Page 122 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

51

ALEX

The underground fight club pulses with violence tonight. Sweat, money, and blood saturate the air so thickly I can taste it on my tongue. The crowd roars around the cage like animals sensing a kill, their voices blending into a single primal scream that vibrates through the concrete floor beneath my boots.

I arrive through the private back entrance beneath one of the merged family warehouses. The location is deliberate. Neutral territory that belongs to all three organizations now, which means nobody questions my presence or my authority here. The security team nods as I pass, their expressions carefully blank. They know better than to ask questions.

None of the spectators packed into the warehouse realize the main event was arranged deliberately. They think they're here for another brutal fight between two skilled competitors. They have no fucking idea what they're actually about to witness.

Two months. That's how long it took to build this trap. Two months of careful manipulation, strategic losses, and calculated encouragement, all to take care of one fucking bastard. Zach proved easier to control than I expected once I realized the three things that drove him: adrenaline, gambling, and attention. The desperate need to prove himself as something more than his father's disappointing legacy.

What started as occasional betting at the fights turned into obsession. I watched it happen in real time. Zach graduated from spectator to participant, building confidence with every win I allowed him to have. I made sure he faced opponents who would challenge him just enough to make the victories feel earned, but never enough to actually hurt him.

Even though his dad resigned his office and wasn't able to protect his son as he used to, Zach still had some connections that I had to work around. I couldn't just outright kill him. Not without possibly starting a mob war. So I'd waited and watched, them schemed until I got him where I wanted. And tonight, I'm going to end that bastard once and for all.

I move through the crowd toward the cage, ignoring the people who try to catch my attention. The warehouse crackles with anticipation as the announcer's voice booms through the speakers, hyping up the main event.

Russ and Nick know only enough to stay away tonight. I told them I was handling the Zach situation personally, and neither man questioned it.

The cage dominates the center of the warehouse, surrounded by tiered seating that's packed to capacity. Overhead lights cast harsh shadows across the bloodstained mat. The metal fence gleams under the fluorescent glare, and I can see old stains on the posts where previous fighters left their mark.

When Zach enters through the east gate, the crowd erupts. He's built a reputation here over the past two months. Five wins, zero losses. The spectators love an underdog story, and Zach has played the part perfectly. Rich kid slumming it in the underground circuit, proving he's tougher than his privileged background suggests.

He's wearing black shorts and nothing else, his torso lean and marked with bruises from previous fights. His hands are wrapped in tape, and there's a confidence in his stride that I'll soon shatter. He grins at the crowd, soaking in their approval, completely unaware that every single one of those victories was a setup.

The announcer's voice booms again, introducing the second fighter. My name echoes through the warehouse, and the crowd's energy shifts immediately. People who know me go quiet. People who don't know me sense something dangerous in the sudden tension.

I step through the opposite gate.

The smile disappears from Zach's face instantly. His eyes widen, and I watch the color drain from his skin as recognition hits. He knows who I am. More importantly, he knows what I am. The realization that he's trapped in a cage with one of the three pakhans who merged their families crashes over him like ice water.

"What the fuck?" he says, his voice barely audible over the crowd noise.

I say nothing. Not yet. I move to my corner and let the referee go through the standard pre-fight checks. My hands are already wrapped. My body is loose and ready. I've been preparing for this moment since the night I found those boot prints outside Marla's cottage window.

The referee signals the start of the fight, and the bell rings. Zach doesn't move immediately. He's frozen, his brain trying to process what's happening. I don't give him time to think. I close the distance between us in three strides and drive my fist into his ribs hard enough to crack bone.

He gasps and stumbles backward, his hands coming up defensively. The crowd roars louder, mistaking his panic for strategy. They think this is going to be a good fight. They have no idea it stopped being sport the moment I entered the cage.

"This is for Marla," I say quietly, my voice low enough that only he can hear.

The realization destroys whatever confidence he had left. His eyes go wide with genuine fear, and he swings wildly at my head. I dodge easily and counter with a brutal hook to his jaw that snaps his head sideways. Blood sprays across the mat.

He's good enough to survive longer than most would. I'll give him that. The training he received over the past two months wasn't completely wasted. He knows how to move, how to protect his head, how to create distance when he needs it. But panic makes people sloppy, and Zach is drowning in it.

I refuse to end this quickly. Every punch I throw is calculated for maximum pain without immediate unconsciousness. I want him to feel every second of this. Every broken rib. Every split lip. Every moment of helplessness as he realizes there's no escape.

The crowd is losing their minds. Money changes hands rapidly as bets shift and people scream encouragement at both fighters. They think they're watching a brutal but fair competition. They don't see the cold calculation behind every move I make.

Zach tries to fight back. He lands a few hits that would hurt if I gave a shit about pain right now. A jab to my ribs. An elbow that catches my cheekbone. But for every hit he lands, I return three that are twice as brutal.

By the third round, he can barely stand. His face is a mess of blood and swelling. One eye is completely shut. His breathing comes in ragged gasps that suggest at least two broken ribs. But I keep dragging him back up every time he tries to stay down.

"Please," he gasps during a clinch, the word barely audible. "Please, I didn't know."

"Bullshit," I say coldly, and punch him in the nose. "And too bad."

I shove him backward and follow with a combination that drives him against the cage. The metal fence rattles as his body slams into it. Blood covers the mat beneath our feet, making the surface slick and treacherous. The referee is watching closely now, looking for signs that the fight should be stopped.