1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

ELIO

The smell of sweat and cheap beer is so strong in the air that I can taste it. The roar of voices around me forms a deafening cacophony of jeers, hoots, and frenzied whoop ing, thousands of people drunk on bloodlust and borrowed adrenaline. I bounce one knee, tuning out the sounds around me and willing the man pinned to the mat to tap out already so this fight will end. I’m positive I’m not the only one thinking it. It’s all well and good to watch a couple of up-and-comers wail on each other for a few minutes, but the arena isn’t sold out tonight for Vulture Robinson and Timothy LaMonte.

We’re all here for one reason.

The bell dings and the ref jumps in to break up the fight. Vulture holds his arms up in victory, a dribble of blood trickling down his chin, a savage, wild look in his eyes. The crowd cheers again, but my eyes are already fixed on the tunnel to the left of the ring, the dimly lit passageway that leads to the locker rooms.

“Give him another year and that kid is going to be worth some money.” Sal elbows me and jerks his head towards Vulture, who’s still eating up the attention, strutting around the ring like a prize cock.

“Assuming he’ll play ball,” Alessio mutters from my other side, leaning back in his seat and spreading his legs obnoxiously wide. He slings an arm over the back of my chair and I huff, scoffing at the pointed reminder of the biggest thorn in our side lately. Well, one of the biggest thorns.

More of an annoyance, if I’m being honest, since unlike the Fitzpatricks or the Sleepless Reapers, this problem isn’t any kind of threat. It’s lost income, which is downright boring when you think about all the people who would love to see us dead. To be fair, the feeling is mutual.

Vulture glances in our direction and his lips pull into a slow, bloody grin before he finally leaves the ring.

“Oh yeah, he’ll be a good boy and take the payday if and when we offer it,” Sal says confidently.

A good boy . The words send a hot shiver up my spine. I can imagine the look on Orion’s face if I suggest to him that he should ‘be a good boy and take the money.’ Murderous, violent, fucking furious . He would tear me from limb to limb like a junkyard dog finally getting a hold of something to sink its teeth into. My cock swells at the thought, my breath lodging itself stubbornly in my chest as a prickle of sweat forms on the back of my neck.

The lights dim and a spotlight illuminates the tunnel. The frenzy in the crowd around me kicks up into something even wilder. Is this what it was like at the Colosseum in Rome? Thousands of people salivating for the catharsis of someone else’s blood and violence? I’d be willing to bet that damn near one hundred percent of the people in this room have never made anyone else bleed, never broken someone’s bones just to hear the satisfying crunch, and they wouldn’t even if given the chance. But that doesn’t stop them from screaming for exactly that. They crave the intrinsic beauty found in destruction, they just don’t have the balls to do it themselves.

“Oh good, we didn’t miss it.” Sparrow and Xaviaro claim the empty seats at the end of our row. I’m not sure I even bother to nod or grunt in greeting.

Any other time, I might give them shit for showing up just in time to see the headline fight when we all know it’s bound to last less than five minutes, but I leave it to Salvatore to give them a hard time. I’m too busy staring down the illuminated tunnel, holding my breath. Waiting.

And then he’s there. Even outside of the ring, there’s an unmistakable swagger to the way he moves. It’s fluid and slinking, like there’s something primitive and predatory inside him that the rest of us will never understand. His lean, powerful muscles are on full display in nothing but a pair of tight green shorts that wrap around his thighs, barely containing the flex of them with each step he takes. He pauses at the mouth of the tunnel and clenches his hands, like he’d rather not be wearing the black gloves at all. Like if it were his choice, he would opt to feel the give of his opponent’s flesh under his knuckles with each blow. His dark blond hair is pulled into a tight bun at the base of his neck, but I know it won’t last long. Soon, it’ll be hanging in sweaty tendrils around his face, possibly flecked with blood as he breathes heavily, his muscles coiling and springing back with the fast, furious hits he’s known for.

Everything inside of me vibrates. My ass is teetering right on the edge of my chair, my eyes glued to Orion as he enters the ring.

Look at me , I plead silently, craving the fleeting inferno his eyes never fail to ignite inside of me. Like he wants to kill me where I stand. My cock gets even harder at the thought, and I’m well aware that there must be something severely fucked inside of my head for his contempt to be such a turn on. Then again, being the second in command of the infamous Moretti Crime Family was never a recipe for good mental health.

His eyes sweep in my direction and land on me, his lips curling into a sneer that sends an electric jolt through me. His attention only lasts a fraction of a second, but those bared teeth and the flash of feral hatred has me clenching my fists to keep from shoving my hand down my pants right here, in the front row at an MMA fight, with friends and family crowded around me on either side.

Jesus, I need a fucking drink. But no way am I going to walk away and miss a second of this. It’s better than porn. Hell, it’s better than most sex.

Orion stands in the middle of the ring, facing his opponent, Quinn Cabrerra. Quinn is pushing the weight class, clearly stacked with more solid muscle, but Orion’s style is anything but brute force. It’s patience, it’s calculation, it’s fucking poetry written with his fists.

The bell rings and Quinn makes the same mistake everyone seems to with Orion. He rushes in, all flying fists and swinging legs, convinced that a quick takedown is the best way to finally end his unbeaten streak. Orion is stoic, but fast , dodging most of the blows and refusing to give Quinn a reaction to the few that he manages to land.

“Oof,” Alessio grunts sympathetically beside me, flinching with his whole body when Quinn’s foot connects with Orion’s gut.

I’m as still and unblinking as Orion is though. He doesn’t so much as exhale too sharply, psyching Quinn out as much as biding his time, waiting for him to tire himself out.

“Break his fucking nose,” Sparrow screams. In my peripheral vision, I can see that he’s standing on his chair even though we’re seated in the front row with no one to see over.

I dart my tongue out to taste the anticipation in the air—the sweet, hot flavor of adrenaline that’s thick all around us. I let myself imagine I can taste the drops of sweat beading on Orion’s chest. I’ve watched him fight so many times, I feel like I’m inside his head, sharing his steady, thundering heartbeat, counting the seconds with him, and watching every one of Quinn’s reactions. I can sense the moment the air shifts around Orion, his relative stillness becoming less of a mind game and more of a threat.

And then he’s on Quinn in the blink of an eye. I swear there’s a communal gasp from a thousand people all at once, followed by the eruption of incoherent, frenzied shouts. All I can hear are the hollow thuds of each blow Orion lands though, one after another, so fast Quinn is too dazed to respond to them all. I’m mesmerized by the flex of Orion’s muscles, the swell of his biceps, and the ripple and clench of his back and shoulders.

My dick aches and so does my ass. I shift in my seat, indulging in the fantasy of being bruised and sore from having Orion hold me down and spank me until I cry.

I’m out of my chair, shouting and cheering right along with everyone else in the arena. There’s no real money to be made tonight, not when Orion’s win is a sure thing, but no one seems to mind. We’re all too caught up in the perfection of pure, senseless violence.

Orion gets Quinn down on the ground, and they grapple for a minute or two. Quinn doesn’t stand a chance, blood clouding his vision, his movements getting tired and sluggish while Orion only seems to get stronger and more determined.

And then it’s over. Quinn’s tap out is almost anticlimactic after all that. Something tells me Orion thinks so too, his chest still heaving and his eyes still wild, like he could go another ten rounds, like he wants to go another ten rounds. He hasn’t purged all the violence inside of himself yet, but the fight is over anyway.

My nipples tighten and the hair on the back of my neck stands up, goose bumps rising all over my skin, hidden under my long sleeves and completely out of place in the humid building. I’d be happy to give him a productive outlet for the demons he didn’t manage to exorcise inside the ring.

Too bad I already know the answer he’ll give me if I make the offer. Not that it will stop me. The humiliation of being turned down by Orion over and over again is becoming its own kink.

“Elio,” Salvatore calls after me. I wave dismissively, letting him know they don’t need to wait for me, and I make my way through the crowd, keeping one eye on Orion until he disappears down the tunnel again.

ORION

My pulse rushes loudly in my ears, my muscles still coiled and quivering for more. I want to find a punching bag and wail on it until I’ve finished bleeding out this feeling through bruised knuckles and pure fucking exhaustion.

Instead, I’m forced to grunt out responses to reporters shoving cameras and microphones into my face while trying to pretend I feel the least bit human so soon after a fight. I drag a towel over my face to mop up the sweat, and when I pull it away, I notice a few streaks of blood soaking into the white terrycloth. Mine? Quinn’s? I won’t know until I actually get some goddamn peace to clean myself up, but it’s not like it matters much one way or the other. I’m no stranger to blood. I’ve been bathed in it for as long as I can remember.

When the press clears out, the quiet of the empty locker room rings as loud as an alarm in my ears, almost as unsettling as all the voices and questions were just a few minutes ago. I sit on the bench in front of a row of lockers meant for a whole team of athletes to crowd around, snapping towels and playing grab ass, doing whatever it is they do to celebrate a win. Me? I eye the door, my jaw set so rigidly it’s giving me a headache, waiting for the inevitable.

Maybe instead of sitting around, I should throw some clothes on, sweat and blood be damned, and get the fuck out of here. But I can’t seem to make myself move. I feel like a victim in a horror movie, everything inside screaming at me to run while I stand around like an idiot. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting…

I don’t flinch at the light rap at the door. I don’t call out a greeting either. I don’t need to. He’s not asking for permission to come in. Guys like him don’t know how to ask for permission, they only know how to take. My jaw clenches even tighter and I scramble to my feet, refusing to let him see me waiting for him. I put my back to the door, my towel slung over my shoulder as I rummage in my locker.

“In case you ever wondered, it’s considered polite in society to wait for the person on the other side of the door to actually invite you inside after you knock,” I growl at the shifting air that lets me know I’m no longer alone.

His low chuckle is the most grating sound I’ve ever heard in my life. Just like everything else about the man, it’s fucking privilege personified. I’m not sure how someone’s laugh can sound like a fucking ten-thousand-dollar suit, but his does.

“Is that right?” Elio drawls in a bored tone. “I guess I need to learn some manners.”

Goddamn right he does.

Elio fucking Moretti. I doubt he’s been told ‘no’ a single day of his life. Pompous prick that he is. Handed an empire of violence on a solid gold platter, and he expects us all to kneel like his loyal subjects. Fat fucking chance of that happening. I don’t kneel for anyone, least of all a goddamn spoiled Mafia prince.

I turn slowly to face him, hating the way my eyes rake over him from head to toe just once, taking in his rumpled, unbuttoned suit jacket and the piece strapped across his chest. His olive skin is flushed, and his hands are shoved into his pockets, his gaze roaming over me in a much slower assessment.

I cross my arms over my chest, vaguely aware of how naked I still am in nothing but my shorts. I don’t pretend to know how sociopaths and mobsters like the Morettis operate, but I learned early in my life that whether you’re staring down a hungry dog or a gang of street thugs, you don’t want to be the one to blink first.

“What do you want?” I’ve asked the same question after every fight within the city limits for the past two years. The dance has become so familiar, it might be comforting if it weren’t so unsettling.

Unsettling, because no matter how many times I’ve asked, I still don’t know what Elio Moretti wants from me.

A smile spreads slowly over his lips, his dark brown eyes boring into mine. He darts his tongue out and runs it along his bottom lip, tilting his head as he gives me another leisurely perusal.

“A lesson in manners?” he answers, but it sounds more like a question. It sounds hopeful , but exactly what he’s hoping for is still un-fucking-clear.

I scoff through my nose. “Great. I’ll dig out some Miss Manners articles before my next fight and have them ready for you. Anything else I can do for you? I already told three different Moretti stooges that I don’t want your fucking money to throw a fight.”

My rant seems to amuse him. The wider his grin gets, the more my muscles tense, until I’m sure he can see me vibrating, holding myself back from slamming him up against the nearest wall, getting in his face, and demanding to know what the fuck he wants already. Why is he up my ass like clockwork after every fight? Why am I seeing him out of the corner of my eye on the goddamn street? What exactly do the Morettis want from me?

My breath is coming faster the more I think about it. My lungs burn and the tightness in my gut is beyond ready to explode, but unlike in the ring, there’s nowhere for these feelings to go. Not if I want to live to see another day, anyway.

And that right there is what I think I hate the most about Elio goddamned Moretti. He shows up here, getting under my skin, crawling inside my head and messing with me, and I can’t fucking touch him.

“I’m going to make it really fucking clear for you,” I spit, stepping over the bench and crowding in on him. I expect Elio to take a step back, but he holds his ground, putting us nearly nose to nose when I get in his face. “I don’t want anything more to do with you or your fucking family. I’ll pay you the money I owe you, but I don’t want to be watched by you, I don’t want you at my fights. Stay away from me.”

He’s breathing faster now too, his pupils dilated and his lips parted wordlessly. Something dangerous crackles between us, and the sliver of self-preservation I have tells me that if I don’t back off, I’m going to end up nothing more than a rotting corpse, piled on top of the bodies of anyone else who dared speak this way to a Moretti.

I pull the towel off of my shoulder and throw it at Elio for good measure, hoping it will get my point across. I know better than that though.

However I landed on Elio Moretti’s radar to begin with, I’m fucked now.

Story of my fucking life.