Dominic Russo he had built an empire on discipline, strategy, and the kind of ruthlessness that made men whisper his name in fear. He was in the gym of his underground base, sweat rolling down his back as the iron bar rose and fell in his grip.

The new recruits—young, dumb, and full of bravado—were supposed to be training, but their focus had shifted.

“Boss…” one of them hesitated, his voice unsure, eyes glued to Dominic’s back.

Dominic didn’t turn around. He just exhaled through his nose, placing the barbell back onto the rack. He reached for the towel draped over a bench, wiping his face before looking at them.

“What?” he asked

The kid—couldn’t be older than twenty—swallowed hard. “Uh… your back.”

Dominic frowned. “What about it?”

The kid hesitated, clearly wondering if it was a mistake to speak, but curiosity got the better of him. “It’s just… those scratches. Looks like you got into one hell of a fight.”

Silence.

The older guys in the gym—kept their heads down, but Dominic could feel their barely contained amusement. They knew. Of course, they knew.

Dominic’s lips twitched, threatening a smirk, but he forced his face to stay neutral.

Instead, he ran a hand down his face, sighed dramatically, and said, “Yeah… a real vicious animal got me.”

The kid and a few of his clueless friends straightened up, looking even more impressed. “Damn,” one of them muttered.

Dominic speaks yet again. “It was relentless. Clawed at me all night.”

The older guys coughed into their hands, some turning away entirely to avoid laughing.

The kid, still wide-eyed. “Did you take it out?”

Dominic exhaled through his nose, finally allowing a smirk to break through. “Nah,” he said, grabbing his water bottle. “She kissed it better in the morning.”

It took the kid a second. The realization dawned slow, his face shifting from confusion to understanding to deep embarrassment.

The gym erupted in laughter.