“Can we—” I begin to ask.
My desire for Vincenzo is reflected back at me tenfold in his eyes, but he swings away from me toward the ring, and calls out, “I’ll fight him.”
His words cut through the noise of the crowd, and suddenly everyone is turning to look at us. At him. The mountain in the ring grins, showing his teeth, some of which are missing.
I’m so overwhelmed by my body’s reaction to him that it takes me a second to catch up with what he’s just announced.
“Vincenzo,” I hiss, grabbing for his hand. “What are you doing?”
He looks down at me, and his eyes are wild and reckless. “Trust me, doe.”
Then he’s striding toward the ring, and the crowd is parting for him, screaming and applauding wildly, and I’m left standing alone with my heart in my throat, slick heat between my thighs, and the taste of him on my lips.
No, no,no.
This isinsane. Vincenzo is tall and well-built, but he’s not a giant. The mountain outweighs him by at least sixty pounds and has arms that could snap Vincenzo’s spine like kindling. Twenty-three wins. Twenty-three men who thought they could take him and failed.
I’m going to watch Vincenzo die.
I try to move closer, but the frenzied crowd closes around me.
The referee checks Vincenzo over for weapons. “You want to take your shirt off?”
Every other fighter who’s entered the ring has stripped off his T-shirt and grandstanded with his arms spread, showing off his muscles.
“I’m good, man.”
“Suit yourself,” the referee says with a shrug, and steps back.
The bell rings.
Vincenzo and the mountain circle each other.
The mountain moves first, throwing a massive punch that would cave in Vincenzo’s skull if it landed. Vincenzo ducks under it, but barely. The crowd roars its approval. The mountain swings again, a brutal hook aimed at Vincenzo’s ribs.
The sound of the impact echoes through the warehouse. Vincenzo staggers, his face twisting in pain.
I’m standing on tiptoe without realizing it, my nails digging into my palms.
Dodge away.Hit him back.
The mountain presses his advantage, throwing punch after devastating punch. Vincenzo blocks some, dodges others, but one gets through, a vicious uppercut that snaps his head back and sends blood spraying from his mouth.
He goes down on one knee, bright red blood flowing down the front of his white T-shirt.
The crowd screams. The mountain raises his arms in premature victory.
I can’t breathe. All I can see is Vincenzo on the ground, bleeding, and the monster looming over him ready to finish it.
The referee’s ghastly words echo in my mind.In honor of Dashamir Dervishi’s birthday, a chance to see a man die.
Then Vincenzo spits blood onto the concrete and stands up.
His eyes have gone cold. Focused. The recklessness is gone, replaced by something clinical. He rolls his shoulders once, testing, then moves.
And God, does he move.
The mountain swings again, but this time Vincenzo isn’t there. He slips to the side with a dancer’s grace and drives his fist into the mountain’s kidney. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.
