“She was just getting her feet under her.” I grit my teeth. “How’d she get into Cross’s ring?”
“She left two nights ago,” Quinn says. “Told Riot she was crashing with a cousin. Never came back.”
Quinn opens the security app on her phone, “Then there’s this.”
She shows me another recording of Amber taken outside Steel Roses and date stamped right before she left. Amber’s talking to a man in a grey hoodie. The footage is grainy, but I recognize the profile. He’s one of Dante’s runners. I’ve seen him skirting the edges of the city up to God knows what, staking out rival gyms, hell I chased him out of Steel Roses a time or two. What is his name? Maty, Marty… dammit I can’t remember.
“She must have needed cash,” LC says. “Bad enough to take a fight with no rules. That’s what they offer now.”
I stare at the screen until the image blurs.
“He’s dragging our girls out of safety and into his hell.” I grind out through clenched teeth.
“And he’s doing it on purpose,” Quinn adds. “He’s not just a threat. He’s a fucking siphon.”
I look at both of them.
“I’m going to talk to him.”
LC crosses her arms. “You want backup?”
“No. This one’s mine.”
Quinn normally hates when we ride alone but this time she just grins, “Keep the rubber side down.
The city’s caught in that golden hour haze when I hit the road. A low growl of engine rumbles beneath me as I ride through the old industrial district, itching for a fight.
I keep west, cutting through the industrial district, past crumbling buildings and junk yards where old cars go to die. Dante’s gym comes into view. Another repurposed warehouse painted black from roof to rusted foundation. No signs. Noguards. Just a single surveillance camera that swivels the second I hit the lot.
It doesn’t take long to find him. He’s leaning against the back of a matte-black Dodge Charger parked near the side of his warehouse. A cigarette pressed between his fingers, his arms folded across his chest, head tilted slightly like he owns the whole damn block. He’s in a fitted black tee, dark jeans, and boots. Black hair tousled like he’s been dragging his hands through it. His dark, unreadable eyes are the kind that pin you down before you even blink. And a smug twist on his mouth that says come at me,princess,and really grates on my nerves.
I kill the engine, swing off my bike and close the distance. I stop a foot from him. Close enough to feel the heat off his skin. Close enough to smell the arrogance. His eyes rake over me, head to toe, slow and assessing. The kind of look that makes most women shiver or slap.
I do neither.
“You poached one of my girls.”
He doesn’t move. Just stands there staring at me with that damn smirk.
“She came to me,” He tosses the cigarette to the ground and snuffs it out with his boot, “Said she needed to fight.”
“She’s just a kid,” I mutter.
“She was desperate.”
“You used her.”
“No,” he says. “I paid her. When she left, she left with more in her pocket than she’s ever seen. You want to blame me for giving her a choice you didn’t?”
That hits like a hook to the ribs. Hard and mean.
“You don’t know what we do,” I say.
“And you don’t know what they need.”
We’re inches apart now. His voice is low, rough. Mine matches it.
“Your ring is a death sentence.” I shoot back. His smile fades momentarily.
