I’m the Fun Kind of Dangerous

I’m the Fun Kind of Dangerous
Lola

The suite was still half-dark when she woke, light leaking through the curtains in thin ribbons across the sheets. The air smelled faintly of him espresso, cedar, and sin.
He was already sitting up against the headboard, hair mussed, reading something on his tablet. Always working. Always ready to shoulder the next war before breakfast.

“Morning,” she said, voice scratchy with sleep.

He looked up immediately. “You should still be sleeping.”

“Couldn’t.” She pushed the sheet aside, bare skin brushing cool air, the faint scrape of silk against her thighs. His eyes followed the movement; he didn’t even pretend otherwise.
She climbed over him, knees sinking into the mattress until she straddled his hips.
The motion drew a quiet exhale from him low, reflexive.

“Morning,” she repeated, slower this time.

He didn’t move, only looked at her. “You trying to kill me, gattina\[kitten\]?”

Her fingers slid down his chest, nails tracing over the ridges of muscle and the faint line of hair that disappeared beneath the sheet. “You’ve been patient long enough,” she murmured. “Honestly, I was starting to think you’d taken up sainthood.”

A sound rumbled in his chest, half laugh, half threat.
“Saints don’t think the things I’ve been thinking about you.”

Her smile turned feral. “Good. Then stop thinking.”

He did.

His hand came up, caught the back of her neck, and drew her down into him. The kiss was slow at first, more worship than hunger but it deepened fast, teeth clicking, breath tangling. Every movement felt like something being reclaimed; every sigh, a promise neither of them had language for yet.
She rolled her hips once, deliberate. His grip tightened. The soft rasp of a growl ghosted against her mouth.

God, I missed this. Missed him. Missed feeling like I still belong somewhere that isn’t broken.

“You’re playing with fire,” he warned.

“I am the fire,” she whispered, and bit his lower lip.
The sound he made then was pure surrender. The tablet slid from his hand, forgotten. His fingers dragged down her spine, mapping the small tremors that ran through her. The sheet twisted under them as he shifted, rolling her beneath him in one fluid motion.
The kiss broke only long enough for a breath and a glance, his eyes darker now, that steady control gone molten.

“You sure?” he asked.

She nodded, fingers curling into his hair. “Don’t make me beg, Enzo.”
Because I will. God help me, I would. I would get on all fours and beg if that’s what it took.

His mouth found her throat, her collarbone, the edge of the chain at her neck. Every kiss felt like an oath renewed, every touch a reminder of how close they’d come to losing this. The rhythm built between them slow burn into something rough, desperate, all-consuming.
Her hands dragged across his shoulders, nails leaving thin red lines down his back. He swallowed her moan, breathing her name against her skin like a confession.
When it finally broke when the world narrowed to nothing but heat and pulse and the sound of his voice in her ear, it wasn’t about grief anymore. It was reclamation. Them, whole and filthy and alive.
For a long time neither spoke. Then he said quietly, “We’ll get through it. You and me.”

She smiled against his skin, voice lazy and warm. “You say that like you ever had a choice.”

He huffed a laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest. “With you? Never did.”

Her lips brushed his collarbone, a ghost of a grin. “Good answer.”

He kissed her once more, softer this time, but when she whispered his name against his lips, he started moving again slow, reverent, endless.
Maybe this is what healing actually looks like: messy, hungry, beautiful.

The mirror was still fogged, steam curling like smoke after a good fire. Her body ached in that lazy, satisfied way that made her want to stretch out and never move again. The air smelled like soap, coffee, and Enzo.
He was leaning against the counter behind her, towel slung purposefully low on his hips, watching her like she was the most distracting thing that had ever happened to him and judging by the small, crooked smile on his mouth, he wasn’t sorry about it.

She caught his reflection in the mirror and smirked.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, twisting the towel through her hair. “You got yours.”

His voice was still rough from earlier. “Not nearly enough.”

She turned, one brow lifting. “Says the man who could barely stand ten minutes ago.”

He came up behind her, hands finding her hips. “You trying to wound my pride?”

“Just keeping your ego limber.” She grinned, glancing at him over her shoulder. “You’re already impossible to walk past without wanting another round.”

He bent, kissed the spot just below her ear. “Then stop walking past.”

She laughed, low and warm. “Tempting, but I’ve got plans.”

“Plans that don’t involve me?”

“If they did, we wouldn’t be leaving this room.”

“Mm.” His thumb traced the curve of her hip. “That’s what every villain says before they ruin you.”

“You like being ruined,” she shot back.

He grinned, teeth flashing. “Only by you.”

That earned him a quiet breath of laughter and a lazy shove to the chest. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm.” He kissed her shoulder, smiling against her skin. “You love that about me.”

Yeah, I really do.

She slipped away before he could grab her again, snagging her clothes from the chair—black leggings, fitted crop top, hoodie. The soft armor she wore when the world demanded her sharp edges back.

He watched her pull her hair back into Dutch braided pig tails. “You going somewhere?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“You really don’t want to know.”

“Try me.”

She glanced over her shoulder, smirking. “Rafael’s gym.”

His expression shifted immediately—worry, curiosity, that quiet, protective flicker she’d come to recognize.

“He asked you to come in?”

“Not exactly.”

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning I’ve got shit to do,” she said, grabbing her bag from the chair. “And part of that includes clearing this fucking life-debt nonsense off my tab.”

“Lola—”

“Relax.” She stepped in close, catching his hand before he could start pacing. “I’m taking security. Nothing life-threatening.”

He arched a brow. “That’s not the reassurance you think it is.”

Her grin turned sly. “Then I guess you’ll just have to keep your phone handy, huh? Wouldn’t want you dying of curiosity.”

He sighed, thumb brushing along her cheek like he could smooth the fight out of her. “You make it impossible to protect you.”

“Maybe.” Her voice softened, but the edge stayed. “But I’m harder to break than I look—and I need to prove it. To me. To you. And to anyone who thinks they can take something from me without consequence.”

She pressed a quick kiss to his mouth, whispering against it, “I forgot that for a minute. Won’t happen again. We don’t know that girl anymore.”

When the elevator doors opened, two of Dom’s men were waiting—big, grim, already looking tired.
Lola grinned at them. “Morning, gentlemen. Try to keep up.”

The taller one muttered, “Boss is gonna kill us.”

She flashed teeth. “Only if you’re slow.”

The doors slid shut behind her, reflection staring back—hair pulled up, eyes bright, a smirk like trouble waiting for an audience.
Alright, time to play.

The SUV rolled to a stop outside Rafael’s Iron Den—a name that tried way too hard and yet somehow fit. The morning heat shimmered off the asphalt, the air thick with motor oil, chalk, and bad decisions.
Lola slung her gym bag over one shoulder and glanced back at the two security guys Enzo had assigned. Dom’s “personal league,” which meant tall, muscled, and allergic to humor. Thing 1 and Thing 2.
“Alright, boys,” she said, sliding her sunglasses down her nose. “You’ve got three jobs. Take pictures, send them to Enzo, and under no circumstance answer his calls.”

Thing 1 frowned. “He’s not gonna like that.”

Lola grinned. “He’s not gonna like any of this. Might as well make it worth it.”
She stepped out before they could argue, boots hitting the ground with purpose. The second she pushed open the gym door, the noise changed—weights still clanked, music still thumped, but heads turned. Big ones. Shaved ones. Dumb ones.
The smell hit her next—sweat, metal, blood, and testosterone so thick she could taste it. Every man in the place had paused mid-rep to look at the tiny, tattooed woman in a crop top and fitted joggers walking in with a pair of suited muscle shadows.

Perfect.

A slow smirk curved her mouth as she crossed the floor, boots echoing against the rubber mat. A few whispers rippled through the crowd. One guy in a cutoff tank muttered something about her being lost.
She didn’t even glance at him. “Tell your ego I said hi,” she tossed over her shoulder, climbing straight onto the central mat.
The crowd parted a little. A few of Rafael’s fighters—big, brutal, already sweating through their wraps—watched her with matching expressions of confusion and mild amusement.
Lola dropped her bag at the edge of the ring. “Tell your boss,” she called, loud enough to echo, “I’m ready to start the clock.”

That got their attention.
A ripple of laughter went through the room. One of the guys stepped forward, all biceps and bravado. “You don’t look like you can handle warm-ups, sweetheart.”

She tilted her head. “You talk that slow in every conversation? You might want to stop letting people hit you in the head.”

A few chuckles from the sidelines. The man’s grin faltered.

“Guess you’re first,” she said, stepping forward. “Let’s go.”

He looked toward the others like he wanted permission, then shrugged and climbed onto the mat. “Your funeral.”

Lola bounced on her heels once, rolling her neck. “Awe, that’s cute.”

The bell hadn’t even rung before she moved—fast, clean, no hesitation. One feint, one pivot, and her elbow met his jaw with a crack that silenced half the gym. He went down like a dropped dumbbell.
She exhaled, shaking out her hands. “Next.”

Thing 1 was already taking pictures. Thing 2 muttered, “Yeah, Enzo’s gonna kill us.”

She smiled without looking back. “Don’t worry, he’s going to be just fine.”
The next fighter stepped up, smirking like he’d learned nothing. She grinned wider. Good.
The gym was chaos. Heavy bags swinging, gloves slapping, men yelling bets over each other. And in the center of it, her.
By the time the third man hit the floor, the noise was deafening. Sweat gleamed on her shoulders, her braid stuck to her neck, her knuckles burned. She didn’t care. It felt good-god, it felt good.

“Get her, Mendez!” someone hollered.

Lola threw a hand up, mock-cheering. “Yeah, Mendez! You got this, big fella! Show me what all that protein powder paid for!”
Laughter ripped through the crowd. The fighter snarled and charged. She sidestepped, caught his arm, and used his own weight to slam him flat on his back. The thud rattled the ropes.
“Next!” she barked, grinning, hair wild.

Two more climbed in. One smirked, wiping his mouth. “Careful, sweetheart. We wouldn’t wanna break you.”

She tilted her head, voice dripping sugar. “Oh, honey. Sweetie. Aww. You two couldn’t come close even on your best day.”
That did it. They came at her like a storm. She ducked under one punch, rammed her shoulder into the other’s gut, and snapped her knee up hard enough to fold him. The first guy lunged again she pivoted, caught him by the collar, and head-butted him square on. The crack echoed. He staggered, eyes rolling, and she swept his legs out from under him.

The crowd lost its mind. Money waved in fists, phones filming, men yelling over each other. Thing 1 and Thing 2 had their cameras up, muttering, “Enzo’s gonna kill us,” while still recording every second.

Another fighter tried to grab her from behind. She twisted, dropped her weight, and choked him out in a clean lock until his hand slapped the mat. She released him, shoved to her feet, and shouted over the roar, “I thought this was training! Somebody give me a real one before I die of boredom!”

Laughter. Whistles. Chaos. She was glowing, bloody lip, bruised cheek, eyes bright with adrenaline. This wasn’t rage anymore; it was release.
Rafael hadn’t made a sound coming in, but she felt him before she saw him like the air itself got heavier.
When she finally turned, he was leaning on the ropes, arms crossed, that quiet, assessing smile curving his mouth. The kind that said he’d been watching for a while.
She spat blood into a towel, wiped her mouth, and met his gaze head-on.
“’Bout time,” she said, voice rough with adrenaline. “I got bored waiting. Sorry.”
She wasn’t sorry.

Rafael’s eyes flicked from the men still sprawled on the mat to her split lip, to the grin she couldn’t wipe off. For a long beat, he just stared; something sharp, almost delighted, flickering there.
Then he smiled. Slow. Dangerous.
“Finally,” he said, eyes bright with something like spark-lit respect. “I’ve been waiting to meet this version of you.”

Her grin widened, all teeth and mischief. “Careful what you wish for.”

“I’m not worried,” he said. “I like demons. They keep the work interesting.”

She laughed low, breathless, alive. The sound cut through the fading noise of the crowd like a blade sliding home.
“Guess you’re about to have the time of your life then,” she said, slipping past him toward the locker room, pulse still hammering in her throat.

Behind her, Rafael chuckled under his breath, the sound rough as gravel. “Oh, I don’t doubt it.”

Lola didn’t look back. She didn’t have to. Every cell in her body was awake, electric.
For the first time in a long time, she felt like herself again bare-knuckled, blood-streaked, and grinning.
Whatever spell she’d been under had broken, and God help anyone who dared to underestimate her again.