She blinks. “Now?”
I nod. “Time to see what stuck.”
She grins like she’s been waiting for this. Fifteen minutes later we’re in the ring, gloves on, mouthguards in. I keep it controlled, this isn’t a beatdown, it’s a measure of her skills.
She opens strong. Quick jab, cross combo. I parry the cross, throw a feint, then pivot left to test her guard. She adjusts, late,but she adjusts. Her right elbow’s a little wide. I tag her ribs to remind her.
“Keep it tight,” I growl through my mouthguard.
“Yes, ma’am.”
We go two rounds. She’s sweating, breathing heavily, but she’s still in it. She doesn’t flinch when I close in, she doesn’t freeze when I switch stance mid-push. Her form’s better. Her head’s clearer. No wild swings. She’s thinking now. Controlled. Focused.
Third round, I let her drive me back with a body shot that actually lands clean. She blinks at the contact, surprised she got through, and that’s her mistake. I close in, feint left, pop her with a hook that snaps her head just enough to wake her up again.
We call it.
She’s got a split lip and a grin that makes me proud.
“You’re getting there,” I tell her, pulling my gloves off. “Still drop your shoulder when you breathe. Fix it.”
“Got it.” She nods, proud but not cocky.
The gym’s gotten louder now. The bags are thudding, ropes snapping, music heavier. I finish wrapping a few girls’ hands before hitting the shower.
I head toward the lockers just as Lady Cain, our VP, appears in the doorway dressed in her usual black tactical pants, black tank, hair pulled into a high ponytail. Her dog, Diesel, moves beside her like a shadow. He’s big, all muscle and steel-gray fur with white markings on his chest and snout. His spiked collar glints under the lights. He watches me with dead-calm eyes like he’s always three seconds from snapping a neck.
“Quinn’s asking for you,” LC says, her voice cutting through my thoughts like the crack of a pistol.
“What’s up?” I ask, wondering if she knows something about Amber.
“Another one of our girls turned up in Cross’s circuit.”
Dante Cross. Fucking hell.
His name tastes like rust on my tongue.
Underground promoter. New king of the dirty fight scene since he moved into Atlantic City. He set up shop in a warehouse two blocks from the bay, started hosting private matches that drew big money and bigger risks. His shady operations puts everything we work for at risk.
Some of our girls are starting to disappear into his ring. That’s the part that gets under my skin. The way the women we train, mentor, bleed for, are being lured into something we can’t control.
I hate not having control.
There’s a difference between training and street fighting, and if Dante Cross is playing rough in my yard, we have a problem.
I follow LC through the bar and lounge. The main wall glows with neon under the graffiti mural of members past and present. There’s a dartboard near the booth in the back, a pool table that’s seen more blood than chalk, and the bat Quinn used to cave in a trafficker’s skull is mounted above the bar like art.
We head through the side door and into the old brewhouse. Quinn is standing near one of the tanks. Her white tank top stained with black grease, goggles pushed into her wild blonde hair. She doesn’t look up when we enter. She’s holding a tablet and staring at paused footage.
LC nods toward the screen. “Show her.”
“Someone sent me this.” Quinn comments before hitting play. It’s a video from inside a place I know too well.The Pit. Dante Cross’s underground fight ring. And in the center of the cage?
Amber.
She’s got bruised arms and that stubborn chin she wore when I taught her how to block a jab just last month.
She’s bleeding. Fighting for her fucking life.
