Harlow stands in the center of the ring, shoulders squared, fists wrapped. Strawberry blonde hair is braided tight down her back, keeping it out of reach. She’s wearing black shorts, and a cropped top that shows the lean strength of her body, the kind earned through pain and discipline. Her blue eyes are sharp, focused, alive in a way that hits me straight in the chest.
She’s changed.
Stronger. Harder. There’s a bruise already blooming along her jaw, and instead of backing down, she smiles like she’s daring the world to hit her again. When she turns, I catch a glimpse of the tattoo running along her spine. I zoom in close and readNo heroes neededinked in clean, unforgiving script as the stem of a blooming red rose sitting between her shoulder blades.
My jaw tightens.
I don’t remember breathing as I watch her move. The way she shifts her weight. The way she reads her opponent. The way she takes a hit and gives one back twice as hard. She drops a man nearly a foot taller than her with ruthless efficiency, and the crowd erupts.
I shove my phone into my pocket. Standing here won’t save her. Thinking won’t save her. Only moving will.
I head for the kitchen, the familiar warmth and chaos of the Savage compound a sharp contrast to the cold focus in my chest. The smell of sugar and butter hits me as I spot the cookie jar on the counter, still half-full of Christmas sugar cookies someonebaked earlier. I grab a scrap of paper, scribble a note, and tuck it inside the jar before snapping the lid back on.
Charli, give this to the men when you find it. Gone hunting. Wish me luck. I might need bail money… or a casket. I’ll keep you posted. Merry Christmas. —Haze.
I grab my keys and head for the door, the night air biting as soon as I step outside. I don’t slow as I get into my truck. The engine roars to life, and I peel out of the compound like hell itself is on my heels.
This isn’t how I planned to spend Christmas night.
Then again, it’s not every night my ex-fiancé picks a fight in my underground fight club.
2
CIPHER
The Den is louder than usual. The noise hitting me like a physical thing as soon as I step inside. Music pounds through hidden speakers, bass vibrating through the concrete. The air is thick with smoke, sweat, and adrenaline. Someone slaps my shoulder as I pass, another chest-bumps me hard enough to make a point.
“Cipher!” a deep, smoke-roughened voice bellows from the middle of the crowd.
Rafael Milano. The man who stands at about my height, catches my eye and so does the viper tattoo on his hand. No one can miss the ruby red eyes of the venomous creature. He’s part of the Red Letter Syndicate and comes here to blow his billions. Something I wasn’t aware of a week ago. After seeing them show up on site with Veles and the Vultures, I did some digging and made quick work of getting to know the men. All nine of them.
Turns out, he and his wealthy crew of criminals aren’t into drugs. But they are into scouting out potential threats. Hence why they’ve been seen with Veles. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, and all that bullshit.
“You up on the roster tonight, Savage?”
He’s won about four million off my blood and sweat so far. I’ve made three times that as the one in the ring. I never said I wasn’t as loaded as the fuckers in here betting, but by the looks I get from a few of the Botox babes in here, you’d think I was a bottom feeder.
Must be the neck tattoos making me look bad.
I shoulder my way toward him and we clasp hands. Rafael has a lady on each arm with another walking toward us with a whiskey in each hand.
The mafia man is living the high life, but the dullness of his eyes reveals another story. I recognize going through the motions of life just to keep from ending it all.
I shake my head. “Nah, man. Not tonight.” My eyes scan the space behind him and the crowd closing in on all sides as another set of fighters step into the ring.
My eyes immediately land on Harlow.
“I’ll be back after the new year to take your money from you though.”
“Deal.” We bump shoulders and I leave him to his night so that I can get back to mine.
I don’t spend much time in the Den unless I need to work something out physically. Too much screen time will make a man crazy if he doesn’t bleed it off now and then. At least that is true for me. Tonight, though, I’m not here for myself.
A familiar face pops up in my line of sight before a hand snatches my arm. “Hey, man. I didn’t think you were comin’ in. Thought it was your night off.”
“Monies, man. Good to see ya. All good, tonight?”
The Savage in-house bookie taps a new pack of cigarettes against his palm before sliding one out and lighting up. Monies sits on his usual rickety metal stool beside the caged ring—broad-shouldered, salt-and-pepper running through his trimmed beard, and eagle eyes that catch everything. The aging man used to be a fighter. There’s an easygoing slouch to his posture, but it’s all calculated—he misses nothing. Now he’s the one taking bets, running the numbers with a lazy drawl and a sharp mind. He’s laid back, sure, but nothing gets past him. Around here, everyone respects his last word.
