The Godfather's Love (Erika and Charles) novel Chapter 19

Chapter 19

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The snow in Seattle lacked the elegance of Paris. It fell with a brutal heaviness-wet, cold, and mixed with sleet that stung the face like needles.

On the outskirts of the city, the entrance to the long-abandoned underground fight club lay hidden behind a dilapidated auto repair shop. The iron gate was rusted, its padlock smashed and dangling.

Inside, the air reeked of mold, dust, and a lingering metallic stench of old blood. An odor that clung to the walls, untouched by time.

Charles pushed open the groaning iron door and stepped in.

Dim light filtered through a few grimy skylights high above, barely illuminating the rust-covered iron cage at the center of the room. The spectator stands were crumbling, buried beneath thick layers of dust.

There was no shouting anymore. No gamblers, no frenzy-only a silence as heavy as death.

But he could still hear it.

The blunt thud of fists smashing into flesh. The ragged gasps of his own breath. The groans of a fallen opponent. The hoarse countdown from the

referee. And…

Those eyes beneath the ring-locked onto him with defiant worry, refusing to look away.

“Erika, if I win this match for you tonight, you’ll agree to be my girlfriend, right?”

“Yes. But if you get yourself killed, I’m not claiming your body.”

“Don’t worry. For you, even Jesus wouldn’t dare take me.”

Young promises, soaked in the scent of blood and the high of adrenaline, echoed through the hollow shell of the arena.

He thought he had forgotten.

Forgotten the crack of his knuckles tightening into a fist. Forgotten the sting of sweat and blood blurring his vision. Forgotten the reckless urge to leap from the cage and wrap her in his arms, even with broken bones.

But he hadn’t.

It had only been buried-under power, wealth, endless calculations, and the cheap thrill of novelty.

He shrugged off his expensive but cumbersome coat and threw it down on the dusty concrete floor.

Unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt. Rolled up his sleeves.

The tailored slacks and polished leather shoes were absurd for a fight. But he didn’t care.

He needed pain.

The kind of real, splitting pain that tore skin and shook bones-pain strong enough to drown out the numbing void carved into his chest by judgment

and loss.

He stepped up to the iron cage, gripped the cold, rough bars, and closed his eyes.

Chapter 19

He pictured an opponent standing before him.

Then he threw the first punch-straight into the empty air.

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Chapter 20 Chapter 20

(Erika’s Perspective)

The first snowfall in Paris melted quickly.

The sun returned.

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It wasn’t warm, but it was enough to bring back that lazy, luminous mood the city wore so well.

My ankle had healed well. The cast was off, and I could begin simple rehab exercises.

The doctor and therapist Damien had sent were both professional and efficient.

That afternoon, I received an encrypted call from Seattle.

It was my father.

“The judgment went smoothly,” he said, his voice calm and unreadable. “Everything you were owed-every cent-has been returned. As for Charles… it was quiet. No resistance.”

“Good,” I replied, gazing out the apartment window at the clean Parisian streets.

Strangely, I felt no thrill of victory, no hollow sense of revenge fulfilled.

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