GAMES AND CIGARETTES

EMILIO'S POV

The knock came soft but firm.

Emilio turned as two men stepped into Dante's room. He recognized one instantly—Bull. A mountain of a man with a shaved head and a sharp stare. He'd seen him once at the underground ring, always trailing behind Dante like a loyal shadow.

Unlike Dante's unpredictable fire, Bull carried a calm, unshakable presence. Emilio had never seen him speak out of turn. None of Dante's men ever did.

Bull gave Emilio a polite nod before stepping aside to reveal another man behind him, carrying a stack of takeaway bags.

The scent hit immediately—eggs, sausage, warm bread. It was overwhelming after days of stress and cold metal. They placed the bags neatly on the table near the window, barely saying a word.

"They're here to check on me," Dante said from the bed, his voice hoarse but steady.

Emilio watched silently as the two men moved with quiet efficiency. They didn't question Dante. They didn't even glance his way again. Just respectful nods and a few hushed questions about Dante's condition.

Dante answered with short replies, barely lifting his gaze from his phone. When they were done, the men bowed out as quietly as they'd entered.

As the door shut, Dante looked up. "Come eat."

Emilio hesitated, eyes still on the bags. His stomach gave a low growl, betraying him.

"I ordered extra. Figured you'd be starving," Dante added, more casual than the thoughtful gesture suggested.

Emilio moved to the table, sat down, and opened the first container. The warmth hit his hands. The food smelled like comfort. He ate in silence, glancing once toward the bed where Dante now lay propped up on a pillow, watching him like he had nothing better to do.

When Emilio finished, he noticed the game controller on the shelf near the bed. He held it up. "You play?"

Dante's eyes glinted. "Try me."

That was enough of a challenge.

Emilio turned on the console and settled on the floor, legs crossed, controller in hand. The TV came to life with a sharp click, and soon the screen was filled with vibrant colors and fast action. It was a combat game, familiar and violent, like an echo of their real lives.

Dante watched, his gaze sharper than before, his lips occasionally curling at Emilio's mistakes. Emilio didn't ask him to join. He just played. And Dante watched like it was the only thing worth watching in the world.

At some point, Emilio noticed the room had gone too quiet.

The game controller was still in his hand, his eyes on the screen, but something in the silence tugged at him. When he turned, he saw Dante sprawled across the bed, one arm loosely wrapped around the pillow, his chest rising in slow, steady rhythms.

Asleep.

Dante looked different like this—without the snark, the sharp glint in his eyes, or the ever-present tension in his jaw. There was something painfully innocent about him in sleep, something that twisted in Emilio's chest.

His heart clenched. He didn't like that feeling.

He stared longer than he should have. The soft snore, the way Dante's lips parted slightly as he breathed. The same mouth that had spewed insults, thrown punches, and told him to leave.

It shouldn't matter. But it did.

He hadn't realized just how much until that bullet had flown toward them.

In that split second, when he thought it had pierced Dante's heart... everything in Emilio shattered. His mind had gone blank, his stomach dropping like he'd been thrown off a cliff.

He'd never been so scared in his life.

And now, watching the man sleep so carelessly like nothing had happened—as if he hadn't taken a bullet hours ago—

Emilio felt a strange ache settle in his chest. It wasn't just concern. It was deeper, heavier. Watching Dante like this, vulnerable and unaware, stirred something in his heart.

He turned off the game, set the controller aside, and lay down on the couch, gaze still trailing toward the bed until sleep pulled him under too.

—————

A sharp click.

It yanked Emilio awake.

He blinked, disoriented, the room dark except for the glow of moonlight streaming in through the open balcony doors.

His eyes darted toward the sound—Dante.

The door had shut behind him.

Emilio sat up slowly, squinting into the silver haze.

There was something in Dante's hand.

He narrowed his eyes.

A lighter.

And the unmistakable slim shape of a cigarette.

What the hell—

Emilio stood quickly, crossed the room in two strides, and slid open the balcony door.

Dante stood in the night air, shirtless, bandage still wrapped around his shoulder, a cigarette already between his lips.

He was about to light it when Emilio snatched it away.

"Are you out of your mind?" Emilio hissed, voice low but laced with fury. Without hesitation, he threw the cigarette over the railing into the dark.

Dante blinked, surprised, eyebrows drawing together.

"You're on meds," Emilio snapped. "You want to kill yourself?"

Dante leaned against the railing lazily, like he didn't just get caught doing something reckless. "It's just one."

"You were shot, Dante. You've got painkillers swimming in your blood and a hole in your shoulder. What kind of idiot smokes in that condition?"

Dante didn't respond at first. Just stared out at the city, the wind playing with the ends of his hair.

"Didn't know you cared so much," he muttered after a long pause.

Emilio stepped closer, fists clenched. "I don't."

"Sure." Dante smiled without looking at him. "That's why you're out here throwing away my smokes."

Emilio didn't answer. He couldn't. He simply hissed.

Because the truth sat too loud between them. He did care. More than he should.

Emilio leaned against the balcony wall, eyes fixed on the glittering city below as it buzzed with distant life.

Behind him, he could hear the soft click...click of Dante flicking the lighter open and shut—it was slow and rhythmic.

The sound echoed faintly in the quiet night. It wasn't just any lighter—it gleamed like an heirloom, old but elegant, heavy with history.