Let them see the angry, red skin.
Let them see the stark black stitching.
Let them see everything I did to myself.
Whether they believe Matt’s story about the spy, or whether they know the truth, let them see the lengths I’m willing to go to protect him.
Even from himself.
Chapter 20
Matt
I wish I could make Aron understand. I have to fight the biggest, baddest, meanest newcomer. I’ve fought every other enforcer in the Syndicate at one time or another—even Javier—and come out victorious each time. If I don’t fight Grady, if I don’t face him in front of the entire remaining Syndicate, I risk losing their respect.
Worse yet, I could lose the chance at gaining Grady’s respect. That in itself could be deadly.
Bare knuckles, bare feet. No weapons—or rather, since Grady has the surgical enhancements—no weapons that aren’t implanted.
I wonder if he thinks those studs impress me. I’ve been hit with my share of brass knuckles in the past. This can’t be that different. I just have to focus past the pain. Simple enough. Nothing I haven’t done before.
Since it’s getting late, I have some of my men set up a ring of spotlights in the courtyard. That way, everyone can see. The lights are set up at specific angles, so Grady and I won’t be blinded during the fight. We’ve also piled sandbags around theedge of the proclaimed battleground, creating a physical barrier to identify our boundaries, with the agreement that neither of us will use said sandbags as improvised weapons.
Our older associates seem to be treating this as the somber affair that it is, but the younger Syndicate members and new recruits all act as though this is some frat house party. They’ve brought folding chairs and coolers full of beer and snacks.
Children. They’re all children these days.
Grady shows up right on schedule: eight o’clock, on the dot. He’s barefoot, shirtless, and wearing loose linen pants, just as I am. His muscles ripple with each step, and loud cracks echo in the courtyard when he rolls his neck and shoulders to stretch them.
Since I can’t compete with the volume of his joints, I don’t bother trying. I stretch with calm, leisurely movements, purposefully taking care to avoid cracking.
“So, what other rules are there, Don Matteo? I suppose we can’t grapple or lock?”
“Grappling and locking are allowed, but chokeholds are not.” I bounce back and forth on the balls of my feet and throw a few light punches to loosen up. “It would make for a rather boring show if one of us were to be choked out in the first few minutes. Wouldn’t you agree?”
He nods his agreement, then beings to crack each knuckle loudly.
More showing off. More theatrics. He’s cocky, perhaps too cocky.
My odds of winning this just significantly improved.
“You plan on dancing around the whole time, Don Matteo, or will you actually fight like a man?”
Grady thinks he can unnerve me by making thinly veiled gay comments, but little does he know that I’ve dealt with that my whole life. He can’t get under my skin that way. Hell, implyingthat I’m gay has less effect than if he started saying I was weak or claiming I was unfit to run the Syndicate.
I’m living proof that gay men can fight. Can kill. Can rule.
Still, I want to avoid that revelation for now. My hold on the Syndicate is tenuous, and if I let Grady reveal my secret, it could end me.
“Projecting, Grady? If you swing that way, it’s fine by me, but there’s no need for self-hate here. The Syndicate is a very progressive organization.”
Grady snarls and snaps at me, his jaws clamping down on air.
“Is biting permitted?”
“My, you’re a desperate one. No. No biting. We’re not fucking savages.”
He growls again and turns his head to the side, spitting out his grill to reveal steel canine fang dental implants that match the ones on his grill, both in length and sharpness.
