CHAPTER 8
RAFE
The fight tonight won’t be easy.
I grab a roll of tape and start wrapping my hands. Tight around the wrists, looser around the palm. I don’t mind the pain. I welcome that part of it.
But broken hands and bruised knuckles are hard to explain in my day-to-day life. What I do at night is best left in the shadows. My hands and my face are the only two areas I can’t hide behind a suit.
It makes the fight harder for me. More technically challenging and the stakes much higher. I can’t let an opponent get a single good punch in on my face. I have to take them out before my defenses drop.
I wrap my left hand, movements slow and methodical.
When I’m in the ring, everything else fades away. There’s only me and him, and every single moment lasts an eternity. And then there’s the pain, well-deserved, driving away the gnawing guilt that haunts me.
I’m standing in the far back of the room. Far enough that the crowd blocks the ongoing cage fight from view. The air is thick with cigar smoke and sweat, and cheers rise in the familiar rhythm of a fight.
This place is hidden in the basement of an old office building in Milan. Phones are checked at the door and bets taken in cash. The roster is packed tonight. I paid the bookie extra to gain a spot in the line-up.
It’s been months since I’ve been here, but he recognized me all right.
I switch to my right hand. The calm I feel is like the absence of emotion. It only happens in places like this. Pain is coming, and with it, absolution.
I need it tonight more than ever.
The news is out now. The press statement went out a few hours ago, timed for the American media, and tomorrow will be a shitshow to control the narrative.
I hope Ben Wilde reads every single headline and weeps.
I promised him in that wine cellar several months ago that I would destroy him for stalking my sister. And that’s what I’ve done. Thanks to Paige, annoyance personified in a pretty blonde package.
Whoever I was expecting from her emails, it wasn’ther.
Chaotic, aggravating, and frustrating as hell. She’s whip-smart and makes being late a badge of honor.
I hate the way she winds me up.
I hate the red color she paints her nails.
And I hate the way we argue like it’s our job.
A loud cheer rings out in the room. Feet pound against the floor, hands clapping. Someone must have won. I wrap the tape tight and tear it off with my teeth. It’s been over a month since my last fight, and I can feel it. The restless tension, the coiling anger inside me. And the nightmares are starting to return. My brother’s death and the crushing snow.
This has always been the only way through for me.
Tonight, I’ve been matched with a Scandinavian tech bro I know very little about. Most people who fight in these games would surprise the average person. Some famous, others criminal. All drawn in by the anonymity and the adrenaline.
I pull my T-shirt over my head. I should have warmed up before, but there was no time. There’s never enough time. And tomorrow I have to go to dinner at Sylvie’s and pretend Paige and I are in love. I can’t lose her as head designer, and she’s too damn perceptive by far.
My phone rings.
I’d checked my fake one at the door. I’ll never give these people my real one.
I reach for it, intending to click off the call when I see who’s on the other end. I’ve been avoiding her calls for two days, so I guess it’s time. I’m already about to take a beating. I can take two.
“Hi,” I say into the phone.
“Finally!” my sister Nora says. “You married aWilde?”
