I paste a smile on my face and try to look entertained instead of horrified.
The fight ends when the bleeding man goes down and doesn’t get up. The crowd erupts in frenzied cheers. The winner raiseshis fists in triumph, blood dripping from his knuckles, and the referee grabs his wrist to present him to the crowd.
“Sloppy footwork,” Vincenzo says quietly. “He won on power, not technique. A smarter fighter would have taken him apart.”
I glance at him. “You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”
Vincenzo casts me a mysterious smile.
Two Dervishi soldiers duck into the ring and approach the winner. One claps him on the shoulder while the other hands him a thick envelope. Cash, I assume, his prize for drawing blood and entertaining the crowd. They gesture toward the roped-off VIP section at the front of the warehouse, where Dashamir and Aleksander sit with an entourage of hard-looking men and beautiful women. The fighter follows, still breathing hard, still bleeding, but grinning like he’s just won the lottery. When he reaches the platform, thekryestands and shakes his hand, all smiles and paternal warmth. Dashamir remains seated, those pale eyes assessing the victor with clinical interest. A woman appears with a bottle of expensive liquor and pours drinks. The fighter is offered a chair among the Dervishi elite, and he takes it like a man who’s just been crowned king.
“Fight hard enough, bleed entertainingly enough, and you get a seat with the men in charge,” Vincenzo murmurs.
The next fight begins. Two fresh men, circling, feinting, testing each other’s defenses. This fight is more technical. Fewer wild swings, more calculated strikes. I watch Vincenzo watching them, noting how his eyes track every movement.
“The one on the left keeps dropping his guard after he jabs,” he murmurs. “See it? There, he did it again. If the other one was paying attention, he’d counter with a right hook and end this.”
As if on cue, the fighter on the right notices the same thing. His fist connects with his opponent’s jaw, and the man crumples.
“Took him long enough,” Vincenzo says.
The winner is helped from the ring, triumphant and bloody. A Dervishi soldier approaches him and claps him on the shoulder, then gestures toward the roped-off section near the front.
In the VIP section, Dashamir watches the proceedings with detached interest. Aleksander sits beside him, laughing at something, a woman draped across his lap. But Dashamir is alone, a spider at the center of a web. I force myself to look away before those colorless eyes find mine.
More fights. More blood. I lose count of how many men enter the ring, how many leave victorious, how many are dragged out unconscious. The crowd’s energy builds with each bout, their bloodlust a living thing that pulses through the warehouse.
I keep my expression neutral. Interested. I laugh when the crowd laughs, cheer when they cheer, and try not to think about the broken bones and split skin.
Then the referee steps into the ring and raises his hands for silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen! For our final bout of the evening, in honor of Dashamir Dervishi’s birthday, a chance to see a man die!”
My attention was wandering, relieved that the fighting is almost over, but now it snaps back to the ring.
A man ducks through the ropes. Not a man. A mountain. He’s enormous, easily six and a half feet tall, with arms like tree trunks and a shaved head that gleams under the lights. Scars crisscross his knuckles, his chest, his face. He looks like he was built for violence and nothing else.
“Our reigning champion!” the referee bellows. “Undefeated in twenty-three fights! Who among you has the courage to face him?”
The crowd whoops and stomps, everyone craning their necks to see who has a death wish.
“The prize tonight is one hundred thousand dollars! Cash! Who wants to be a rich man?”
The screaming intensifies. The mountain stands in the center of the ring, cracking his neck, rolling his massive shoulders. He looks bored. Like he already knows he’s going to win.
“No volunteers?” The referee scans the crowd with theatrical disappointment. “No one brave enough to face our champion?”
You’d have to be desperate to throw yourself into the ring with that death machine. Or crazy.
Vincenzo turns to me.
His hand cups my jaw, tilting my face up, and then his mouth is on mine. The kiss is sudden and deep and hungry, and for a moment I forget where we are. I forget everything except the taste of him and the heat of his body against mine. This is what I’ve been craving all day. His lips, his hands, his attention focused entirely on me.
My mind races, even as I kiss him back desperately. His car. We could go to his car. Or find a bathroom, a closet, anywhere with a door that locks. I need to be alone with him. I need his hands on me, and his muscular chest pressed against me with nothing between us. I’m ready. I want to give him everything. My body, my virginity, all of it. The ache between my legs is unbearable, and I’m so wet I’m sure he’d slide right in if we just had somewhere private, somewhere I could strip off these clothes and pull him down on top of me.
The thought makes me whimper into his mouth. I don’t care that we’re in public. I don’t care about anything except getting him alone so I can finally have him.
When he pulls back, I’m breathless. Dazed.
