That’s not to say they don’t pick fights or carry grudges better than most. They just tend to… remove unwanted patrons by other means. And since the Murrays were part of the force that helped the Tanakas overthrow my family, I know I’m running on borrowed time.
I’ve been taking risks, continuing to enter the fights when I know the Murrays want my family dead. Why? I haven’t been able to figure that out yet. But I intend to. It’s partly why I keep returning to the pits—even if it means putting my life on the line each time I step into the ring.
The Murrays could easilyrig a match to take me out of the equation. To be honest, I’m more than a little surprised they haven’t. But the risk hasn’t stopped me from competing. In truth, I savor the thrill that comes with not knowing which fight might be my last. And if they do decide to play dirty, I’ll be ready for them.
I’m granted access after a pair of mean green eyes peer at me through the slat in the reinforced metal door at the bottom of the concrete stairs. The moment the heavy door opens, Seamus stepping aside to allow me in, noise crashes over me—shouts, jeers, the dull thud of fist meeting flesh. The dank scent of musty concrete and rusting metal quickly envelops me as a heavy body hits the floor with a muffled thud, blood oozing from the unconscious fighter’s mouth. Cheers erupt as the loud clang of the bell announces the end of the fight.
Then the door slams shut behind me, and heads turn.
“Christ almighty,” Liam crows from near the door, his laugh carrying over the din. “Would ya look at this? Chiaroscuro’s turned up for his fight in a bloody tux tonight.”
The Irishmen around him snort with laughter as more attention turns my way.
Someone whistles low, and Ronan points at the embroidered silk vest I haven’t bothered to strip yet. “Didn’t realize fighters were supposed to dress up for tonight’s big event,” he mocks.
I’m used to the razzing that happens here. Anything to get under a man’s skin. I don’t mind it. I’ve grown accustomed to the feel of my blood boiling. It makes me more dangerous in the ring.
Tossing my tuxedo jacket onto a stool, I shrug out of my vest, then strip my tie as I loosen the buttons around my collar. The white dress shirt clings to my back and shoulders as I roll up my sleeves to the elbow. My silence only fuels them.
Kennedy, the broad-shouldered bastard with a shaved head who I’m supposed to be fighting tonight, leans on the ropes of the makeshift ring, grinning wide enough to show gold teeth. “You’re late, Sandro. What kept ya? Your prom date want to slow dance?”
I crack my neck. “Had to tie the knot,” I say flatly.
That earns me a roar of laughter and several wolf whistles as I kick off my shoes and strip my socks, then I slip into the ring still wearing my dress pants and shirt. Most guys prefer to box in gym shorts or athletic gear, but it’s not unheard of to fight as you come, and I don’t really give a damn if my dress clothes get ruined. It was the price of ensuring I made it out of the house unnoticed.
“No wonder he’s late!” Ryan scoffs, his accent thick, his thinning red hair bright under the harsh overhead lights. “He was sayin’ his vows!”
“Jesus, it’s your wedding night?” Kennedy hollers over the riotous crowd. “Shouldn’t you be balls-deep in your bride instead of down here with us?”
The pit shakes with the echo of uproarious laughter, men doubled over, some nearly spilling their pints. Perhaps he’s right. But I don’t want to take my virgin wife to bed for the first time when I have days of pent-up violence still thrumming through my veins.
I know I have anger issues. Fighting is what gives me focus. It calms the storm inside me.
And I won’t touch Evelina until I know I’m in control.
I let the noise ride out, ignoring Kennedy’s jab with a silent scowl. Then I step forward, stripping off my shirt entirely and baring the dark tattoos that cover my arms, neck, and torso. They depict motifs of death, a silent warning to the men I fight of what’s coming for them.
I’m unusually devoid of bruises tonight—due to the considerable effort Raf has gone to in order to ensure my face was “presentable” for today’s ceremony. But now that the ink is dry on my marriage license, I’m ready to beat someone bloody so I can find some peace of mind.
“Are you ready to fight?” I growl at Kennedy, voice carrying over the din. “Or did you need more time to think about my balls?”
That shuts him up quickly enough, and the ropes creak as he pushes off of them to stand tall, his expression instantly stony. Kennedy is all Irish muscle—thick arms corded with veins, chest peppered with old scars, nose crooked from breaks that never healed right. He’s bigger than me by a good twenty pounds, butslower. I can see it in the way he moves, heavy-footed, drunk on Irish stout and bravado.
The crowd circles closer, shoving and jostling for the best view. Money changes hands, odds shouted over the racket.
Kennedy spits on the sand-covered ground—the most effective footing when it comes to soaking up the blood that’s spilled in this ring—then he cracks his knuckles. “You sure ya don’t wanna be home with the missus, Chiaroscuro?” he taunts. “First night’s supposed to be special.”
I roll my shoulders once, loosening them, and meet his gaze without blinking. “Don’t worry. I intend to make this a night to remember.”
The crowd roars approval.
Ryan—a wiry old bastard who’s been overseeing these fights since before I could throw a punch—doesn’t bother with ceremony. He just raises his hand, drops it, and bellows, “Fight!”
Kennedy lunges first. He swings wide, telegraphing the punch with his whole body. I duck under it, his fist whistling past my ear, and drive my own into his ribs hard enough to hear the air shoot out of him.
He grunts, stumbles, but recovers fast enough to bring an elbow down toward my temple. I block, absorb the hit on my forearm, and answer with a sharp jab to his jaw.
The crowd surges with every strike, their shouts deafening, their bloodlust feeding mine.
