I strip off my shirt, handing it to him, and the crowd's noise swells. They've been waiting for this, waiting to see if I still have it after time away from the ring. The younger men are filled with adrenaline, cheering and raising their fists in the air. And the women are here because they like a good fight too.
I climb through the ropes, bouncing on the balls of my feet and shaking out my arms. Clinton's already inside—younger, cockier than he should be.
He grins at me. “Heard you went soft, McCarthy. Heard you got yourself a pretty lass distracting you.”
I wink at him. “That right?”
His grin widens. “Gonna be embarrassing when I put you down in front of all these people, innit?”
Seamus shakes his head and rolls his eyes. Cavin's chuckling, throwing back a drink.
When the ref approaches us, he runs through the rules. “Simple, lads. You know them, but I'll go over them just the same, won't I? No weapons. No killing. First blood or knockout wins. Understood?”
“Aye.”
“Aye.”
We both nod, and the ref drops his hand.
Clinton comes at me too fast. He's overconfident, throwing wild hooks, trying to end it quick. I block, slip, and counter with a jab to his ribs. He grunts and staggers back.
The crowd roars.
We circle each other, and he begins to slow, learning, watching my footwork. Smart kid, but not smart enough.
I let him think he's got an opening, then catch him with an uppercut that snaps his head back. Blood sprays from his nose, and the crowd cheers.
But I don't hear them anymore.
Something's wrong. The energy in the room has shifted. Too many eyes on me. Too much tension in the corners. A hush falls over the crowd, and the lights dim.
I glance at Seamus. He's standing rigid, already looking at me, his jaw tight. His hand moves to his waist, where his gun is. He feels it too. We all do.
Fuck.
I turn back to Clinton, but he's backing off, his hands raised, blood streaming down his face.
“Tiernan—” I start.
“Stay in the ring,” he says behind me, his voice hard. “Stay in the ring, lad. I've got you. Wait.”
Tiernan's beside me in seconds, his knife in his hand.
“How many?” I growl.
“Six with him marching in. Definitely more hidden.”
The back door to the ring flings open.
“You think you can take what’s mine and live to tell about it, McCarthy?” Marcus fucking Crowning walks in, flanked by six men, all armed, all focused on me, marching in like men about to take the front line.
But what he doesn't know, what none of his men know, is that they're outmanned and outnumbered. This is McCarthy fucking territory, and every face in this warehouse is loyal to us.
“I'm done,” Clinton says quickly. “He wins.”
The ref doesn't call the fight but bolts.
Some of the crowd begins to clear out, people pushing each other aside to get to the exits. This is a mafia war, and we all know it.
