… depth there. A kind of instinct your typical opponent hasn’t had.”

Robaire leaned forward, eyes narrowing, a thoughtful smirk forming. “I like him,” he said slowly, tracing the line of Luca’s jaw in the photo. “They call him ‘The Italian Barracuda.’ Makes him sound slippery, lethal… I like that. But Rivera’s got fire too. Can’t ignore him.”

Lucius nodded. “Exactly. And if you’re serious about picking the next contender, the best way to figure out who’s got it is to see them fight each other. Let them settle it in the ring.”

Robaire raised an eyebrow. “And who’s promoting these kids?”

Lucius hesitated, a faint frown crossing his face. “Ercole Visconti. Sketchy guy. He’s… not exactly my style of handling young fighters.”

Robaire laughed, the sound rich and confident, not a hint of worry. “Ha! Teen girls watch me punch other boys to a bloody pulp in stadiums across the country. What makes dealing with this Don Corleone wannabe any different? Consider it a challenge.”

Lucius rubbed the back of his neck, a little embarrassed but impressed by Robaire’s audacity. “Well… then you’re officially on the hook. If we make this happen, it’s going to be interesting.”

Robaire leaned back, a gleam in his eye. “Interesting? Lucius, it’ll be electric.”

The three of them sat in the office, eyes on the photos, minds spinning with possibilities. Between the two scrappy underdogs, the unpredictable promoter, and Robaire’s ambition, something big was quietly taking shape. Something that could shake the city’s junior boxing scene to its core.

Joe leaned back, folding his arms. “So basically… we pit them against each other. That decides your hundredth fight before you turn eighteen, yeah?”

Robaire grinned, rolling his shoulders loose. “That’s the plan. Whoever comes out on top gets to dance with the best in youth boxing.”

He started pacing, ideas spilling out of him. “If it’s Luca, man, that’s a story. Undefeated champ versus the scrappy underdog—straight outta Rocky. The movie’s only two years old, people’ll eat that up. I’d be Apollo, he’d be Balboa. That’s box office.”

Joe and Lucius traded a look, concern flickering between them. Joe cleared his throat. “You don’t think… the racial thing’s gonna play weird? You’re black, he’s white, some folks might—”

Robaire cut him off with a wave of the hand. “Nah. I think we’re past that now. You seen the crowds—girls of every color come to watch me fight. They don’t see a black kid, they see me. I’m giving somebody a shot, that’s all. If it’s Luca, great. If it’s the Mexican kid, same deal. Doesn’t matter either way.”

He smirked, bouncing on his heels like he was already under the lights. “Point is—whoever wins gets a chance to make history with me. And I plan on making my hundredth something they’ll talk about for years.”

TO BE CONTINUED.

Chapter Text

The gym was alive with the sound of leather smacking against leather, the rhythmic thump of fists hitting the heavy bag echoing off the walls. Caleb’s sweat-slicked arms moved like pistons, driving hooks and straights with an intensity that made even the older fighters pause and watch.

From the corner, Carl Fredricksen leaned against his cane, eyes sharp under his thick brows. The old coach’s voice cut through the noise like gravel grinding against steel.
“Kid, I don’t need another meathead swinging just ‘cause he’s mad. What makes you snap? Why do you fight? Answer me.”

Caleb kept punching, but his jaw clenched. For a moment he didn’t respond, then his fists slowed and stilled. He leaned his forehead against the bag, exhaling hard.

“…I remember,” Caleb muttered, and his mind slipped back.

It wasn’t long ago. A chill evening outside the synagogue, the glow of the menorah flickering inside the windows. A group of younger kids were heading out after evening study, laughing about nothing in particular—until a shadow stumbled out from the street.

A man. Not much older than his twenties, wild eyes, slurring rage, and a shirt with Vanessa Redgrave’s face stretched across the fabric and some buttons on his jacket, Caleb swore one of them had the hammer and sickle on it and another had the Black Panther symbol, either way, signs this guy is some political radical. His words spat venom, hateful vibes, directed square at the children.

Caleb had been walking home, gym bag over his shoulder. He saw red. Before the thug could lay a hand on anyone, Caleb was on him.

It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t pretty. It was fists, elbows, and pure instinct. The man went down hard on the sidewalk, clutching his ribs, wheezing for breath as the kids screamed and scrambled behind the synagogue gates.

"I DON'T CARE WHAT GRIEF YOU HAVE OVER THE STATE OF ISRAEL OR HOW EVIL THE WEST APPARENTLY IS, IT'S NO EXCUSE TO HARM THESE INNOCENT KIDS!!!"

Caleb stood over him, fists shaking, daring him to move again.

He didn’t. he ran away like anyone at this boy's mercy would.

"Yeah, run away, 'Power to the People' my behind!."

Later that night, inside the sanctuary durring prayer, the Rabbi asked Caleb to come by his side. The man’s voice was calm, eyes heavy with both worry and pride.

“This son of ours stood in the way of danger for our people,” the Rabbi said, resting a hand on Caleb’s shoulder. “That’s no small thing. He may be young, but what he did… it reminds us of the Golem. A creature of clay, built to protect our community in times of fear.”

Caleb lowered his head, almost ashamed of the violence, but the Rabbi shook it gently. “Protection has its cost, yes. But his heart is in the right place.”

The memory faded. Caleb blinked back in the gym, sweat rolling down his face, gloves hanging loose at his sides. He looked at Carl.

“I fight because I have to protect people,” Caleb said simply. “Not just me. My friends, my family, my community. Ercole might sell me as some brute heel, but that’s not who I am.”

Carl squinted, then smirked, tapping his cane on the floor.
“Hmph. Good enough answer. Just make sure you remember it when you’re in the ring, kid. A Golem doesn’t swing wild—it swings with purpose.”

Caleb nodded once, and with renewed focus, turned back to the bag.

As the heavy bag swayed from Caleb’s last punch, he leaned on it, sweat dripping down his jaw. The gym felt quiet, only the hum of the old lights above breaking the silence. Coach Carl had moved on to muttering at some other kids, leaving Caleb with his thoughts.

At the far side of the gym, Elio Solis crouched low, scrubbing a patch of the old floorboards with a rag and bucket. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but Caleb’s voice carried when he spoke to Carl about the synagogue, the thug, the Rabbi’s words. The story clung to Elio.

He wiped his hands on his shirt, hesitated, then walked over.
“Hey,” Elio started softly, almost nervous. “I heard… what you said. About the synagogue. About protecting people.”

Caleb turned, brow furrowed, still keyed up from the memory. “Yeah? What about it?”

Elio shifted, unsure of himself. “I didn’t think you were like that. Ercole makes you sound like… like you’re just some wrecking machine. A heel. But that’s not what I just heard.”

Caleb’s eyes narrowed, suspicious at first, but he saw no mockery in Elio’s face—only curiosity, maybe even respect. He let out a slow breath.
“Ercole can say what he wants. To my people, I’m not some brute. I fight so no one else has to.”

Elio nodded, chewing on his lip. His thoughts wandered to Miguel—how Miguel had always been the one shielding him, even when he didn’t ask for it. He glanced at Caleb, a strange weight pressing on him. “That’s… that’s kinda like Miguel. He protects me. Always has. But… sometimes I think… what if he wasn’t there? Or worse, what if he… didn’t make it out of the ring one day?”

The words surprised even Elio. He hadn’t said them out loud before. His chest tightened.

Caleb’s gaze softened. He leaned back against the bag, arms crossed. “Then maybe it’d be up to you. Or someone else who cares enough to step up. That’s what being a protector is. You don’t think about if you’re ready. You just do it.”

Elio looked down at his scuffed shoes, then back at Caleb. For the first time, he didn’t see him as Ercole’s brute fighter. He saw him as something closer to what the Rabbi had said: a golem, a guardian born out of necessity.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward—it was heavy, meaningful. And in that space, Elio began to realize he wasn’t as alone in the gym as he sometimes felt.

Caleb watched Elio mop the sweat-stained floor, the boy’s eyes flicking up every so often, curious and restless. Caleb finally gets an idea and calls him over, tossing a pair of small, worn gloves at his feet and headgear to boot.

“C’mon, kid. Let’s see what you got.”

Elio hesitates as he climbs into the ring, knowing Caleb’s long reach and towering stance. “But... you’re taller than me.”

“That’s the point,” Caleb answers, smirking but not unkind. “If you can handle someone bigger, you’ll be ready for anyone.”

He crouches low, tapping his gloves against Elio’s to start. The first exchanges are awkward—Elio’s swings are clumsy, his footing too wide, his balance shaky. But Caleb doesn’t laugh. Instead, he adjusts him with quick taps and quiet corrections: “Tighter stance. Hands up. Don’t watch my gloves—watch my chest.”

Elio, frustrated but determined, throws himself back in. Each time Caleb lands a light tap against his headgear or chest, Elio growls under his breath and comes back faster, sharper. Slowly, his movements begin to smooth out.

“You’re not bad,” Caleb admits, letting the boy get a clean shot to his ribs. He staggers back a little, exaggerating the impact just to light Elio’s grin. “Not bad at all.”

For Caleb, it’s more than a sparring session—it’s a test. He can already see Elio carrying the same spark Miguel has, that fierce drive to stand tall no matter the odds. And deep down, he can’t help thinking: If Miguel weren’t here, this kid might need someone like me in his corner.

Caleb’s smirk faded, replaced by a hard, focused expression. “Alright, kid. Time to see if you’ve got some fight in you.”

Elio’s stomach twisted. He had expected fun, maybe a few light jabs—but now Caleb’s eyes bore into him, and the gym seemed to shrink around them.

“Keep your guard up. Move. Don’t let me corner you,” Caleb barked, circling. Each step of Caleb’s heavy boots echoed like a drumbeat of intimidation.

Elio tried to dodge, duck, and weave, but Caleb’s reach and experience were overwhelming. A jab to his ribs made him grunt, a push to his shoulder spun him slightly off balance. He stumbled, then caught himself, heart hammering.

“Not bad, not bad!” Caleb encouraged, though his voice carried steel. “Again. Harder this time. Show me you won’t quit.”

Elio’s gloves rose higher, sweat stinging his eyes, muscles trembling. Caleb threw controlled, fast punches, each tap of his gloves pushing Elio to react faster, think quicker. Pain and frustration mixed, and for the first time, Elio felt the real weight of fighting—not just swinging blindly, but moving with strategy and heart.

“You think this is a game?” Caleb barked, stepping in closer. “This is real. If you fold, someone’s going to take advantage. You fight to survive. You fight to protect. You fight to win.”

Elio gritted his teeth and lunged forward, swinging with everything he had. Caleb absorbed the punches, letting him land enough to feel accomplishment, then spun around him, forcing Elio to pivot, dodge, and counter.

By the end, Elio was panting, soaked through with sweat, bruises already forming. But Caleb stepped back, nodded, and ruffled his hair.

“Good. You didn’t quit. That’s the start. That’s all that matters.”

Elio sank to his knees, breathing hard, eyes wide—but there was pride there too. For the first time, he truly understood the kind of grit Miguel brought to every fight—and the kind of courage he might need if Miguel weren’t there to protect him.

"Let me get you some water kid... you could really use some" Caleb said as he picked Elio up by his shoulder walking out of the ring, no longer just strangers in the same building, but like brothers in arms.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Chapter Text

The morning light spilled through the dusty blinds of the small office above the San Francisco building. Luca Paguro adjusted the collar of his green jacket, glancing nervously at Miguel Rivera seated across from him. Both boys had recovered enough from their previous fights to be walking upright, though still sporting the faint purple shadows of past bruises, the badges of their dedication.

Miguel ran a hand through his dark, damp hair, eyes scanning the room. The smell of pens, books and papers clung to everything, grounding him in a reality that was serious and important. Today was not a fight, not yet. Today was the business side of the ring, the in-between stuff.

At the far end of the room, Lucius Best, impeccably dressed despite the casual chaos of the office, shuffled papers and sipped from a chipped mug of bitter coffee. Beside him, Joe Gardner tapped a rhythm on the desk with his pencil, seemingly unconcerned with the tension in the room. Both men had been waiting, patiently, for the arrival of their undefeated teen champion, Robaire Simmons.

“Robaire,” Lucius muttered, glancing at the door as it creaked open. The teen sauntered in, a wide grin on his face, the kind of confidence that came from seventeen years of being undefeated. His afro-capped head bobbed lightly to the jazz that seemed to hum through every inch of the office. “You made it on time. Good.”

Robaire’s eyes flicked to Luca and Miguel, noting the difference immediately. One brown-skinned, fiery-eyed Mexican, the other pale, stoic, almost Mediterranean in his calm demeanor. Both carried themselves with the quiet confidence of boys who had been in the ring enough to know what it meant to be under pressure—and neither looked like they were about to back down.

“Looks like the streets of San Francisco are sending me some interesting talent,” Robaire said, nodding appreciatively. “So, this is who you’ve been talking about?”

Miguel gave a small, respectful nod. Luca’s hands were folded neatly in front of him, expression guarded, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of excitement.

Lucius leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “These two have already made a name for themselves locally, but we’re here to set up something bigger. Something that matters.” He glanced at Joe, who merely tapped his pencil again, his gaze thoughtful.

Robaire’s grin widened. “I like the sound of that.” He leaned forward. “So, tell me exactly what I’m walking into.”

Lucius clicked his tongue. “Double-feature card, local promoters involved” He paused, his expression tightening. “Ercole Visconti.”

The name hit the boys immediately. Miguel tensed, memories of the sleazy promoter with his shady grin flashing in his mind. Luca’s jaw stiffened. Robaire’s however was indifferent. He had seen a lot in his undefeated career, a lot of slick, arrogant men trying to make a buck off boys his age, seemed no different.

"Yeah, I know that guy too" he said reassuring to the boys before turning back to his men, "The guy who’s been running those matches in warehouses, the one with the… well, you know, the reputation, right?”

Lucius shook his head. “Not kidding. That’s the obstacle. He’s running these local boys, and he expects to profit, of course. He’s… a different breed of promoter than us.”

Joe adjusted his glasses, leaning over the desk. “Different breed meaning unethical, yes. But these boys...” he gestured to Miguel and Luca, “...they’re worth it. They’ve got heart, drive, and the kind of raw skill you don’t see in organized circuits.”

Miguel exchanged a glance with Luca. Despite being from different worlds—different cultures, different neighborhoods—they shared a similar understanding: this wasn’t just a fight, it was a proving ground. And now, it wasn’t just the two of them watching; it was a well-oiled machine of adult eyes, weighing, measuring, trying to calculate outcomes.

Robaire leaned back, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the desk. “So, what exactly are we proposing? A match between these two street kids? Who controls the cards?”

Lucius looked at him steadily. “We control it. But Visconti… well, he’ll want his cut. And he’ll expect to have a say in how it’s promoted. He’s… protective of his local fighters.”

Tyler Baker, Dash Parr, Caleb Getman, Bryce Gilmer... Ercole had his roster, and now these two, Miguel and Luca, were the newest recruits. But Lucius had a plan. He had seen the boys fight, and he knew the potential. Robaire’s championship match, planned for the Cow Palace just days before his eighteenth birthday, could be the perfect stage for the winner.

Robaire leaned forward, elbows on the desk, grin returning. “Alright. I like the idea of a scrappy underdog going up against an established name. Builds drama. Builds hype. And these two? I don’t care who wins. Either way, it’s gonna sell.”

Luca shifted slightly, glancing at Miguel. Miguel gave a small shrug, a silent agreement that whatever came next, they were in it together, competitors, yes, but fighters who understood the stakes.

Lucius added, “We need Ercole on board, at least enough to sanction the match. He’ll have demands, but we make sure his involvement doesn’t compromise the boys. It’s delicate. And you, Robaire, you need to know what you’re walking into.”

Robaire waved a hand dismissively. “Delicate? That’s life. I’ve been undefeated this long because I can handle pressure. Let him try to scare me off. Doesn’t work that way.”

Miguel, who rarely spoke in these adult-laden meetings, finally leaned forward. “So… if this happens, we’re really going to fight each other? Not just for local fights, but for… bigger?”

Robaire smirked. “Exactly. Winner gets a shot at the big leagues, the kind of exposure you can’t buy. And the loser… well, you’ll still have street cred, plus you’re young enough to bounce back.”

Luca’s hands tightened into fists, not in anger but in anticipation. “And Visconti?”

Lucius exhaled sharply. “We navigate him carefully. Keep him thinking he’s in charge, while we actually control the match setup, the timing, the promotions. It’s a delicate dance—but one worth taking.”

Robaire leaned back, eyes glinting. “Then it’s settled. Let’s make this happen. I want to see these two young street warriors in the ring. Miguel Rivera and Luca Paguro—two fighters from San Francisco, fighting their way to something bigger. And Ercole… he’ll just have to play along.”

Miguel and Luca exchanged a glance, the weight of the plan settling in. They weren’t just fighting for themselves anymore... they were fighting for recognition, for a chance to step onto a bigger stage, and for the promise that the streets that raised them could produce something truly extraordinary.

Outside the office window, the city hummed with the sounds of late 1978, subways rattling beneath, cars honking, a world moving on. Inside, in a room thick with anticipation, strategy, and tension, two boys sat quietly, readying themselves for a future neither of them could yet fully see, but both were determined to seize.

And somewhere in the back of their minds, the shadow of Ercole Visconti loomed, unaware that his local chess pieces were about to be moved on a national stage, by the very fighters he thought he controlled.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Chapter Text

The bell clanged inside Carl’s Gym, echoing off the old brick walls like a war drums. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting stripes across the worn canvas of the ring. Sweat and the faint tang of chalk hung in the air, a sparring match between two boys was taking place, but beyond the ring, four other boys gathered around the heavy bag in the far corner.

Caleb was perched on the edge of a wooden bench, gloves dangling around his neck, sweat dripping down his temple from his last round of sparring. Tyler leaned against the bag like it was his personal throne, arms crossed, chewing on a stick of gum loud enough to make the others want to smack him. Dash, still in his red and black shorts, bounced a little on the balls of his feet (because sitting still was never in his vocabulary). And Bryce, of course, lounged against the wall in his baggy hoodie, like the world was just one big comedy show put on for him.

“Alright,” Tyler said, clapping his hands together and grinning. “So… who’s got the guts to put their money where their mouth is? Luca versus Miguel. Main event, no running, no excuses. Twelve rounds, baby.”

Caleb shook his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. “You’re acting like it’s Ali-Frazier."

Tyler shrugged, spreading his arms. “Hey, This? This is history in the making, two of our fight mates, typical working class boys, going up against each other for a chance to dance with a beast like Robaire.”

Dash zipped up to the bench and sat next to Caleb, eyes wide. “So who do you think wins? Luca’s fast, but Miguel’s got, like, that power punch thing going for him, right? Plus-” He started shadowboxing like an overexcited kid until Caleb put a hand on his forehead to hold him still.

“Chill,” Caleb said, pushing him back with a laugh. “If you want my opinion…” He pulled away his gloves, putting them onto the bench. “I’m putting my cash on Luca.”

Tyler raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? The little Italian boy I beat by descision? No way. Miguel’s been training like a beast. He’s got those body shots down to a science. Luca? He’s quick, sure, but quick don’t save you when you eat a left hook to the ribs.”

"You won by descision, but you never knocked him down." Caleb retorted before continuing. “Speed beats power if you know how to use it,” He leaned forward. His tone sharpened with confidence, like a coach breaking down tape. “And Luca fights smart. He doesn’t swing wild. He picks his shots. He’s got heart... and that matters more than some haymaker.”

Dash nodded vigorously like Caleb had just recited gospel. “Yeah! Heart! Heart always wins in movies!”

Bryce laughed, low and sharp, pulling his hoodie tighter. “Life ain't like the movies." He shook his head, smirking. “This is just gon' be a broke-ass white boy fighting a broke-ass Mexican boy. Both fight pretty good for their status, don't get me wrong, I even had the prevledge of fighting white boy Luca, but they're still poor boys, That’s it. I ain’t betting. I’m just here for the clash of skins.”

"Okay Projects Boy." Tyler said pointing out Bryce's irony in his comment. Bryce went silent, knowing even the Blasian Menace had a point. "Touché..." he replied back.

He continued “But still, I’m honest,” Bryce fired back. “Both of these dudes got something to prove, and both of ‘em too probably too braindead from fighting to quit. You know what that means? It’s gonna be messy. Entertaining? Hell yeah. But picking a winner?” He shrugged. “Nah.”

Caleb leaned back, crossing his arms. “I’m telling you, Luca’s gonna take it. He’s got that underdog energy.”

“Underdog energy don’t hit like Miguel’s hooks,” Tyler said, pulling a crumpled bill from his pocket. “Fifty says Miguel drops him before round eight.”

Dash’s eyes lit up. “Ooooh! Can I bet? Can I bet?!”

“No” Caleb and Tyler said in unison. "Best you save that for comic books, nerd" Caleb added.

Tyler held out the fifty, looking at Caleb. “You in or what?”

Caleb pulled his own roll of bills from his duffel bag and peeled off the same amount without hesitation. He slapped it into Tyler’s hand with a grin. “You’re on. Luca’s going the distance.”

Bryce whistled. “Man, y’all acting like this ain’t two teenagers fighting in front of some rich folks for the chance to fight that Canadian pretty boy before he turns adult."

"And glory!” Dash corrected, pumping his fist.

“...and stitches,” Bryce shot back.

The heavy bag swung slightly as Tyler gave it a lazy push, like it was standing in for Luca or Miguel. His grin widened. “Alright then. Bet’s on. Hope your boy likes losing, Caleb.”

Caleb smirked, calm and confident. “We’ll see.”

In the corner, Dash shadowboxed again, chanting under his breath: “Fight of the century! Fight of the century!”

Carl eventually came in, being the one adult in the room. "Alright punks, break's over, Caleb, Tyler, get your asses back in the sparring ring, Dash, Bryce, hit the showers!"

They all dispersed, anticipating the clash of their princes to come.

Later that night at the Andersen home.

The golden glow of a hanging lamp filled the Andersen family dining room, giving everything that slight sepia tone Riley always associated with home. The table was set in classic Midwest fashion: a roast chicken in the center, green beans in a Pyrex dish, and mashed potatoes scooped into a bowl that had been in the family since her grandparents’ wedding. Her dad, Bill, sat at the head of the table with his usual “end of the day tired” smile, while Jill moved between the stove and the table with an apron tied over her polyester blouse.

“So,” Bill said as he carved the chicken with that knife he only brought out for ‘real meals.’ “Did you hear about the new mall opening next month? Gonna have an Orange Julius. That’s progress.”

Jill smirked as she sat down. “Progress? Bill, it’s a mall. It’s the same ten stores every time.”

“It’s better than driving thirty minutes just for decent shoes,” Bill countered, forking a piece of chicken onto Riley’s plate. “And they’ve got that new arcade in there—what’s it called, Riley? Pixel Palace?”

“Pixel Palace, yeah,” Riley said, forcing a smile. She was stabbing her potatoes a little too aggressively, and Miriam, sitting next to her, noticed.

“Arcade sounds groovy,” Miriam said, trying to keep the mood light. “Might beat that bowling alley your dad’s obsessed with.”

“Don’t knock bowling,” Bill said, pointing at her with his fork. “Bowling’s timeless.”

Riley rolled her eyes. “Bowling’s boring.”

“Boring?!” Bill looked like someone had insulted his favorite Beatles record. “Bowling’s a social experience.”

“Yeah, because nothing says ‘social’ like smelly shoes and polyester shirts,” Jill teased, sipping her iced tea.

The parents laughed, but Riley and Miriam weren’t laughing. Not really. They were too busy throwing each other looks, those looks. The kind where you know there’s an elephant in the room and nobody else notices because they’re talking about malls and bowling leagues.

“Riley,” Jill said after a moment, noticing her daughter hadn’t said much. “You’re awfully quiet tonight. Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Riley said quickly, way too quickly. “Totally. Just… thinking.”

“Thinking about what?” Bill asked.

“School,” Riley said, the first excuse that popped into her head. “Got a math test coming up.”

That seemed to satisfy them. For now. The conversation drifted back to suburban things, gas prices, whether or not the neighbor’s new Chevy Vega was a lemon... but Riley wasn’t there. She was in another world, one where the two most important guys in her life were about to punch each other in front of everyone.

When dessert came out—Jell-O with canned fruit, because of course it was, Riley and Miriam finally got a moment alone in the kitchen as they “helped” with dishes.

“This is bad,” Riley whispered, scrubbing a plate like her life depended on it.

“Real bad,” Miriam muttered, stacking cups. “What happens when one of them loses? Or worse—what if they really hurt each other?”

“They won’t,” Riley said, but even as she said it, she didn’t believe it. “They… they respect each other. Right?”

Miriam hesitated. “I think so. But Luca’s been training like crazy, and Miguel—he’s got something to prove.”

Riley stared down at the sink. “Yeah. To me.”

Miriam frowned, softening. “Riles… it’s not your fault.”

“Feels like it is,” Riley whispered. “Like… if Miguel beats Luca, you’re gonna hate me. And if Luca beats Miguel…”

“…you’re gonna hate me,” Miriam finished for her.

The two girls just stood there for a second, hands wet, soap dripping, like the whole world was pressing in on this tiny little kitchen. Then Miriam sighed, bumping Riley with her shoulder.

“Guess we’re both dating stubborn idiots, huh?”

Riley managed a laugh. “Yeah. The worst kind.”

They went back to washing dishes in silence, both pretending this was normal—just two girls cleaning up after dinner—while outside, somewhere across town, two boys were training to step into a ring and change their fates.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun spilled golden light across the cracked blacktop of the neighborhood street, shimmering against the heat waves rising from the asphalt. Miguel tightened the thick steel chain across his chest, the weight of the links biting into his shoulders. He grunted as he leaned forward, planting his boots firmly on the ground, his legs coiled like springs.

The old Chevy behind him—a beast of rust and faded blue paint—sat stubbornly at the foot of the hill. It was Elio’s late father’s car, stripped down to its bare bones, but it was still heavy enough to break a man if he wasn’t careful.

Miguel spat into his calloused hands, gripped the chain, and took one deep breath. His shirt was long gone, discarded onto the sidewalk. Sweat streamed down his back, cutting slick lines through the dirt on his skin, glistening under the setting sun.

“¡Vamos, Miguel! Hit it harder, brother!” Elio shouted from inside the Chevy, his little fists pumping the air through the open window. The boy’s voice cracked with excitement, high-pitched and pure.

Behind the car, more voices joined in, a chorus of encouragement from the neighborhood. Men in white tank tops leaned against the chain-link fences, holding half-empty beer bottles. Women with rollers in their hair poked their heads out from second-story windows, calling down in Spanish, cheering for their local warrior. Kids sat on the curb, eyes wide, as if watching a hero in the making.

Miguel bent his knees and pulled. At first, nothing happened, the car might as well have been rooted into the ground. Veins bulged across his forearms, his jaw clenched so hard it could crack teeth. His boots scraped against the road, rubber squealing.

“Pull it Miggy! Don't back down!” Elio’s voice pierced through the pounding in Miguel’s ears.

And then... the car budged. A groan of metal and weight echoed down the hill. The neighborhood erupted in cheers. Miguel didn’t stop; he couldn’t. Every ounce of strength screamed out of his muscles as the Chevy lurched forward, inch by inch. His back arched like a bow, his legs trembled, but the car moved.

“¡Eso! ¡Sí, cabrón!” someone yelled from the fence.

The hill stretched ahead like a cruel joke, rising higher and higher, but Miguel’s eyes locked on the top. That was the finish line. That was where he needed to be—not just for himself, but for Elio, for his family, for everyone who told him he’d never be more than another kid from the barrio.

His breath came in sharp bursts, each one sounding like a growl. Sweat dripped from his brow into his eyes, stinging, blinding him, but he didn’t stop. The sound of his heartbeat thundered louder than the cheers. The Chevy rolled slowly but surely up the incline, a symbol of every fight he’d ever been in, every promise he’d ever made.

Finally—finally—the car crested the top of the hill. Miguel collapsed to his knees, chest heaving, arms trembling like overworked steel cables ready to snap. The chain clanged to the pavement beside him.

The crowd roared. Elio jumped out of the car, sprinting to Miguel, wrapping his little arms around his friend’s sweat-soaked neck.

“I knew you could do it!” Elio grinned ear to ear, his voice cracking with pride.

Miguel, breathless, managed a grin of his own. “This fight…” he panted, eyes burning with determination. “Luca… he better be ready.”

And ready the Italian boy was...

The fish market smelled of salt and steel. Luca stood shirtless, sweat dripping down his small frame, his fists taped tight. Before him swung a massive tuna, suspended by chains from a steel hook, glistening under the market’s fluorescent lights.

“Again!” Giulia barked, arms crossed, her fiery hair tied back with a scarf like she was channeling Rosie the Riveter.

Luca snarled and drove his fist into the fish’s ribcage with a wet thwack. The impact shuddered through the chains.

“Good! Harder, Luca!” Giulia clapped, her voice echoing across crates of lemons and garlic braids.

“You wanna let Miguel show you up?” Alberto called from a stack of olive oil boxes, a toothpick in his mouth and mischief in his eyes. “He’s probably out there lifting tractors right now!”

Luca glared, sweat streaking his bruised cheek. He launched another punch, harder this time, the fish swinging violently. Scales burst off like confetti.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Giulia grinned, pumping a fist. “Pretend this tuna called your mama a sea witch!”

Luca didn’t answer. He just kept hitting, over and over, breath hissing like a steam engine, eyes dark and focused. Every strike sprayed tiny droplets of fish oil across the floor. The sound of meat giving under his fists was raw and ugly.

By the time Giulia called for a break, Luca’s knuckles were red and sore, fish guts clinging to the tape. He stood there, chest heaving, as Massimo walked in from the back, wiping his cleaver.

Massimo stared at the wrecked tuna, then at Luca. “You better win,” he rumbled in his thick Italian accent, “because now you buy this fish.”

Giulia laughed, slinging an arm around Luca’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, Papa. He’s gonna make all of his people proud.”

Alberto hopped down from the boxes, pointing at Luca’s fists. “Yeah, as long as those things don’t smell like sushi forever.”

Luca barely heard them. He was still picturing Miguel, standing across the ring, staring him down. And the thought didn’t scare him. It lit a fire in his chest.

They came from two different worlds, two different kitchens, similar prayers before bed. Miguel, the son of the barrio, born under the shadow of the mission bell, pulling steel and sweat uphill with the weight of his people cheering him on. Luca, the boy from the old country’s roots, pounding the sides of a fish until its bones rattled like a drum in Massimo’s market, the scent of salt and brine mixing with ambition.

Two boys, two flags, two tongues—yet the same hunger burning behind their eyes. They weren’t born into silk robes or marble halls; they were born into work, into grit, into the kind of neighborhoods where your dreams get chewed up and spit out unless you fight for ‘em. And that’s what they’re doing—fighting not just each other, but the walls around their lives.

They talk about the legends, Ali, Marciano, Louis, Dempsey, names that sound like monuments. But Miguel and Luca don’t bow to monuments. They don’t see gods in the ring, just men with two fists and a heartbeat, same as them. Besides they only believe in one God... the God as their greater judge.

And when those two boys step into that ring, for twelve rounds under the hot lights, it won’t be hate that throws those punches. It’ll be love... for the dream, for the climb, for the fight to be more than what the world ever told them they could be.

And everyone will be watching, Riley, Miriam, Elio, their families, Carl, the gym boys, Robaire, even that rat Ercole.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Chapter Text

Miguel leaned against the cool chain-link fence, his hands gripping the metal like he was holding on for answers. The afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the schoolyard, and beyond the fence, Riley stood, her books tucked under one arm, her hair catching the breeze.

He didn’t smile this time. His jaw was tight, eyes low. “I don’t know if I can do this, Riley.”

She frowned softly, stepping closer, her fingers curling through the gaps in the fence so their hands were almost touching. “What do you mean?”

He kicked the dirt with the tip of his sneaker, struggling for words. “Luca. The fight. It’s… it’s not like any other match. He’s not just some guy, you know? He’s… a friend.”

Riley tilted her head, reading the weight in his voice. Miguel rarely admitted doubt—especially not about fighting. This wasn’t fear of losing. It was something deeper.

“You two been through a lot,” she said gently. “But this isn’t about hate. It’s just what you both signed up for.”

Miguel shook his head, frustration flickering in his eyes. “Yeah, but when that bell rings… all that goes out the window. I gotta hit him, Riley. And not just a little. Hard. Hurt him if I want to win. And if I don’t—he’s gonna hurt me. That’s what this is. And I keep thinking—what if it changes everything?”

Riley slid her fingers between the wires, closer to him, her voice steady. “Listen to me. You and Luca? You’re solid. A fight won’t break that unless you let it. It’s just twelve rounds. After that, you’re still Miguel. He’s still Luca. And me and Miriam?” She gave a tiny smile. “We’re not going anywhere.”

He finally looked up, meeting her eyes through the fence. Something in his shoulders eased, just a little.

“You really think so?”

“I know so,” she said. “Because the two of you—this isn’t just about fists. It’s about respect. And respect doesn’t disappear because of a fight.”

Miguel breathed out slow, his hands finally relaxing their grip. For the first time all day, the knot in his chest loosened. He didn’t smile, not yet—but the storm in his eyes had calmed.

The bell rang in the distance, and Riley stepped back, adjusting her books. “Just promise me something,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “No matter what happens in that ring… walk out as friends.”

Miguel nodded once, solid and certain. “Yeah. Friends.”

The apartment smelled faintly of tomato sauce and the salty ocean breeze that blew through the half-open window. North Beach was quiet at night, the streetlamps casting long shadows through the curtains, while a distant hum of nightlife buzzed from Columbus Avenue.

Luca stood in his tank top in front of his heavy bag, his skin slick with sweat, his brown curls damp and clinging to his forehead. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of his gloves echoed in the cramped space. His green sweatpants clung to his waist, his bare feet rooted like a fighter refusing to fall. Each punch was a question. Each breath, a prayer.

The door creaked open softly. Miriam slipped inside, wearing a simple blouse and jeans, her hair tied back. She didn’t speak at first—just stood there watching him work out his demons on the leather bag. She could feel the weight on him. The pressure. The doubt. The thought of facing Miguel, the boy who had become his closest friend outside the ring.

“Luca,” she said gently.

He didn’t stop punching. Didn’t look at her. “Can’t stop now,” he muttered between blows, his voice hoarse. Whap-whap-whap. “Tomorrow… tomorrow I gotta prove something. To myself. To everyone.”

Miriam walked closer, arms crossed, watching the bag sway back and forth like a pendulum between them. “You don’t gotta prove you’re the best, Luca,” she said softly. “Not to me. Not to anyone.”

He slowed, finally letting his arms drop. His chest rose and fell like ocean waves, his gloves hanging heavy at his sides. He looked at her then, those deep, stormy eyes betraying the fear he never said out loud.

“What if… what if beating him ruins everything?” he asked, voice low. “He’s my friend, Mir. My best friend in this whole fight thing.”

Miriam reached out, pulling the gloves from his hands one by one. “And you’re his,” she said. “That won’t change. Not after twelve rounds, not after a thousand.”

He stared at her like she had the answers he’d been pounding into that bag all night. But all she gave him was a smile—a soft, knowing smile that said more than words ever could. Then, before either of them could second-guess it, she leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t a long kiss. Just soft, simple, and real. The kind of kiss that made the world slow down for a second.

“For luck,” she whispered, brushing a strand of damp hair from his forehead.

From the corner of the room, a record spun on an old player, crackling faintly. The soft, soulful voice of Al Green filled the silence: “Let’s… stay together…”

Luca closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling a shaky breath. When he opened them, Miriam was still there, smiling at him like he was more than a fighter. Like he was already enough.

Tomorrow, the bell would ring. Tonight, he just let himself be a boy in love, for a little while longer.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Chapter Text

The Bill Graham Civic Auditorium glowed like a cathedral of anticipation that night, its grand arches and marbled walls trembling with the roar of the crowd that had come to see something they could sense was special. It wasn’t just another boys’ bout. Word had spread across the city: two kids, two friends, two cultures, carrying the weight of their neighborhoods on their shoulders.

Backstage, everything was quieter—eerily so.

In Miguel’s changing room, the air smelled of liniment and leather. Elio stood behind him, kneading his shoulders with small but determined hands, his voice steady like a song of reassurance.

“Relax, hermano,” Elio whispered, his knuckles digging into Miguel’s back. “You’re tight as a drum. Breathe.”

Miguel exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes closed, sweat already forming on his brow though he hadn’t yet stepped under the lights. His fists were being wrapped carefully by Carl himself, tape spiraling around his knuckles with the precision of a craftsman.

“You gotta protect these hands,” Carl muttered, pulling the tape snug. “You’re gonna need ‘em for twelve rounds. Don’t waste ‘em on fear.”

Miguel nodded, but the worry in his eyes betrayed him. The thought kept circling in his head: What if I hurt him? What if he hurts me? What if this changes us forever?

Elio leaned close to his ear. “You fight him clean. You fight him fair. That’s how friends fight. That’s how you’ll still be boys at the end.”

Miguel cracked a faint smile, but his chest still felt heavy.

Meanwhile, across the hall, Luca’s changing room hummed with its own tension.

Alberto was crouched behind him, working his knuckles into Luca’s tight back, humming something off-key to lighten the mood. “Relax, bambino, you’re tighter than a guitar string. Think of this as fishing, patient, steady, don’t pull too fast.”

Luca’s hands were being wrapped by Massimo, who had traveled up from North Beach’s Italian immigrant community just for this. The big man’s one arm worked with astonishing deftness, pulling the gauze taut, winding it neatly around Luca’s knuckles.

“Keep your guard high,” Massimo said in his deep, steady voice. “Don’t let emotion pull your hands down. Protect yourself, always.”

Giulia, sitting on a bench, crossed her arms and tried not to let her nerves show. “Miguel’s fast. He’s slick. You can’t try to out-pretty him. You gotta be stubborn, like you are with everything else. Grind him down. Make him feel you.”

Luca nodded, but he wasn’t thinking about strategy just then. He was thinking of Miguel’s face, how they had laughed together at the gym, how they had both spoken of Ali and Marciano as if they were older brothers in spirit. How do I fight someone I don’t want to hurt?

The cutman swabbed Vaseline across his cheeks and brow, the cold smear making him blink. His robe (green, white, and red trim), the Italian flag stitched on the back—was pulled onto his shoulders.

In the other room, Miguel’s robe, bright red with golden trim, was draped around him. He pulled the hood low, whispering a prayer under his breath.

Across the hallway, Luca did the same, fingers folded, lips barely moving. Different languages, same God.

Both boys sat still for one long moment, their teams hovering around them like satellites. The muffled roar of the crowd above pressed down like thunder.

The house lights dimmed, and the low hum of the crowd turned into a roar. Spotlights swept the auditorium, catching smoke from the pyrotechnics that hissed along the stage edges. The time had come.

At ringside, Lucius in a sharp blue suit stepped up to the microphone, his voice booming with the energy of a born showman.

“Ladies and gentlemen… this is Lucius Best here, And tonight, in the great city of San Francisco, under the roof of the Bill Graham Civic Auditorium, we bring you the fight of the year! Two rising stars two warriors, two friends... squaring off for twelve rounds of junior middleweight action!”

The crowd erupted, stomping feet and clapping hands shaking the very floor.

Backstage, Miguel tugged his hood tighter, Elio giving him a smack on the back for courage. Carl whispered something in his ear-steady, hard truths only Miguel could hear—and then the door swung open.

“Introducing first,” Lucius thundered, “fighting out of the red corner, from the Mission District of San Francisco… wearing red with gold trim… the pride of the barrio… Miiiguel ‘El Corazón’ Rivera!”

The first notes of a mariachi trumpet lanced through the air, giving way to a driving Latin rhythm. Miguel stepped out, robe gleaming, his face still but his fists tight at his sides. Elio strutted just behind him, waving the Mexican flag high. The Hispanic section of the crowd exploded, flags shaking, chants of “RIVERA! RIVERA!” pounding against the rafters.

Miguel’s eyes flickered up, scanning the lights, then down to the ring ahead. For all the cheering, he looked inward—calm, collected, but heavy with the weight of what he was about to do.

On the opposite side of the stage, Luca tightened his robe strings. Alberto slapped his back, Giulia gave a last-second fist bump, and Massimo grunted with approval.

“And his opponent,” Lucius’ voice rang out, smooth as honey but loud as thunder, “fighting out of the blue corner, from North Beach, San Francisco… wearing green with white and red trim… the son of the Italian market, the boy from the docks… Luuuca ‘Il barracuda italiano’ Paguro!”

The arena thundered again as Italian horns blared over the speakers, the music swelling with operatic pride. Luca stepped into the spotlight, his chin high but his eyes soft with conflict. Alberto waved the Italian tricolore, screaming so loud his voice cracked, while Giulia yelled herself hoarse.

The Italian community roared, their voices rising like a wave crashing against Miguel’s cheering section. The noise split the auditorium in two, red and green, barrio and docks, both equal in passion.

Up in the stands, Ercole leaned forward in the shadows, eyes darting around to make sure nobody was watching him too closely. His collar was up, his smirk forced. He whispered to himself, half-nervous, half-gloating. He wasn’t here to cheer; he was here to claim—to say later, when one boy fell, “I knew it, I was behind it all along.” His eyes shifted left and right, searching for recognition but praying for none.

Robaire, only a few rows away, stood calmly with arms crossed, no shadows in his face. He watched with genuine respect, nodding as each boy entered. He wasn’t hiding, wasn’t pretending. He was there to witness, not to exploit. The glow of legitimacy wrapped him like a second suit.

Lucius raised the mic once more as both boys stood at their corners, robes still on, their teams hovering nearby.

The noise swelled until it felt like the whole auditorium was breathing in one shared rhythm. The referee, a broad-shouldered man with a thick mustache, waved both corners forward.

Miguel and Luca stepped out, robes brushing their legs, gloves held low but tight. They met in the center, face to face, close enough to see the shine of sweat already forming on each other’s brows.

“Alright, boys,” the referee said firmly, his voice just audible above the roar. “This is twelve rounds, junior middleweight. Protect yourselves at all times, listen to my commands. No holding, no low blows. Keep it clean.”

Miguel’s chest rose and fell heavy. Luca nodded, his jaw tight. For a moment, their eyes met—not the eyes of rivals, but of friends forced into a test neither had asked for.

“Touch gloves,” the ref commanded.

They raised their fists and pressed them together, leather meeting leather in a sharp thud. No words, just the silent promise that whatever happened in the next hour, they would still walk out boys who respected each other.

The ref motioned them back. Their trainers moved quick, Giulia sliding Luca’s robe off his shoulders, revealing his lean, wiry frame; Alberto rubbing his arms briskly, whispering fast encouragement. On the other side, Elio peeled Miguel’s robe away while Carl checked his mouthguard, muttering a gruff “Hands high, don’t get fancy.”

Both boys bounced lightly now, testing the canvas, shaking out their limbs.

Up in the stands, Riley leaned forward, hands clutching her knees. Her eyes never left Miguel. She mouthed a silent prayer he couldn’t hear but might feel all the same. Beside her, Miriam hugged her purse tight to her chest, whispering Luca’s name like a secret charm.

They glanced at each other briefly. Two girls in love with two boys about to collide, their stomachs tight with dread. They didn’t want one to win at the other’s expense... they wanted both to be safe, whole, unbroken.

The bell was only seconds away.

“San Francisco… are you READY?!”

TO BE CONTINUED.

Chapter Text

ROUND 1

The bell rang. Sharp. Metallic. The auditorium seemed to shrink to just the ring, just the two boys circling each other.

Miguel bounced lightly on his toes, gloves up, eyes scanning Luca. Luca mirrored him, compact, tight, chest rising and falling in measured breaths. Both were testing, feeling out distance, timing, reflexes. No blows landed yet, just the careful tap-tap of leather on air as they shifted and pivoted.

From the stands, Riley’s eyes followed Miguel’s every move. Her hands gripped the railing, heart thumping. Miriam leaned forward, fists against her mouth, eyes darting between Luca’s dodges and counters.

Elio fidgeted on the edge of the ring, whispering under his breath to Miguel. Alberto rubbed Luca’s shoulders in the corner, murmuring encouragement. Both boys’ corners were tense but quiet—letting them work this first round.

Random shouts rose from the crowd. “Go, green robe!” someone yelled. “Come on, Luca!” another voice chimed in. The mix of cheers, jeers, and whistles painted a living soundtrack to the opening round.

Inside the ring, the two boys exchanged their first light taps. Miguel feinted left; Luca pivoted, blocking instinctively. Miguel followed with a quick jab, Luca ducked, countered with a short right that grazed Miguel’s gloves. Nothing heavy. Nothing decisive. Just measurement.

Ercole Visconti leaned back in the shadows, eyes sharp, scanning the crowd and the boys, making sure no one noticed him too closely. Robaire, in contrast, simply watched—hands folded, calm, analyzing every shift of weight, every twitch of muscle.

CLANG.

The bell would signal the end of the round soon, but neither boy was rushing. Both knew the fight was long—twelve rounds. They were feeling each other out, gauging strengths and weaknesses.

Miguel’s chest heaved as Elio dabbed at the thin sheen of sweat across his face, a cool sponge pressed to his neck and temples. “You did good, chico,” he whispered. “Just keep your focus.” A small gulp of water, ice against his throat, and Miguel nodded, trying to steady his heartbeat.

Across the ring, Alberto brushed a wet towel across Luca’s shoulders and back. Giulia applied a dab of ointment to a faint redness forming under his right eye, then handed him a chilled cup. “You’re fine,” she said firmly. “Just remember what we practiced. Stay tight, stay sharp.” Luca drank, eyes narrowing, still circling the room in his mind as he imagined the next round.

From the sidelines, Carl Fredricksen leaned against the ropes, arms crossed, jaw tight. He had trained both boys for years, seen them grow from scrappy street kids to disciplined fighters. And now, watching them sit opposite each other, panting and tense, he felt the unusual tug of conflict. They weren’t enemies. They were his boys. His pride. And yet here they were, facing off for a crowd’s entertainment.

Even in his stoic, old-school way, he found himself muttering under his breath, “God help ‘em both…”

The corners offered a few last words of encouragement, hands slapped against shoulders, light pats of reassurance, and then the bell for Round Two loomed. Both Miguel and Luca were anxious, yes... but the adrenaline and the respect they carried for one another pushed them back to the center.

The ring waited. The crowd waited. And so did the next round.

ROUND 2

The bell clanged again, and the boys met at the center of the ring with a snap of intensity. This time, there was less testing, more probing. Miguel jabbed, quick and precise, and Luca blocked, countering with a low hook that skimmed Miguel’s ribs. The first touches of pain, but nothing severe yet, just enough to remind them both of the stakes.

Riley gripped the railing, leaning forward. Every twitch of Miguel’s biceps, every bead of sweat tracing his temple, had her heart racing. Miriam mirrored her fascination, eyes locked on Luca as he shifted, ducked, and returned a snapping cross to Miguel’s shoulder.

Elio’s small voice squeaked instructions from the corner, “Watch the left! Watch the left!” Alberto, rubbing Luca’s shoulders before the fight, clenched his fists at the edges of the ropes, whispering, “Keep your guard, Luca, keep your guard.”

Each strike was punctuated by muffled grunts through mouthguards, and for a fleeting second, the two boys exchanged a look—a mixture of challenge and respect. They had faced each other before outside the ring, but now it was pure combat, twelve rounds looming over them.

Miguel caught Luca’s arm with a quick underhook, spinning for a short body shot. Luca absorbed it and pivoted, landing a glancing right to Miguel’s side. Neither boy held back, yet each was careful—not reckless.

From the crowd, random cheers, whistles, and gasps filled the auditorium. Some were rooting for their neighborhood heroes, some were here for the spectacle of sweat and leather colliding. Even Ercole Visconti’s hawkish gaze flicked from the boys to the crowd, calculating every reaction, while Robaire simply watched, calm and analytical, noting potential and skill.

CLANG.

The bell eventually rang, signaling the end of Round Two. Both boys stepped back, breathing hard, gloves raised. Their corners sprang into action: sponges, water, quick advice, and encouragement. Sweat dripped from Miguel’s temple onto Elio’s shoulder, Luca’s towel clinging damply to his neck as Alberto wiped him down.

The fight was just beginning, but already the rhythm was set, each round a conversation in movement, in pain, in respect.

ROUND 3

The bell cut through the tension like a knife, and Miguel and Luca met again in the center. Sweat-slicked and already breathing heavily, the boys’ bare upper bodies glistened under the overhead lights.

The first few exchanges were sharp and telling. A quick left hook from Miguel caught Luca’s rib, and a reddish mark bloomed immediately. Luca responded with a snapping cross to Miguel’s shoulder, leaving faint red streaks along the light brown skin. Each strike left a memory on their bodies, a stinging punctuation to every feint, every slip, every block.

Riley’s hands tightened around the railing, eyes wide. She had seen Miguel fight before, but the sight of his torso rising and falling, muscles tense with exertion, with scratches and the first glints of bruising, made her pulse race. Miriam mirrored her awe, her gaze lingering on Luca as the Italian boy absorbed blows and returned them with precision, a thin sheen of blood beginning to mark his pale chest.

Elio’s anxious voice rang from the corner. “Watch the left! Keep moving!” He wrung his hands, unused to this much blood, even though he had cornered Miguel before. Alberto gritted his teeth, holding the sponge to Luca’s back and shoulders, dabbing away sweat and the first signs of damage.

The boys’ breath came faster now, the rhythm of the fight escalating. Each punch drew a reaction: a grunt, a flicker of pain, but also an unspoken acknowledgment that neither would yield easily. They were friends, yes—but in the ring, friends were competitors, and respect didn’t stop the sting of each jab and hook.

The crowd roared, caught between amazement and bloodlust, some whistling, some yelling encouragement. Even Ercole Visconti’s shifty eyes followed every movement, while Robaire’s expression remained calm, calculating potential, appreciating the resilience and skill on display.

As the bell rang, signaling the end of Round Three, both boys leaned into their corners. Sponges, cold water, and ointment were applied. The bruises on their upper bodies, reddening shoulders, faint cuts above the eyebrows, deepening scratches, all were small testaments to the brutal honesty of the fight.

Miguel’s voice was hoarse. “We’re still good?” he asked Elio, who nodded fervently, sponging his back.

Luca’s lips barely moved under the gloves. “We keep going,” he whispered to Alberto.

And so, with bodies marked and determination unshaken, the fight prepared to enter Round Four... the real battle of attrition.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Chapter Text

ROUND FOUR

The bell clanged again, and this time neither boy wasted a second. Miguel came out swinging, a sharp jab to Luca’s chest followed by a hook to the jaw. Luca staggered but retaliated immediately, digging his glove deep into Miguel’s ribs with a crack that echoed in the hall.

The tempo skyrocketed. No more testing, no more careful circling. This was survival. This was pride.

Miguel tried to pivot, but Luca clinched him hard, their slick bodies crashing together. Both boys shouted, muffled through their mouthguards.

Miguel’s words tumbled out rapid-fire Spanish: “¡No me voy a rendir, Luca!” (I’m not going to quit, Luca!)

Luca snapped back in Italian, breath hot against Miguel’s ear: “Neanche io, Miguel! Mai!” (Me neither, Miguel! Never!)

It wasn’t just trash talk, it was raw emotion, declarations of stubbornness. Despite the different languages, the message was clear. Neither would yield.

They shoved off each other and went back to brawling. Leather smacked flesh again and again... Miguel’s darkening bruises across his chest and shoulder, Luca’s pale ribs flushed red, his lip now bleeding. They pounded each other until the referee had to separate them, warning in a stern voice.

At ringside, Riley had her hands pressed against her mouth, eyes wide, arousal and fear warring inside her. Beside her, Miriam half-stood from her seat, screaming Luca’s name, tears in her eyes even as she flushed with adrenaline at the sight of him enduring blow after blow.

Elio couldn’t sit still, hopping near the apron, yelling in Spanish for Miguel to move his feet. Giulia, fists tight at her sides, shouted in Italian at Luca to use his head, not just his fists.

Robaire, sitting a few rows back, leaned forward with keen interest. His sharp eyes scanned every motion, every stumble, every counter, every display of sheer will. This wasn’t polished, professional boxing. It was raw, violent, bloody... but it was beautiful in it's own way.

While the boys hunched over in their corners, sponges pressed to backs and shoulders, sweat dripping into the worn canvas, Ercole scanned the crowd from his side of the arena. At first, he tried to keep his usual smug composure, the sly Italian Don King grin plastered on, greeting his acquaintances, giving handshakes. But his sharp eyes caught something unsettling—a suspicious number of men in black suits, sunglasses perched like dark sentinels, moving quietly among the cheering crowd.

Something was off. Too organized. Too coordinated. He felt the hair on his neck prickle. Like a cornered animal, he decided to move, weaving through the bleachers as if just taking in the show, hands in pockets, pretending casual interest.

By sheer, unnerving coincidence (or perhaps meticulous planning) he exited the bleacher section near the upper concourse and came face to face with a woman who made his pulse quicken and eyebrows arch in curiosity.

“Lola?” he said lightly, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He adjusted his tie, leaning casually against the railing. “What are you doing here at a place like this?”

The woman smiled, lips painted a deep, classic red, hair perfectly coiffed under the arena lights. Her voice dripped honey and velvet as she stepped closer, tilting her head just so, letting her hand graze his arm. “Just enjoying the show, Ercole… you know, business can be so… stressful. Maybe I’m here to help you relax.”

Ercole chuckled, the charm returning, though a tiny twinge of caution stirred in his mind. “Ah, always the caring one. I suppose it’s nice to see a familiar face in such a… lively environment.”

And then the chill hit. Metal clicked behind his hands. Cold, unyielding. The seductive warmth vanished in an instant, replaced with the iron grip of authority. Handcuffs locked him in place.

Olga Solis, the very same woman he knew as Lola, dropped the pretense. The honeyed smile sharpened into something colder, precise. “Ercole Visconti. You’ve been under surveillance for a long time. Now it ends.”

The black-suited agents, previously hidden among the crowd, stepped forward in formation, circling him like predators. “You are under arrest,” Olga said, voice steady, unflinching. “For smuggling, trafficking, and multiple counts of international crime.”

Ercole’s slick grin faltered. His mind raced, calculating escape, bargaining, seduction... but the trap was perfect. Every angle covered, every exit blocked. The ring, once a stage for his adolescent profiteering, was now the cage he couldn’t charm his way out of.

And somewhere deep in the hall, the sounds of fists hitting flesh, the yells of teenagers fighting their hearts out, continued, oblivious to the downfall of the man who had tried to exploit them.

ROUND FIVE

The bell cracks through the air again, and Miguel and Luca march back to center ring. There’s no hesitation now. The early caution is gone; they’ve tasted each other’s speed and power, and neither boy wants to back down.

Miguel snaps a jab, but Luca slips under and digs a hook into Miguel’s ribs. Miguel grunts and fires back with a straight right that clips Luca across the cheek. The crowd roars, this is no longer a chess match, this is a war.

Sweat and blood mix as both boys’ faces start showing the toll. Luca’s nose has a faint stream of red, while Miguel’s left eye begins to puff. They clinch, breathing hard, forehead against forehead, muttering in between gritted teeth.

“Non mollare, Miguelito…” Miguel hisses in Spanish, trying to psych himself up more than hurt.

“Neanche tu, amico,” Luca spits back in Italian, half defiance, half plea.

They shove off each other and trade again—hard hooks, snapping uppercuts, gloves smacking against sweaty skin. Riley clutches her seat, her eyes darting as Miguel eats a punch to the jaw. Miriam leans forward, whispering under her breath, “Stay up, Luca, please stay up…”

At ringside, Carl folds his arms, his face hard but his eyes pained. This was what he trained them for, but watching two kids he cared about, two boys with dreams in their eyes... tear each other apart, was heavier than he expected. He chews the inside of his cheek, struggling to stay impartial.

Giulia grips the guard rail, torn between shouting encouragement and begging them to stop. Elio can barely watch, his hands knotted together like he’s in prayer.

Back in the ring, Miguel drives Luca against the ropes with a flurry, gloves smacking into Luca’s guard, a couple slipping through to rattle his head. The ref watches close. Luca shoves forward, answering with a furious combination that forces Miguel back. Their bare torsos glisten under the hot lights, red marks spreading across their ribs, welts forming along their shoulders.

Every strike is faster, heavier, more desperate. Neither boy is willing to give the other the satisfaction of backing down.

The crowd rises to its feet, chanting, stamping, urging them on.

The bell saves them, just barely. They stumble apart, breathing ragged, glaring at each other through swollen eyes... then, without words, nodding in mutual respect before dragging themselves back to their corners.

TO BE CONTINUED.