Page 29 of The Hunter's Empire

"Mr. Valenti rarely brings business associates here." He says after a long silence.

The comment is casual in tone, but something about it feels intentional. A warning disguised as politeness.

I glance toward him. "Then I appreciate him making an exception."

He does not answer. His expression never changes.

We continue through another corridor before a sound reaches me. A heavy thud. Then another. Rhythmic. Controlled. Violent. The unmistakable sound of fists striking a punching bag.

Underneath it comes the metallic clank of weights and the faint creak of gym equipment shifting under pressure. My pulse quickens instinctively as the sounds grow louder with every step.

The older man stops beside a partially open door.

"The training room." He says simply. Then he steps aside.

I push the door open and walk inside. Heat hits me first.

The air in the room is warmer than the rest of the house, thick with sweat and tension. Dim overhead lights cast shadows across black mats and steel equipment, creating an atmosphere that feels less like a gym and more like a cage built for violence.

And then I see him.

Domenico stands in the center of the room with his back partially turned to me, massive shoulders flexing as his fist collides with the heavy bag again. The chain above it rattles violently from the impact.

And he’s shirtless.

Black wraps cover his hands and wrists, already darkened with sweat. Tattoos crawl across bronzed skin and hard muscle, disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweatpants before reappearing along his ribs and spine like fragments of a story written in ink. Old scars cut through some of the artwork, pale against the rest of him, evidence of a life that was never gentle.

Another punch. Precise. Brutal. Controlled.

Everything about him feels restrained in the most dangerous way possible, like violence sits beneath his skin so naturally he no longer has to think about it.

I should look away.

Instead, my eyes linger. Over the sharp lines of his shoulders. The tension in his arms. The sweat sliding slowly down the center of his spine. The terrifying grace in the way he moves.

And maybe I stare a second too long, because the moment another punch lands, Domenico suddenly stills.

The room falls silent except for the faint sway of the punching bag. Then, without turning around, his deep voice cuts through the heat between us.

"If you keep looking at me like that," he says lazily, voice roughened from exertion, "I might start believing you came here for reasons unrelated to business."

I fold my arms across my chest, refusing to react to the way his voice settles low in my stomach.

"You should not confuse observation with interest." I reply smoothly. "I was simply deciding whether the stories about you were exaggerated."

He finally glances at me over his shoulder, dark eyes glinting with amusement. "And?"

I let my gaze travel over him once. Slow enough to feel intentional.

His chest rises steadily from the workout. Sweat catches against tattooed skin. There is something unfair about how composed he looks even half-undressed and breathing hard.

Then I tilt my head slightly.

"So far," I say coolly, "you mostly seem like a man who enjoys having an audience."

Domenico turns fully toward me then, tossing the towel over one shoulder. The movement exposes the sharp cut of muscle and old scars across his ribs, but it is the look in his eyes that unsettles me more than anything else. Predatory. Like he is studying every shift in my expression while pretending not to.

"Careful." He murmurs, stepping away from the punching bag. "Most people are smart enough not to provoke me inside my own home."