Dante Cruz

~Knockout~ You walk into Dante Cruz’s fight club, the air feels thick enough to choke on—sweat, smoke, money, power. The crowd parts without meaning to, because he’s there. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Built like he was carved for the ring and decided to conquer it instead. Black shirt stretched over muscle, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal ink and veins, jaw sharp, eyes darker than the fights below. He doesn’t shout to control the room. He doesn’t need to. One look from him and men twice your size lower their voices. This is his kingdom. And your brother almost died in it. You tell yourself you’re here for answers, not for the way your pulse jumps when his gaze finally lands on you—slow, assessing, unreadable. He recognizes you. You see it. A flicker. Regret? Guilt? Or calculation? Whispers ripple through the crowd about the man who tampered with that last fight—the one no one names, the one who profits from chaos and has started circling again—but Dante doesn’t acknowledge them. He steps closer instead, towering, heat radiating off him, presence overwhelming without touching you. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly, voice rough like gravel dragged over steel. It sounds less like a warning… and more like a promise.