Page 30

"Who?"

"The woman from San Diego."

Marcus's eyes widen in disbelief. "She's Elizabeth?"

"Yeah. And apparently she's engaged to that motherfucker."

"Jesus Christ," Marcus mutters, running a hand through his hair. "What are the odds?"

I don't answer because I'm watching Audrey in Vega's private box across the arena. Even from this distance, I can see the rigid control in her posture, the careful way she maintains space between them despite the intimate setting. She sits with perfect posture, hands folded in her lap, looking like she's attending a business meeting rather than a fight.

"What do you know about Vega?" I ask.

Marcus follows my gaze, his expression calculating. "Thirty-six. Used to be a small-time gangbanger that ran with the Torrino crew out of Chicago."

I nod, not surprised. Marcus has always been better at gathering intelligence on potential threats. While I focus on the tactical side of our business, he keeps his ear to the ground about who's who in the criminal world. It's served us well over the years.

"Started fighting MMA while he was still running with them," Marcus continues. "Had some talent, won a few fights. Then he got popped for racketeering and did three years in federal."

"That explains the prison ink," I mutter, remembering the subtle tattoos I glimpsed on Vega's hands during our handshake.

"Got out about eight years ago. Still connected to the Torrinos, but he keeps it quiet. Uses the fight promotion business as a front now." Marcus takes a sip of his beer. "Smart move, actually. Legitimate income stream with built-in money laundering opportunities."

The pieces start falling into place. Vega isn't some reformed criminal who went straight—he's still dirty, just better at hiding it. Which makes Audrey's situation infinitely worse than I thought.

"How'd he get his hooks into the Worthingtons?"

"Arthur Worthington was looking to expand into MMA promotion before he died. Had some financial troubles, needed an injection of capital." Marcus's tone remains conversational, but I can hear the underlying concern. "Vega had the money and the expertise. Perfect partnership, except Worthington probably didn't know where the money really came from."

I watch Audrey in the private box, seeing her situation with new clarity. She's not just engaged to a businessman with a questionable past—she's tied to an active criminal who's using her family's legacy to legitimize his operations.

"The daughter's part of the deal," I say, the words tasting bitter.

"Has to be. Marrying into the Worthington family gives Vega complete respectability. No one questions a mob guy's business practices when he's married to Wyoming royalty."

The information should make me angry, but instead, I feel something colder settling in my chest. This isn't just about a bad engagement anymore. Audrey isn't choosing between two men—she's trapped in a web that goes much deeper than personal preference.

"Something's still off," I say, watching Audrey's rigid posture beside Vega. "The woman I met in San Diego wasn't justunhappy about an arranged marriage. She was running from something specific."

Marcus considers this. "Maybe she found out what Vega really is."

"Yeah. There's definitely more to this story."

The lights dim suddenly, and the arena's sound system crackles to life. The crowd noise shifts from casual conversation to focused anticipation as the ring announcer's voice booms through the speakers.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to tonight's main event!"

The energy in the arena becomes palpable, electric. This is what everyone came to see—two fighters at the top of their game, ready to test themselves against each other in the most primitive competition known to man.

Ben's entrance music begins to play, a driving rock anthem that makes the crowd surge to their feet. I watch as my brother emerges from the tunnel, his face a mask of concentration. He moves with the fluid confidence of a predator, acknowledging the crowd's cheers but keeping his focus internal.

He looks good. Better than good—he looks like a champion.

The bell rings, signaling the start of Ben's fight. I force myself to focus on the ring where my brother circles his opponent with fluid grace. Reyes is a solid fighter, experienced and dangerous, but Ben moves like he's already won this fight in his mind.

Ben starts with light jabs, testing Reyes's defense, measuring distance and timing. Reyes responds with a cross that Ben checks easily, then follows with a combination that Ben slips with minimal movement. The crowd murmurs appreciatively at the technical display.

"He's looking sharp," Marcus observes.