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Ghost: Remind me never to piss you off.

Me: You’d have to matter first.

I dropped the phone into my lap, smiling as I took another sip of my coffee.

I’d never been this invested in a fight in my life. I used to think underground betting was just testosterone and broken noses, but this? This was strategy, misdirection. It was like a high-stakes social game, and I was playing it better than any of the sweaty men in the ring.

And the best part?

The payout would be clean.

If I bet on Moretti now, when the odds were tilted against him, and he still won? I’d make bank.

All I needed to do was time it right.

I refreshed the page one more time, watching the numbers like a stockbroker with better makeup and absolutely no regard for federal gambling laws.

Odds: –120.

Perfect.

I flipped over to the private betting site, checked the crypto wallet Ghost helped me set up, and dropped a fat bet on Moretti to win. Not my whole allowance—I was reckless, not stupid—but enough to make the payout entirely worth it.

Then I sat back, smug as hell, and let the thrill of it wash over me.

I couldn’t help it—I opened another tab and typed his name into the browser:Nikolai Morozov.

I scrolled through the same threads, the same grainy fight footage, and I swore I could’ve drawn his face from memory at that point. The cut of his jaw. The ink on his neck. The fire in his eyes when he stepped into the ring.

I knew I should have stayed away. I knew men like him chewed up girls like me and spit them out in a trail of red lipstick and regret, but I kept looking anyway.

There was just something about him that made me want to cross every line.

Something told me he’d love it if I did.

CHAPTER 9

Nikolai

“She placed a bet.”

The words hit the air like a loaded round, and I barely blinked.

Ivan stood across from me, holding his phone like it was a weapon in his hand. He was too casual about it, like he didn’t realize he’d just lit the fuse on something I was already two seconds away from detonating.

I was in the back office of the bar—the one we didn’t open to the public. One wall was lined with ledgers, the other with guns. My gloves were on the desk. My bloodied tape was still balled in the corner from that morning’s training round.

Ivan crossed the room and set the phone down in front of me, screen unlocked.

Private betting record. Timestamped. Verified.

Kingsley, Sloane.

Bet: Moretti.

Fucking hell.

I already knew.