Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

TRISTAN

T he sleazebag touches her arm again. What the hell is she doing here? I can’t look up there at her, can’t focus on the way her dress hugs her body, her cleavage pushed up with that fuck touching on her. People are yelling and cheering for me or the man opposite; it doesn’t matter to me.

He’s big, taller than me, leaner, and his stance tells me he knows what he’s doing. The brown in his hair and the flush of his face tell me he’s in his twenties. It’s as if I had to face myself at twenty-five, but I can’t let any thoughts interfere, even about Maya and that Mob fuck grabbing on her.

“I’m sorry, old man,” the lad calls over to me, shifting from foot to foot in a long kickboxer’s stance.

“Old men have old-men strength,” I call back, grinning.

We’re wearing thin gloves, which is a blessing compared to bare-knuckle, but elbows, knees, kicks; it’s all fair game. The kid nods with a grin on his own. They’re all here for a show, but he understands, at least. This is combat—battle.

The announcer raises his fist. “Fight!”

The kid rushes forward in a straight line, throwing a superman punch, essentially launching himself like a projectile at me. I duck to the side, keeping my distance, my guard up. He wants a flashy KO. Maybe he’s placed a bet on himself.

He turns, throwing two quick front kicks to my stomach. I harden my abs, but it feels like a spear digging into me. Kicks are just brutal. I catch his leg on the third, as he grins like a cocky ass, then quickly step forward and sweep out his back leg.

When he yells, there’s a twitch to it, an oh , like this feeling of falling is unfamiliar to him. That’s when a surge rushes into me. He thought he was going to mess me up. He didn’t even consider I’d grab him and ragdoll him.

Once, on an operation, they gave us modafinil because we’d been up for thirty-two hours straight. I thought that was the most wired I could ever be.

Then I hear, through the piercing noise of the crowd, a female voice raised, “Let go of her!”

Something primal snaps in me. I have to end the fight.

“Oh, fuck!” the kid yells as I land on top of him and start raining down strikes on his head, bouncing it from canvas, before he panics and turns onto his stomach. I quickly slide my hand around his blood-slick throat, choking him until he starts tapping and begging me to let him go.

When I stand up, somebody enters the cage, holding a worn-looking med kit. I turn away in disgust as the kid sits up, looking disoriented. I’m surprised when he cocks a grin at me. “Thanks for choking me. You could’ve beat my face in.”

“Look in the mirror. I did.”

“Could’ve been worse,” he says, spitting blood.

“It can always be worse.”

I walk over to the edge the cage, looking up at Raffie and his little gang. Maya sits off to the side, her arms over her middle.

“Good shit, T! I told everyone!”

“What was that I heard? Somebody was yelling let go ? A woman?” I call up to Raffie.

“It’s nothing,” the sleazeball sitting next to Maya says.

“The fuck you say to me?” I growl. “I’m talking to Rafeal Trentini, motherfucker.”

Too much adrenaline is coursing through me.

Raffie calls down over the mayhem. “Relax, brother! You’ve still got the Mystery Box event?—”

He cuts off when I grab the cage and scale the wall, then hop over and scale the balcony area. The crowd stares as I shimmy around and slip through a gap in the fence. Raffie stares up at me, mouth falling open, several other men cringing away even as they try to look tough.

“What happened?” I growl.

“We said it’s nothing,” the sleazebag insists.

“Shut up, man,” the man next to him snaps.

“Are you giving her trouble?” I snap, gesturing at Maya. It’s hard to even look at her. I want to take her out of this ugly, fucked-up place. She doesn’t belong here. She doesn’t need to see me like this.

“She’s just not as friendly as she pretended to be. That’s all!” the man snaps.

I walk around the table, standing over him, my hands curling into fists, the leather of the cheap gloves making a cracking sound. “Leave.”

He looks around, scoffing.

“Fucking leave ,” I growl. “That’s the last time I’ll tell you.”

“You heard him,” Raffie yells after a pause. “Get the fuck outta here. He needs to focus on his next fight!”

Slowly, the man stands. I expect some blustering, but he’s sobered up suddenly. “You think I give a shit about two drunk bitches, motherfucker?”

He’s not wrong about the drunk part. Maya is smiling strangely. A more poetic man might call it enchanting, but that was the sort of bullshit Vanessa said. She’s not even present . Maybe Maya popped a party pill or something. Empty martini and cocktail glasses cover the table.

So he’s not wrong about that, but calling Maya a bitch? Crack! My glove connects with the underside of his jaw, violently closing his mouth. “Fh-huk! Bit my fuggin … Motherfugger!”

Blood spills from his mouth, but then Raffie starts laughing, and so does the fuck’s so called-friend. He even says, “You heard him, bro. Go home and sober up.”

“Tell dem to sopper up!” He quickly walks away, rushing for the door, like he thinks I’ll clatter him again. Maya looks blankly up at me momentarily, then rubs her eyes. She looks so gorgeous but so lost. Before I can say anything, though, Raffie’s got his hand on my shoulder. “Save some of that aggression for the Mystery Box, T. Come on, be reasonable. One more fight, and …” He leans in and says, “Two hundred and fifty K.”

Holy fuck. That could completely change my life. That could keep the home running for a year, at least.

“For the winner,” I say. “What does the loser get?”

“Just the ten K. Split.”

“I have to split my money with them?” I ask, confused.

“No, split between them.”

“Them, who?”

Raffie pats me on the back with a wink. “You’ll see. You need to get changed and cleaned up.”

“Make sure they drink some water,” I say, talking to the young, slick man sitting at Maya’s friend’s side. He, at least, hasn’t been pawing at her all night. “I get partying, but?—”

“Sir, they haven’t partied, not really. Riley had a few drinks. Maya only had water.”

“Wait, what?” I walk over to Maya, kneeling down, struggling not to … feel. Fuck. Not here. Not ever. But she’s a young woman in need, and I’m not always a monster. “Maya.”

“Tristan,” she murmurs.

“Have you taken anything tonight?”

“Uh, I’m just looking at the lights. At you.” She smiles in that spaced-out way. She reaches for me. I almost let myself do it, touch those tempting hands. I can imagine them all over me, at every point of my body. Stroking over the scars and the blood and not giving a damn.

She’s clearly out of it.

“Raffie,” I say, standing. “I want a real medic to check on Maya and Riley. Who was that bastard?”

“The world is full of bastards. I don’t know.”

That’s such a classic Raffie response. He doesn’t want me to go after anybody in the Mob world and make his life difficult. “Hmm. Well, make sure they’re okay.”

“I will. I promise.” Raffie puts his hand on his chest. “Please, focus on the fight. Think of the money.”

“Get the medic,” I growl, walking toward the stairs.

“You’re not climbing down?” Raffie calls over, and a few of his goons laugh.

The petty in me wants to shut the bastards up for laughing, but Raffie needs his little moments like that, mainly because he could never beat a man fairly like I just did.

Still, when I reach the changing room, I see two medics talking to each woman. It’s not my place to tell Maya where to go and what to do, but goddamn, this isn’t the place for a girl like her. After this fight, whatever it is, I’ll get her out of here.

Soon, I’m standing on the other side of the cage again, my hands freshly wrapped, the blood cleaned from my body. Maya is leaning against her friend now. I can’t tell if she’s asleep. Maybe that’s for the best. Then she won’t have to watch me do this again, watch me become this again.

In the center of the ring, a man in a purple suit stands, addressing the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, for our final event, we have our famous Mystery Box! Who is our esteemed Marine fighting, you all ask? You won’t know until the lights come on. Ha!”

Suddenly, all the power dies. A few people gasp, and then laughter spreads through the room. Around thirty seconds later, the lights flicker on with a harsh buzz. I squint against the sudden brightness, my eyes adjusting to reveal three figures standing before me. They’re not what I expected.

Three wiry street kids, no older than fourteen, in makeshift MMA gear that looks too big and worn for their small frames. Their faces are smeared with dirt and defiance, but I catch a glimmer of fear in their eyes—a fear they’re trying hard to hide behind tough exteriors.

The first, a goddamn girl with wild, unruly curls of fiery red hair, wears a patched-up sports bra and baggy shorts. Her arms are crossed defiantly, but her fingers twitch nervously at her sides.

Next to her, there’s a boy who reminds me of myself at his age. His hair is the color of mud, and he’s lean. He’s covered in scars, but his eyes are alert. He grinds his teeth and takes a terrified step forward, trembling all over. The third wears a thick hoodie like armor, glaring from the rear.

They’re kids. They’re scared down to their bones. This is sick. But I read the situation with my military instincts. These combatants are ready to fight. Whatever the Mob is blackmailing them with or using to threaten them, it’s working.

There’s no damn way I’m letting this happen. “Are you kidding me?” I roar up at Raffie. “I’m not fighting these kids.”

“Get him, Bronx,” the one with mud-colored hair snaps, and I can just imagine being that kid looking up to the girl, confident she was going to make this mayhem work out somehow.

“Yeah, Bronx, get him,” the one in the hoodie says, staring at the girl.

The girl looks at me with her eyes wide open, tears glimmering. But she reaches into the baggy fold of her shorts and takes out a small blade.

“I’m not fighting kids,” I growl. “Put that shit down, kid. This is over.”

“You have to fight,” Raffie calls down. “You keep saying you’re drawing lines, T, but there’s no drawing lines in this life—only blood. This will be a lesson. Your first real night as a Trentini.”

I turn to the kid. “We’re not fighting. Put it down.”

“Get him, Bronx,” the boy says again. “We’ll have a life, then. Remember? Sunsets and sherbet. You said we have to remember that.”

“Yeah,” the girl whispers, passing her knife from one hand to the other, getting herself ready. It’s goddamn heartbreaking. “We can do this. Then we never have to be scared again, right?”

Bronx lunges at me. I duck aside, grab her wrist as gently as I conceivably can in this situation, and quickly take the blade from her tiny hand. When I gently push her toward her friends, she cowers against the cage wall. All of them move away, their hands raised.

I hold the knife up, raising my voice. “This is over. I’m not fighting. It’s done.”

“You have to,” Raffie calls down. “You agreed.”

“I don’t have to do a goddamn thing,” I snarl. “I’m leaving.”

I duck my head and walk toward the exit where the three kids are standing. I know there’s little chance I’ll get my winnings now. Hell, I might have just severed all ties with the Trentinis or, worse, started a battle I can’t win. But no world exists where I beat on a bunch of kids.

I need to get Maya and her friend out of here, then get home and hope I haven’t just ruined my whole life.