My chair screeches against the stone as I climb to my feet, letting out a long breath. It’s all I can do to keep my anger under control.
But that dumb fuck Val has to go and open his stupid mouth. “I don’t even know what this is about, but it doesn’t seem very fair.”
“Fair?” A chuckle claws its way out of me. “Twenty men dragged from their homes in chains and forced to fight each other to the death. And you want ‘fair’?”
“Marco,” René says softly, but I can hardly hear him over the blood rushing in my ears.
“I’ll tell you what’s not fair, Val, how about that?”
He scans the others for their support when I walk toward him, but he’s on his own. We’re all on our own out here.
“What’s not fair is that I went to a little party last night. An impromptu party. And do you know what Caro Rodrigo told me?”
He flushes at the use of his sponsor’s name, turning his face full toward me.
“She said she doesn’t like the look of that bruise on your face.”
“What br—”
I bring my fist down with full, vicious force, clipping his cheek, splitting his nose, spraying fresh red across his plate.
“What the fuck?” he shouts.
I grab him by the chin, hot blood gushing over my hand. “She doesn’t think she wants to sponsor you if you’re not going to draw the crowds with that handsome face.”
“Marco, stop,” yells Max, climbing to standing, while Cas leans forward on an arm, his fingers failing to hide the grin on his lips.
“Maybe you want to shut the fuck up right about now, Max?” I return.
And he does exactly that. He’s not a complete idiot. He wants to be captain next, and I don’t think he’d be stupid enough to jeopardize that by slipping the razor blade.
But I bet he knows who did it.
So I shove Val’s head down on the table, then settle eyes on Jason.
He’s immediately on his feet, ready to fight me off. But we’re surrounded by guards, watching on passively, and he doesn’t stand a chance.
“Do you know who else was at the party?”
“Marco, don’t,” says Jason, backing up as I round the table for him.
“Andrew Garcia.” My hand smashes into his stomach fast, no warning, and I slam his face down on the table. “He doesn’t like the sound of that cracked rib.” I slam my elbow into his side, and it sounds fantastic. One rib, hours and hours of pain. But I’m just getting started.
Even as he screams in agony, I force his face hard into the wood, taking up the knife next to his plate. He quiets when he feels the cool steel against his cheek, nothing but the wheezing of his deep, desperate breaths.
“Who put that razor blade in his food?” I ask softly.
No one says a word. A few of them exchange glances, but not one of them will give it up.
“Who the fuck put that razor blade in his food?” I shout, digging the blade into Jason’s face.
A spurt of blood splashes across the table. A few of them stand, shouting protests, looking like they might try to stop me.
But they won’t.
“It wasn’t me,” Jason cries. “I didn’t do it. I don’t know anything!”
I pause the movement of the knife, keeping the tip deep in his flesh. “I can make it all stop,” I tell them. “You can get your freedom back. You can live what’s left of your lives in some comfort. You all know I’m thechampion. You all know I get the final match. This doesn’t stop until I say so.”
