Chapter 10

Quentin

The underground parking lot in Hackney where the fight with Ryot is about to take place, is a couple of miles from my Primrose Hill townhouse, but it might as well be in a different country.

I spent much of my rebellious youth here getting into scraps with the underground gangs that rule this area. I turned my back on Arthur and his money by taking on criminal elements, then thought I was leaving it all behind when I enrolled in the Marines, but life has a way of coming full circle.

It's a testament to how much I've forgotten that it's only when I park my refurbished Cadillac Eldorado next to the Kebab Shop near the lot that I realize I don't have a hope in hell of finding the car intact upon my return. I may have changed, but this area hasn't. To play it safe, I pay the guy in the Kebab Shop to keep an eye on it. For good measure, I incentivize the teens milling about around the corner to guard it.

In the less than half a block I walk to the lot, I pass a make-shift shrine at the spot where a knifing took place a week ago, a pound store, a corner shop with barred windows, and another which is shuttered.

I drop a hundred-pound note into the cap of a homeless man who grabs it, stuffs it under his torn bedding, then goes back to sleep. The air smells of rotting garbage and unwashed bodies.

If I close my eyes, I might as well be back in one of the run-down areas of the Middle East country where I was posted for a lot of my time abroad. Except the temperature here is cooler.

When I enter the car park, the scent of copper grows heavy. It's then it sinks in that I'm going to take on Ryot, not in a gentlemanly match at the 7A gym, but in a free-style boxing scenario.

When he told me to choose the date and time of the match, he left out the venue which he picked. Which is this—his home turf. Blood has been spilled here from previous fights and, possibly, gang run-ins before that. There are no cameras, either—I checked. The air is thick with the stench of imminent threat. The echoes of those hurt before me bounce off the walls.

I thought I was early but already crowds press in on the ropes rigged around the platform, which forms the temporary ring in the center of the lot.

I shoulder my way past the throng to where Knox waits for me with my gloves. He's agreed to be my corner man for the duration of the fight. He chin jerks in my direction.

Without a word, I strip off my T-shirt and drop it on the floor, then take a seat in the chair in front of him. I pull on first one glove then the other. He tightens, then tests them. No mouth guard or any other protective gear because those are the rules of this wannabe Fight Club match.

"You sure you want to go through with this?" Knox drawls.

I don't answer.

"He's going to kick your arse."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I grumble.

Around us, the crowd begins to chant. It takes me a few seconds to realize they're screaming, "Kill-er, Kill-er, Kill-er."

"Killer?" I scowl.

"Newsflash: they don't mean you." Knox snickers.

"Shouldn't you be joining them in supporting your brother?"

He chuckles. "I thought so, too. Until I realized he meant to meet you on his patch. He hasn't lost a match since he began competing in these wannabe Fight Club encounters."

My muscles flex. I shake out my arms, crack my neck. I didn't think I missed this part of my youth, but a part of me feels like I never left.

A ripple runs through the crowd. The chanting grows louder. The crowd parts for Ryot. He runs forward and bounds onto the platform. He's wearing a pair of boxing shorts, boots, and gloves. His torso is bare, like mine. Unlike him, I'm wearing a pair of jeans.

For the first time, I assess him, not as my nephew, but as competition. He's a little shorter than me, but his torso and shoulders seem to be hewn from rock. I know he"s heavier than me. But seeing him without his suit on, I realize I misjudged him. The man is in peak physical condition. And unlike me, he doesn't have a single grey hair on his head, or on his chest. Also, unlike me, he carries the grief of a broken heart. One I caused—unwittingly and by carrying out my duty—but that means shit to him. He"s suffering and I can give him an outlet, by letting him take out some of his rage on me. It's not going to hurt less, though.

Knox follows my perusal, and his expression grows sober. "He's going to beat you up."

And I welcome the absolution."Maybe then, we"ll be even." At least, I hope so.

He sighs. "I know you're going to let him thrash you, but for the sake of entertainment, try to last more than one round." He shakes his head. "That would be an improvement on the ones who went before you."

Fuck.I glance at his face to see if he's joking, and Knox shakes his head. "It's true."

Bloody fuck.Yes, I came here, ready to be beaten up. Doesn't change the fact that I"m a fighter. I'll have to curb my natural impulses to strike back.

Brody and Tyler scowl at me from the sidelines. Connor, who's standing next to them, gives me the bird. I'm not popular with the Davenport brothers, a.k.a. my nephews. I can't help but feel admiration for how they've rallied around their brother. They've grown into the kind of men I'd like to know better. But aside for Knox, who's taken a shine to me, the rest might well be strangers. And whose fault is that? It was you who didn't take the time to get to know them when they were growing up.

"I'm rooting for you, mate." Sinclair walks over to join us. "But then, I prefer to be on the side of the underdog."

He and the rest of the Seven started holding the fights on this parking lot when they were dissenting schoolboys. It became so popular, they opted to keep it running, with the caveat that any money raised goes to charity. Entrance to fight, as well as to be in the audience, is by invitation.

Sinclair pulls out his phone. His fingers fly over the screen, and Knox's phone dings. Knox glances at the screen, and his lips curl. "At least you're a good loser, you wanker. Get ready to lose more money."

"Did you place a bet on me?" I snap.

Sinclair looks sheepish. "Couldn't pass up the opportunity of a fast buck. Just for shits and giggles, of course."

"Of course." I narrow my gaze on Knox. "And you've been collecting bets from your brothers, I assume?"

Knox's grin widens. "And the assembled crowds. You'll be glad to know the odds are one hundred to one against you."

"Thanks for the pep talk." I rise to my feet and brush past both of them, stalking in the direction of the ring. A series of boos greets me, but I keep going.

"I've asked Doc Weston to be on standby to treat you." Knox, who's on my heels, nods to where the doc is watching me with a sympathetic look on his face.

"There's an ambulance outside?—"

I raise my hand.

Knox, mercifully, shuts up when I say, "I won't be needing it."

I don't need that ambulance. I don"t. Maybe if I repeat that often enough, I"ll convince myself? I bounce on the balls of my feet, then duck and avoid a blow. What was I thinking, taking on a man younger than me? Ryot's bloody good at this. And I'm a little rusty.

He bares his teeth, throws an uppercut which lands. The pain bursts across my jawline, but it"s not enough to absolve me. I will never stop feeling guilty, even if I was only indirectly responsible for what happened to Ryot's wife.

Another hit. This time he sinks that barbell-sized fist of his into my side. Pain sears up my spine. Sparks flash behind my eyes. I stumble back. Motherfucker. He definitely bruised a rib or two. I shake my head to clear it.

"Again" I yell at him. "Hit me again."

Sweat pours down my forehead, stinging my eyes. He glares at me, eyes shooting darts of hate before he throws another punch.

This one smashes into the side of my head. Pain is a bullet that streaks down my spine. Fuck. I see stars. Feel myself sway, then manage to find my balance. Each breath I take sends a message of agony to my brain.

I shake my head to clear it, but that only sparks a fresh burst of torment in my bloodstream. Ryot glowers at me but makes no move to strike further.

"Do it! Throw another punch."

When he hesitates, I throw an uppercut and make contact with his chin. It's as if I've rammed into the side of a bunker as pain whizzes through my mind, but there's not a grunt from him. Or a cry of pain. The man's been silent. Grim. Not a single syllable escapes him.

He could be carved from granite, or from hurt. The kind of hurt that eats into you, slowly, surely, over the years, gnawing at you from the inside, eating up your flesh, settling in your bones, your teeth, until you taste it, smell it, see it in everything around you. Until it becomes you and you… become a shadow of your past, someone who sees a black hole in the future.

"Hit. Me. Arsehole," I bite out through gritted teeth.

He doesn't move. Fuck. Can't he see I deserve every blow? Every bite of pain? "I'm responsible for the suffering you"re going through, or have you forgotten?"

An ugly look comes into his eyes. A growl rumbles up his throat. I can hear it over the screaming of the crowds. He bares his teeth, throws up his fist.

I dance out of reach. "That's right. It's all me," I spit out.

Tension coils through his frame. He rushes at me, but I step out of the way. When he turns on me, I throw up my arm to block his next punch. "I didn"t know—" I block his next punch. "We had an informer—" I duck his next hit. "He colluded with our enemies—" I jump back to avoid his next blow. "Led your wife's team into a trap. If I"d known… I"d"ve stopped them." I force out the words.

His shoulders bulge. Knotted ropes of muscle flex beneath his skin, then with a roar, he swings at me; I step to the side, and his knuckles graze my arm. Pain pinches my nerve-endings, but I shove it into that dark space inside of me where I can't access it. The space I drew upon when I had to find my focus and give orders on a mission.

"I was the team leader," I pant, "I could have called off the strike."

A muscle works at his jawline. A vein pops at his temple. Hatred distorts his expression, and he rushes me.

He punches me in the torso. I grunt. "That's it. I deserve it."

Another punch to my chest. The breath wheezes out of me. "More. Hit me more." It's because of me you're in pain. You need revenge for what I did to you.

He buries his fist in my side. I bite down on my tongue to swallow my groan and taste blood. "I made the decision to bomb the space," I taunt, "knowing they were there."

Another noise, this time like the growl of a wounded animal, emerges from Ryot's throat. He rains blows to my sides, my stomach, my chest, in such quick succession, it feels like I've been struck by a hail of canon-balls. Fucking hell! Sensations zing through to my pain centers in such rapid succession, I groan.

I'm pushed back until I hit the ropes, and still, he keeps coming. Fuck, fuck, fuck. At this rate I won't survive another minute. I need to stay upright to get the rest of my confession out.

I try to get in a counterpunch, but he dances away, only to land another one in my stomach. The air rushes out of me. I grunt, blink the blood out of my eyes, and with what feels like superhuman effort, I throw my arms around his neck.

I try to smother his punches to get some control over the proceedings, try to get my breath and my energy back. My nephew is bloody good at this.

I stifle the pride that coils in my chest, tighten my hold around him and place my mouth next to his ear. "Listen to me, boy—" He struggles to get free, but I rein him in. "They gave up their lives so many more could live. You'd have done the same in my place. They knew what they were getting into when they enrolled."

He makes a growling sound—half rage, half pain—in the back of his throat. For what it's worth, at least he's listening. "Nothing I say will ease your pain. I'll go through life with the death of your wife and her team on my conscience. Even knowing I did my duty; I'll never forgive myself."

He flexes his enormous shoulders and breaks through my hold again.

He pushes on my shoulders and uses the leverage to take a step back. He swings his rear fist up in a hooking arc position which connects with my temple.

Spit flies out of my mouth. The world tilts. My face feels like I've run into a tank—or Ryot… Same thing.

I crumple against the ropes. The fluorescent lights above waver in front of my eyes. I blink. Then Ryot's grim countenance fills my line of sight. This is the time when a referee should be there, counting down to see if I"ll rise, but there is no one to help me. I deserve to lose this match. I deserve to lay here bleeding. I deserve the agony that threatens to overcome me. The darkness that closes in on me. Ryot loved her and lost her because of me. I've never loved in my life. There's no one waiting for me. No one I'd walk off this platform on my own strength for. No one?—

"Quentin!"

Her voice reaches me. It penetrates the loathing that fills my mind. The hate for myself that I"ve drawn around my shoulders like a shroud. The helplessness that engulfs me and mires me in its swirling, dark arms.

"Quentin!" Louder this time; more drawn out.

My gaze is drawn past Ryot's shoulder to where she's standing near the ring. Fingers clenched, shoulders rigid, green eyes burning with hate—? No, it's fear. For me? A chip in the wall I've built around my heart loosens.

She draws in a breath, sets her jaw, and screams, "Quentin, fight!"