“Twenty thousand,” I added, naming my price—the same as every other fight.
Viktor snorted a laugh. “Jesus fuck, Doc. Ten.”
“Twenty-five,” I countered, my stare cold, my tone colder.
For a long beat, he held my gaze, then his mouth twitched into something too close to a snarl. “One night I won’t need you, asshole,” his voice rasped, low and jagged. He leaned in close enough for me to smell the rot of whiskey. “Maybe I’ll let my men cutyouopen, take my refund out of your skin. What do you think about that?”
For one cold second, I let myself wonder what it would feel like to let his threat play out—curiosity edging past fear, detached as if I were already watching it from outside my own body. His goons flanked him, Big and Bigger, shadows with fists. One actually growled. I’d seen worse; hell, I’d dealt with worse than the fifty-cent gangster confronting me. I was prepared, and the syringe tucked inside my sleeve was a quiet reminder I could fuck with anyone who came too close. Not to mention, my cleaner, Novak, would be in here in an instant if I needed him to fuck people up.
He’d probably enjoy it.
“You could try,” I said, stepping forward and facing down Viktor and his meatheads. My hand stayed out, steady. He slapped the envelope into it—thick, heavy with cash—my usual twenty, I assumed. I didn’t know why he played this negotiating game every fucking time.
His lip curled. “Fuck you, Doc.”
I tucked the envelope into my coat. That was our ritual. He hated paying me; I didn’t give a shit, and money kept us playing our parts. With the money put away, I picked a corner behind a rusted locker and let the chaos of fight night creep in slowly.
My cell buzzed. I checked the cracked screen of my latest burner, thumbed the answer key, and stepped outside into the cold. One of only three people on the planet I cared about was on the line—Molly, my fourteen-year-old niece.
“Uncle Alli,” she whispered, voice pitched low, “you said to call if anything happened. Brad’s left the house again.”
I rolled my eyes—why wasn’t Molly’s twin as sensible as she was? Brad was a little asshole who was pushing every fucking button I had right now. “I’m on it, Mols.”
“I have photos,” she said, and my phone pinged. A picture of my stupid nephew climbing out of the window appeared on screen. I flicked to the tracker app—his signal was strong and live at Timmy’s Pizzeria. I’d fix that too. Brad knew better than to leave the house after dark, whatever the reason. “Did I do okay?” she asked.
Molly was my little spy, a tool, keeping an eye on her family like a hawk—a little version of me without the fucked-up backstory. Useful, sharp, already learning how to see what others missed. I cared about her childhood, but only in practical terms—life was fucked, and the sooner she learned that, the longer she’d live. As I told my sister when she complained, usefulness and experience outweighed innocence. Still, I knew Molly needed to hear my praise, and I reallydidmean what I said next.
“You did great, Mols.”
“Doc? Starting!” Big said in a gruff tone, arms crossed over his chest.
I turned my back on him. “I gotta go work now, yeah?”
“Bye, Uncle Alli!”
I turned to face Big and stalked over to him—he had ten inches on me, fifty pounds in weight, and scars and tattoos everywhere. I stood silently in front of him, my gaze flat, until he finally muttered, “Creepy fucker.”
I let the words hang in the air. “And?”
His throat worked as he swallowed, and Bigger shifted uneasily behind him. I didn’t smile. I didn’t blink. I let the silence stretch until it burned. Playing into the psychotic phantom they all believed me to be was easy when I had so much experience to call on. I might not be the medical definition of psychopath or, hell, sociopath, but my life has made me what I am.
A mix of everything no one wanted to know about.
Finally, Big stepped to one side, let me through, and I strolled back into the main room. They thought I didn’t know their secrets, but I did. Big with his gambling debt and sideline in drugs, Bigger with the girlfriend he beat when he drank too much—it all flowed to me eventually. They feared how I never backed down, but if they knew what I had on them and that I could turn their whole worlds to ash, they’d piss themselves.
Knowledge is power.
I knoweverything.
The noise of the crowd built like a storm, and I walked the perimeter, fed off its rhythm until it sharpened me to the edge I needed. Calm. Detached. Novak and the rest of my cleanup team were on standby one block away, and I was in control. That was my strength. Anger clouded the mind, and fear crippled instinct. I couldn’t afford either.
Red was here already, a nervous ball of energy, bouncing on his toes, wearing his freaking Prospect cut for a fight—who the fuck did that?—pupils blown, high on something, daring the world to take him on, cursing that Dragan wasn’t even here to face him.
Mikhail Dragan arrived late, brutal efficiency in human form—dense musculature, no wasted movement. I watched the way Red tracked him, every glance assessing. They weren’t exactly predators cut from the same cloth—Red was fifty pounds lighter than Mikhail, and he carried his cockiness as if that was enough of a weapon against the big Russian. Opposites. This fight would break Red, but he was too high on the potential cash payout to care. There were rumblings of discontent—more money changing hands—everyone knew this was Dragan’s fight to lose.
I’d seen the big Russian fight enough to know his rhythm, and tonight was no different. He entered stripped bare—taped ribs, bruises. He fought for release, not glory. I knew it because I recognized it. The same fire that had burned me hollow years ago.
He was an undefeated God in the Pit.
