“The Dervishis aren’t into glamor,” he says, cutting the engine. “Now we wait and watch who arrives. See what we’re dealing with.”
I settle deeper into the passenger seat. The leather is warm from the fading sunlight, and the car smells like Vincenzo. We’re close in the confined space, shoulders nearly touching.
Cars begin pulling into the lot, but they’re not the sleek luxury vehicles I’m used to seeing in Montoni territory. These are battered sedans, mud-splattered trucks, and motorcycles that rumble like thunder. The men who emerge match their rides, thick-necked and heavy-fisted with tattoos crawling up their arms and faces that have seen too many fights. The women are hard too, with sharp eyes and sharper cheekbones, cigarettes dangling from painted lips.
“How many people are the Dervishis expecting?”
“Hundreds.” Vincenzo keeps his eyes on the building. “They use these fights to build loyalty. Cash prizes, free entertainment, a chance to see blood. Their soldiers love it and so do the locals.”
An expensive car pulls into the lot, and Vincenzo sits up a little straighter. A black sedan with tinted windows. Two men emerge, thick-necked and tattooed, laughing about something as they head inside.
“Dervishi soldiers,” Vincenzo says quietly. “Not my targets.”
Another gleaming car. Then another. I watch the parade of jaunty criminals, trying to memorize their faces. The Dervishi capos are rough men with hard edges and chains glinting at their throats.
“There.” Vincenzo’s voice sharpens.
A sleek black SUV pulls up, and the men who emerge are different. Better dressed. Alert and watchful. One of them hassilver threading through his dark hair, and he moves with the easy confidence of authority.
“Aleksander Dervishi,” Vincenzo murmurs. “Thekrye.”
I study Aleksander through the windshield. He’s handsome in an arrogant way, with a sharp jaw and cold eyes that sweep the parking lot before he heads inside.
“He looks dangerous.”
“He is.” Vincenzo’s jaw tightens. “He’s the one who stole my weapons shipment. Tonight, I find out where he’s keeping them.”
Another man emerges from the SUV, and I find myself leaning forward. He’s younger than Aleksander, with black hair that falls across his forehead, and skin so pale I can trace the blue veins at his throat. But it’s his eyes that hold me. They’re an almost colorless gray, like ice over deep water. Where Aleksander radiates power, this man radiates cruelty.
Despite the warmth of Vincenzo’s car, I shiver.
“Who’s that?”
“Dashamir. The younger brother.” Vincenzo’s voice is flat. “Don’t let the pretty face fool you. He’s even more ruthless than Aleksander.”
We watch in silence as more cars arrive. The lot fills. Music begins to pulse from inside the building, bass heavy enough to feel in my chest, even from here.
“Ready?” Vincenzo asks finally.
My heart is pounding. My palms are damp. But beneath the fear, there’s a thrill of anticipation. For years, I’ve been trapped in my father’s mansion, waiting for the next blow, the next punishment. I’ve been suffocating. But tonight, I’m out in the world, transformed into someone I barely recognize, about to walk into danger by choice instead of being dragged into it. I’m not a prisoner or a pawn or a victim. I’m Vincenzo’s partner, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel alive.
“Ready.”
“Then let’s go celebrate with the birthday boy.”
Vincenzo takes my hand as we cross the lot, and I’m surprised by how natural it feels. His palm is warm and calloused against mine, his grip firm but not crushing. We’re playing a role, I remind myself. Just two people attending a birthday fight night.
The warehouse swallows us whole. Inside it’s chaos, with bodies packed tight, the air thick with sweat and cigarette smoke and the metallic tang of blood. A makeshift ring dominates the center of the space, ropes strung between metal posts, and the concrete floor is stained dark in places I try not to look at too closely. Bare bulbs hang from the rafters, casting everything in harsh yellow light.
Two men circle each other in the ring. Both shirtless, both slicked with sweat, both bearing the marks of violence. One has a gash above his eye that streams blood down his cheek. The other spits a tooth onto the concrete.
I wince as the next punch lands with a wet, meaty crack, but quickly smooth my features back to interest.
The crowd roars, a wall of sound that pounds through me like a heartbeat. Boots stamping concrete. Voices screaming in Albanian. The wet smack of fist on flesh. The bell that signals the end of a round is sharp and tinny and swallowed by the noise.
Vincenzo guides us to a spot near the back where we can see the ring, but the exits are still in sight. His hand stays locked with mine.
“Breathe,” he murmurs against my ear. “You’re supposed to enjoy this.”
