ONE
Rio
The cage smelled of sweat,cheap beer, and old blood.
The makeshift arena was buried deep in an underground parking garage, hidden beneath a half-collapsed building in a forgotten part of Los Angeles, where even the police didn’t dare patrol.
Generators rattled in the corners, belching smoke as they struggled to keep the floodlights, bolted into cracked concrete beams, alive. The lights flickered as if they might fail in any second, throwing long, jagged shadows over the cage. The chain-link structure sagged in places, rusted and slick, with old blood baked into the canvas. Everything here was temporary—easy to pack up and vanish by daylight, leaving only the stink behind.
The crowd pressed against the fence, faces illuminated with flashes of harsh light, wild and rabid. They shouted, cursed, waved fistfuls of cash, eyes gleaming. This wasn’t sport. This was desperation. A place to settle scores, collect debts, and break bones.
No one cared where I came from or why I was here. Even at eighteen, I was already raw muscle, knew how to throw a punch, and that was all people wanted.
I’d grown up in a shitty two-bed over a busted auto shop on the south side. Oil, sweat, and gunfire were the sounds and smells of my life . Mom bailed early. Dad taught me to fight before I could read. Fighting kept me out of gangs, put food on the table, gave me something when I had nothing. Made him proud.Like that meant shit.
He got shot when I was sixteen. Two blocks from home. Stupid reasons—turf, money, who knows. Miguel Villareal—loud, mean, and mine—was gone.
Then came Vinnie. Said he’d promised my dad he’d watch out for me. Gave me a mattress and a way out of the system. Fights, cash, and easy promises.
I was desperate.
Scared enough to bite.
Easy to manipulate.
Vinnie had his hands on my shoulders. “Staysharp, kid,” he ordered. His breath smelled of whiskey and cheap cigars. “Aim for the head and don’t lose focus.”
Aim for the head?
That was good boxing etiquette, right? Clean shots, controlled aggression. I had dreams of going all the way. Real fights under bright lights. Vegas. Championship belts. Money stacked higher than I ever thought possible when I was fighting in backstreet cages for rent money and promises. Fighting was supposed to be my ticket out. My way to make something of all the pain, all the fists, all the blood.
I nodded because I always nodded. Because back then, Vinnie’s word was gospel.
But the guy who stepped out under the lights wasn’t big, bulked-up Max who was my size and twice as ugly.
It was Danny Carbone.
Smaller than me, not my usual weight class, but I knew him—wiry, compact, quiet. We’d crossed paths on the rotating gym circuit. He had this softness to him, dark hair tied back, sharp jawline, too damn pretty for the world we lived in.
We’d sparred once. Nothing official. He’d helped me up when I slipped, his hand firm on my elbow,eyes steady and warm. It hit me then—something piercing, buried deep. Attraction I couldn’t afford. Not in this world. Not for someone small and sweet andmalelike him.
But it stuck. The way he stared at me like I was more than fists and bone. I buried it, but fuck, I wanted him. Not only to touch—something real. Mine.
Even now, just seeing him lit me up.
I shot Vinnie a glance, double-checking it was definitely Danny I was facing. I could’ve sworn I’d seen Max listed on the board, the kid I’d prepped for—long reach, lazy defense, easy to work around. But this wasn’t Max. It was Danny. Clear as day. My stomach clenched. “I thought I was up against Max,” I muttered.
Vinnie shrugged, casual as fuck, as if it didn’t matter that he’d thrown me into the ring with someone I wasn’t ready to fight. His eyes were flat, unreadable, as though he didn’t even register the switch-up. Or maybe he did, and this had been part of the plan all along.
Danny’s walk was loose and relaxed, not edgy and hyped like mine, as if his body wasn’t engaged in the moment. But it was his expression that stuck. Dead eyes. Empty. As if all that softness I remembered hadbeen scraped away. As though he was already somewhere else before we even touched gloves. I peered at him, but his pupils weren’t wide; he wasn’t high.
I frowned.
“Shit, are you sure you wanna do this?” I muttered, low enough that only he could hear. I’d taken out people double his size and had a foot on him and thirty pounds at least.
Danny’s mouth curled into a sneer. “Fuck you, Cabrón,” he snapped, his eyes flicking to the side—toward his handler/manager at the edge of the ring.
I don’t like this.
