Each time a hit is landed, the crowd reacts.
Chico gets his legs around the other man’s torso as he brings him to the ground and starts to demolish his face one punch after another, but then he’s flipped and a large hand comes down onto his neck. Ready to choke him out.
Blood is splattering onto the floor and dripping from their noses and mouths. Their eyes flare with an angry heat, but Chico’s are like an inferno blazing.
I look to Carmine, intending on just glancing at him to make sure he’s where he should be. Beside me.
What I see on his face makes me stop.
His shoulders are tight, eyes cold, and he’s one of the few not cheering. He watches like he’s studying each and every move.
An icy expression that far differs from the fiery anger and grief he showed earlier.
I can practically see the wheels turning in his head.
“You’re not going to fight him,” I remind him.
Carmine doesn’t look away. Eyes glued to the fight, glued to Chico. “It’s good to know any potential opponent,” he says, voice low.
It’s clear that it doesn’t matter what I say, he’s not going to back down from the idea that he might be in that ring someday.I know I can’t stop him forever, and I know that’s not my fucking job.
Carmine very well might be up against Chico one day. Eivor would probably love that. Another way to get the Dresvannis out of our way without being directly involved.
I don’t bother trying to rationalize with Carmine, I just look back into the arena as Chico is struggling to get the bigger man’s hands off his throat. Kicking and thrashing.
The crowd is clearly not in his favor.
Chico is an outsider, after all. Not from Italy, not even from this continent. Most of the men have nothing to lose, they fight like they’re not afraid to die, but Chico… He fights like he is.
He shoves the other man off with his feet and does a flip to land on top of him, punching him repeatedly and scratching at his eyes.
My interest is piqued.
Chico has something to lose. He doesn’t want to die. I can see that in the way he keeps going even when his body should’ve given out.
As he brutally kills the other man with his bare hands and teeth, leaving him a bloody pulp on the ground, I can’t look away. My heart is pounding slow but hard in my chest.
I imagine Carmine out there. I know he’d never make it. He doesn’t care if he lives or dies. He doesn’t need the money.
Chico does.
The audience boos and huffs and puffs at Chico’s win. I hear several people complain about betting against him, that they can’t believe he’s still going.
Chico is yelling victoriously in Spanish.
I small smile spreads on my face.
Eivor is going to want to know about him.
The fights aren’t over. Three more pairs are up, the final four will have to fight against each other to the death. More lives to be taken out.
It’s not the death that bothers me. No, the blood, the sweat…the heat that rolls of each of their bodies—man and woman alike—ignites a needy desperation inside me. One that urges me to step closer to Carmine, but I ignore it.
The way the audience comes back, week after week, betting on the winner, forgetting their faces the second they leave… it’s sickening.
But even I can’t stop myself from coming back time after time.
I’m distracted watching two more fighters enter the arena, when I feel a pull on the back of my shirt.
