Levi made another run for the trash can, passing us with his hand clasped over his mouth. He barely had a scar or bruise on him, meaning he had never been in a fight before. And if he had, it might have been some schoolyard-level shit involving shoving and nothing else.
I answered Seb’s question with a simple, “No.”
Seb scoffed. “Bit harsh?”
“He’ll live.”
Not many newcomers who entered a fight came back again for a second go. Either because they were seriously injured or they decided once was enough. Unless they had a boss who expected them to fight when they were told to and quit when they were dead.
Antonio wasn’t that extreme, but he did have high expectations for his men.
Some guys fought for that once-in-a-lifetime rush inspired by the movies, while others genuinely thought they were good. Then there were the guys that just liked beating the shit out of people. At least in underground fighting, they could get away with punching someone to a bloody pulp.
The bloody pulp fighters were my favorite kind of opponent. They had no hesitation but were also extremely predictable and tired easily, which made for an easy fight.
“Should we start plannin’ his funeral?” The gruff voice came from a guy named Frank, as he stepped up on my other side.
I shifted away from him, keeping my face straight.
Frank was an ugly motherfucker, inside and out. His most defining feature was a jagged scar that ran diagonally across his face, twisting his mouth into a constant scowl on his doughy face. It was why he creatively called himself Scarface.
He wiped his bulbous nose on the back of his hand as he watched Levi, and then grunted and snorted simultaneously, like he was dislodging a boulder from his throat, and spat a phlegmy blob on the floor.
I curled my upper lip and took a step further away from him. Just in case whatever the fuck he had was contagious.
“Not sure...” Seb replied, swallowing a gag as he eyed the blob at our feet.
“Any suggestions, Deano? You will be the one puttin’ him in the ground,” Frank chuckled, throwing a sweaty arm around my shoulders and pulling me into him.
“Yeah.” I narrowed my eyes at him, jaw tight. “Move your fuckin’ arm.”
Frank laughed for a moment until he saw my face remained unchanged. His smile dropped, along with his arm, and he backed off. “Sheesh. Lighten up.”
“That was him being light,” Seb muttered sarcastically.
I fixed my attention straight ahead as Frank left us, muttering something to himself about how he really felt about me. What he said wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard before. I knew I kept myself guarded and ignorant people found an issue with that. But I also couldn’t give a fuck about what they thought.
I didn’t trust people and for good reason. I appreciated my personal space. The only people I ever allowed close were Seb and my mother.
My family hadn’t always lived in Brooklyn. We moved from Italy when I was 10 years old. The first week in our new home was fine. But good things never lasted. I was the strange, new kid who barely spoke English. I was small for my age which made me an easy target for theft, slurs, and one too many hits to the head with rocks they found in the school courtyard. As they got older, they learned to use their fists instead. Which was around the time I did too. I was 16, had grown several inches, and gained muscle — muscle I learned to work. I took up running every morning to release frustrations about school and home and committed to making my body a weapon.
The next time I faced those assholes (confronting them in the corridor between classes after spotting them picking on some kid) was when I punched the leader of their little posse, Scotty Richards, square in the face. It broke his nose and front teeth before he fell backward and smacked his head on the brick wall behind him, knocking himself out.
The suspension it got me brought an ear bashing and belting from my father, but it was worth it.
The atmosphere of the room was buzzing. The punters hooted and yelled like a pack of rabid hyenas as they watched the fights, spilling beer down their shirts as they dribbled and spat their support.
I stood by the entryway to the pit, shrouded in darkness just behind the doorway as I waited and watched via the straight, ten-foot-long path carved through the crowd. The only thing stopping them from spilling into it was the metal barriers, forming a wide walkway to get the fighters to and from the pit without a drunk gambler getting in the way.
Rolling out my neck and shoulders, keeping my arms loose, I took several deep breaths. Drifting into my head. Drowning out everything else.
Tried to drown out everything else.
Lily would be ending her first shift soon and Roxy’s offer was looking more tempting as I pictured her chest or ass in my hands— I physically shook my head at the idea, shrugging my hoodie off as I did and tossing it to a nearby seat.
The microphone let out a high-pitched ringing, followed by several tapping sounds before Joe addressed the audience, walking around the pit as the other fighters made their way out. They staggered and nursed broken noses and bruised ribs. Meanwhile, I was still wiggling a finger in my ear as the high-pitched mic ringing faded in my head.
"Alright, gentlemen." The noise of the crowd died down at the sound of Joe's voice. "Tonight's final fight is a little different from what we're used to. We've got a new guy going up against a seasoned fighter. Italian herbs to be exact." Joe looked smug about his little pun.
