He didn't take her back to her room. He took her down.
The elevator descended into the "Grave." The air was thick with the scent of gun oil and old stone. Dante pushed her into a wide, open training floor lined with mats and racks of cold, gleaming steel.
"You want to defend yourself?" Dante asked, discarding his wet shirt.
Anna's breath caught. His torso was a map of violence—scars from bullets, blades, and things she couldn't name. His muscles were hard-edged, corded like the roots of the jungle trees outside. He looked like a weapon that had been broken and reforged a thousand times.
"Pick up the knife," he commanded.
Anna picked up her small kitchen blade. Dante shook his head and tossed her a professional combat knife. It was heavy, balanced, and terrifyingly sharp.
"Strike me," he said, standing in the center of the mat, his arms at his sides.
"What?"
"You heard me. You grew up in the slums. You know how to scrap. Show me. Strike me like I'm Marco. Strike me like I'm the man who killed your boss."
Anna lunged. She was fast, but Dante was a ghost. He stepped aside, his hand catching her elbow and redirecting her momentum. She stumbled, hitting the mat hard.
"Again," he growled.
For an hour, it was a dance of frustration and pain. Every time she swung, he was somewhere else. He didn't hit her back, but he used his body to bruise her—shoulders checking her ribs, palms slamming into her chest to knock the wind out of her.
"You're fighting like a victim," he mocked, circling her as she panted on her knees. "You're waiting for me to hit you so you can react. In my world, if you react, you're already dead. You have to be the one who decides when the blood starts."
He stepped behind her, his chest pressing against her back. He reached around, his large hands closing over hers on the hilt of the knife.
"Feel the weight," he whispered into her ear, his husky voice sending a shiver of pure, confusing heat through her body. "Don't use your arm. Use your center. Use the anger you feel for me."
He moved her arms in a slow, lethal arc. The proximity was stifling. She could feel every breath he took, the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against her shoulder blades. It was a lesson in murder, delivered with the intimacy of a lover.