Dante stood frozen in the hallway, the warning still fresh in his mind. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white beneath the tape from his last fight. The weight of the threat hung over him, pressing down like a storm cloud. His mind raced, torn between the desire to protect Leo and the frustration boiling inside him.
"Your father's in too deep. If he can't pay, we're coming for you next."
He had to do something. Sitting back and waiting wasn't an option anymore. But what could he do against the mafia?
With a low growl of frustration, Dante grabbed his jacket and stepped out into the cold night air. The streets of New York were alive with the distant hum of cars, the occasional siren wailing in the background. His body moved on autopilot, his mind already set on one thing: confronting his father.
Dante found himself outside a rundown bar at the edge of the neighborhood. It was the kind of place where his father had always done business, seedy, smoke-filled, and dangerous. The faint smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke wafted through the door as he pushed it open.
Inside, the bar was dimly lit, filled with the low murmur of regulars who barely glanced up at Dante's entrance. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on his father, sitting in the back corner, hunched over a half-empty glass.
Dante's heart pounded with a mix of anger and sadness as he walked over to the table. His father, Tony Vitale, looked up slowly, his eyes bloodshot and tired, but his face twisted into a familiar sneer.
"What're you doing here, Dante?" Tony slurred, his voice thick with alcohol. "Shouldn't you be at the gym or something?"
Dante stood there for a moment, staring at his father. This was the man who had dragged them into this mess, who had let his debts and his connections to the mafia become their problem. The anger bubbled to the surface.
"You wanna explain why I'm getting threats from your people?" Dante's voice was low,
Tony's sneer faltered for a second before he took another drink. "I got everything under control, kid. You don't need to worry about it."
"That's not what they told me," Dante snapped. "They said they're coming for me and Leo next if you don't settle your debts."
Tony waved a hand dismissively, as if brushing off Dante's words. "They're just trying to scare you. It's business, Dante. You don't understand how it works."
Dante's frustration flared, and he slammed his hand down on the table, causing Tony to jolt. "I don't care how it works! I care about keeping Leo safe! You've been dragging us through this for years, and now it's catching up to us. Do you even care about what happens to us?"
Tony's eyes narrowed, and his face darkened with anger. "You think you know better than me? Huh?" His words were sharp now, the alcohol no longer dulling the edge. "I'm your father. You don't come here and talk to me like that."
Dante's chest heaved, his fists clenched at his sides. "Then act like a father! Stop hiding behind your debts and your excuses!"
The slap came out of nowhere.
Tony's hand struck Dante across the face with enough force to snap his head to the side. For a moment, the bar seemed to go silent, the impact ringing in Dante's ears. His cheek burned, and he stood there, stunned.
Tony's hand trembled as he lowered it, his face still twisted in anger. "You don't talk to me like that," he repeated, his voice a dangerous growl.
Dante slowly turned back to face him, his jaw tight, his eyes filled with a mixture of shock and fury. His hand instinctively rose to touch his cheek, but he didn't say anything. The room felt heavy, the air thick with the tension between them.
"You need to stay out of this," Tony continued, his voice calmer now but still laced with venom. "You've got your fights. That's your way out. Let me handle my business."
Dante's voice was cold when he finally spoke. "Your business is going to get us killed."
He stared at his father for a long moment, the sting of the slap still fresh on his face. Then, without another word, Dante turned and walked out of the bar, leaving his father sitting alone in the dim light.
Dante's face still stung from his father's slap as he walked through the streets, the cold air biting at his skin. Every step felt heavier than the last, his thoughts spiraling. He hated how powerless he felt, Leo depended on him, and his father was dragging them both down. The threat from the mafia was real, and no amount of tough talk was going to stop it.
He passed the corner where the same group of guys stood, but this time he didn't make eye contact. He didn't need any more trouble. Not today. He kept his head down
When Dante arrived at the gym, he wasn't in the mood to train. His body ached, not just from the fight, but from the emotional toll of the day. He wrapped his hands, pulling the tape too tight.
The sounds of the gym surrounded him, fists hitting bags, jump ropes snapping against the floor, the shuffle of feet on the mats. But it was all background noise. His thoughts kept drifting back to his father, to the threat hanging over them.
He threw a punch at the heavy bag, but it was sloppy. He followed with another, but his technique was off, and the bag barely moved. He knew Russo would notice, but he didn't care. Not today.
"Vitale!" Coach Russo's voice barked from across the gym, sharp as ever.
Dante kept his eyes on the bag, but he felt Russo's presence before he even turned around. The older man was watching him with that same critical look, his arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed.
"What the hell is this?" Russo asked, gesturing toward the bag. "You call that training?"
Dante exhaled through his nose, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He was tired. Tired of the fighting, tired of the tension. He didn't answer.
Russo moved in closer, his voice lowering but losing none of its edge. "You're distracted."
Dante finally turned, meeting Russo's eyes. He could feel the anger rising again, that same frustration he'd felt with his father, but he swallowed it down. "Yeah. I'm distracted."
Russo's gaze stayed locked on him, as if waiting for more. Dante wasn't sure why, but he felt the need to explain. Maybe because Russo was the only one who ever tried to get him to focus. Maybe because he was the only one who didn't treat him like a kid.
"My father's in trouble," Dante muttered, barely loud enough for Russo to hear. "They're coming after him. After me and Leo, too."
Russo's expression didn't change. He didn't look surprised, but he didn't soften either. "That's what I figured."
Dante raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
Russo shrugged, his arms still crossed. "It's not hard to tell when someone's carrying more than they can handle. You've got that look, Vitale. Like the weight of the world's on your shoulders."
Dante scoffed, shaking his head. "Yeah, well, it is."
Russo watched him for a moment, then nodded toward the bag. "You've got two choices here. You either let this break you, or you figure out a way to keep moving forward. But right now, this," he pointed to Dante's fists, ", this isn't gonna solve anything if your head's not in it."
Dante stared at the bag, his chest tight. He wanted to believe he could keep moving forward, that he could fight his way out of this mess. But every punch felt hollow.
"You think I don't know that?" Dante said quietly. "But what else am I supposed to do?"
Russo didn't answer right away. He just stood there, his eyes never leaving Dante's. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, but firm. "You fight smart. That's what you do. You don't just hit harder, you think harder."
Dante's jaw clenched. He knew Russo was right. His fists weren't going to fix his father's debts. But it didn't make the frustration any easier to swallow.
Dante didn't say anything for a long moment. He just stood there, staring at the bag, Russo's words hanging heavy in the air.
With a frustrated sigh, Dante unwrapped his hands, the tight tape leaving deep impressions on his skin. He couldn't focus on training today, not with everything going on in his head.
Russo watched him, but didn't push further. That was the thing about Coach, he knew when to lay off. He wasn't one to offer comfort, but he wasn't going to kick Dante when he was down, either.
"Take the day if you need it," Russo said, his voice gruff but not without some understanding. "But when you come back, you come back focused."
Dante nodded, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "I'll be ready."
As he walked out of the gym, his mind still swirling with frustration and worry, Dante felt the eyes on him again. That same tension he'd felt in the neighborhood, like people were watching, waiting for him to make a move. It was only getting worse.
Later that night, the streets were quieter than usual, but that didn't bring Dante any comfort. If anything, the silence made everything feel more dangerous. He kept his head down as he walked home, his senses heightened, as if he were expecting someone to step out of the shadows.
The weight of the conversation with his father still sat heavy on his shoulders. Tony Vitale's problems weren't going away, and now, with the mafia circling, Dante felt like he was running out of time. Leo had no idea how bad things were, and that was how Dante wanted it. But how much longer could he keep protecting his little brother from the truth?
As he neared his apartment, the familiar figure from earlier that morning stepped out of the alley. The thick-necked man, the one who had warned him about his father's debts, was waiting for him again, leaning casually against a lamppost.
Dante's muscles tensed. He stopped a few feet away, keeping his distance, his mind racing. The man wasn't alone this time, two others stood further back, their hands in their pockets, watching silently.
"We need to talk," the man said, his voice low, almost conversational.
Dante's jaw tightened. "I told you already—I'm not interested in being part of my father's mess."
The man shrugged, his casual demeanor slipping slightly. "Doesn't matter what you're interested in. Fact is, your old man's not pulling his weight, and that means the weight falls on you."
Dante's fists clenched at his sides. "I'm not paying for his mistakes."
The man's eyes darkened, his smile fading. "It's not about money anymore, Vitale. It's about loyalty. Your old man owes us more than cash, and until he makes good on it, you and your brother are fair game."
Dante's heart pounded in his chest, the weight of the threat sinking in. His mind raced, trying to think of a way out of this, but the man was already stepping closer, his expression cold.
"You want to keep your brother safe, don't you?" the man continued, his voice barely above a whisper now. "Then maybe it's time you stepped up. Prove to us you're not just some punk kid trying to fight his way out of this neighborhood."
Dante's breath came quicker, his mind spinning. He wasn't sure what they wanted from him, money, loyalty, something worse. But one thing was clear: they weren't going away.
The man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a card, pressing it into Dante's hand. "Come see us tomorrow. We'll talk about how you can help."
Dante didn't move as the man turned and walked away, the two others following him into the shadows. He stood there, staring at the card in his hand, his chest tight with fear and anger. The words on the card were simple, but they might as well have been a sentence.