Page 5

The ones who don’t know me, mostly new blood, think I’m just another asshole trying to act tough. They run their mouths, calling me a pretty boy because of my sandy brown hair and blue eyes, saying I’m too clean-cut to fight. They don’t see the blood I’ve spilled, the bruises I’ve worn, or the scars carved into me. They don’t know I was taught to throw a punch before I could even spell my name.

Meanwhile, the ones who know me hang back, smirking, staying quiet, placing their bets. They already know how this ends.

Respect is silent. Fear is loud.

I spot Kota near the cage. He’s easy to find, being 6’1” and towering over most of the crowd, just an inch shorter than me. His jet-black man-bun adds a little height, but the scruffy beard gives him that rugged lumberjack look. If lumberjacks wore custom suits and carried Glocks instead of axes. The guy looks like he belongs chopping wood, not working as my second-in-command forLa Cosa Nostra,but somehow, it works.

I need to get my head straight before I step into that cage. Not because I’m worried about losing, I just won’t let some asshole land a cheap shot.

Instead of using the locker room with the other fighters waiting their turn in the cage, I have my own private space. It’s an old office that I turned into mysecurity hub. The door sticks before it creaks as I push it open, and I’m hit with the scent of stale leather and faint sweat. A single oak desk sits against the wall, the security monitors flicker with grainy footage of the mayhem outside.

In the corner, a beat-up chocolate brown suede couch slouches under the weight of time, an old chair abandoned next to it. I should’ve replaced them by now, but I don’t give a shit.

I sink into the couch, the cushions giving way slightly under my weight. I lean back and stare at the ceiling, trying to push out the noise and rage boiling in my veins. My fingers rake through my hair, but the tension in my shoulders doesn’t ease up. I exhale slowly, but it doesn’t take the edge off. The fight’s already in me. I can already taste the adrenaline.

The door swings open, and Kota strolls in, grinning like he knows something I don’t.

“Took you long enough,” I mutter, lifting a brow. “What, were you counting the fucking stars?”

“Sorry, Boss,” he says, plopping down in the chair across from me. “Had to handle something. And I was making sure the bets were rolling in. You know how it is.” He taps his fingers against his knee, barely containing his amusement. “Up to $1.5 million on you to win.”

I don’t fight for the money, but I can’t help the evil grin that tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Good. I like it when they bet on a sure thing.”

Kota leans in, eyes full of mischief. Money makes him giddy like a kid on Christmas Day. “So, what’s the game plan? You gonna toy with him a bit, or just go straight for the kill?”

I crack my knuckles. “Depends on how stupid he is.”

Kota chuckles, shaking his head. “I mean, who doesn’t love watching you break a few bones?”

The crowd outside gets louder, telling me the current fight is over and it’s time. I rise from the couch, rolling my shoulders.

I move through the door, with Kota right behind me. We move past the eager spectators, their shouts ring out around me, eyes glued to my every step, but I keep my focus locked on the cage.

I pull off my rash guard right before I step into the cage.

This isn’t just a fight. It’s a fucking execution.

My opponent stands on the other side with a cocky grin plastered on his face. Thisstronzothinks he’s already won.

The light reflects off his bald head, and his brown, unblinking eyes zero in on mine. He’s trying to psych me out, but I’m not phased. He’s fit, I’ll give him that, but those muscles? Probably juiced up to his eyeballs on steroids. I can spot the signs—his arms look bloated, his C-cup pecs that shouldn’t even be there, and the stiff way he holds himself. I’ve seen guys like him break down when the real fight begins.

He thinks his bulk makes him strong and dangerous.

It makes him slow.

“Ready to get your ass handed to you?” I taunt, my smirk widening. He’s nothing special. Just another overconfident idiot who’s about to be smacked around like mylittle bitch.

“Bring it on, pretty boy,” he sneers. But there’s doubt in his eyes. I can smell it—fear, hidden beneath his fake bravado. Fucking pussy.

We slap hands and square up.

The bell rings, and he lunges at me.

But he’s too fucking slow.

I sidestep, letting his punch sail right past me. Useless. “That it?” I quip, tilting my head. His jaw tightens, and his face twists with irritation. Making him hesitate for just a second.

I drive my fist into his jaw. A sickening crack follows. Blood splatters from his nose, down his chin. He stumbles back, blinking through the shock. He wasn’t ready for that, and I don’t let him recover.