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Chapter 1
Vicente Godoy
“You ready to get your arse kicked?” Owen grins as he yanks off his shirt, tossing it onto the bench in the club locker room.
This isn’t just any private elite men’s club. Onyx isn’t just about cocktails and cigars and talking business. It’s where men like us—spoiled, filthy-rich elites—come and let our most basic instincts run free. We drop the masks we wear for boardrooms,and let our rage and insanity run wild. Onyx is where reputations are bruised and egos are shattered.
“I didn’t come to talk. I’m ready to kick your arse,” I shoot back, matching his grin with a wicked smirk.
“Bloody hell. Vic is ready to throw some punches. Let’s do this.”
The familiar rush of anticipation burns in my gut as we head into the ring. Owen is my best friend since uni, but once we’re on the mat, friendship doesn’t matter.
James, my cornerman, approaches to help us with our helmets and gloves. “Don’t go easy on him, boss,” he mutters.
The bell rings, and Owen and I start circling each other.
I throw the first punch—clean, fast, and straight to his jaw. He stumbles but recovers quickly.
“Rough day at the office?” I taunt, dodging his punch and connecting with a solid hit to his midsection.
“You trying to distract me, you wanker?” Owen huffs as he rubs the spot I just connected with.
“Not a chance. Now spill. How did the meeting go?”
He dances around the mat, evading my strikes. “I’d say it went well. The numbers look good, the reports are solid but…”
I pause mid-step, narrowing my eyes. “But what? What’s wrong?” I ask, curious about why he’s not closing the deal he’s been talking about for a month.
As the head of the Godoy Group, I’m in charge of managing my family’s investments and looking for opportunities to grow our portfolio. It’s only natural that my friend feels comfortable asking for advice from someone who manages a twenty-seven billion-dollar fortune.
“I don’t know, Vic. Something feels off,” he says, hitting my jaw so hard that it takes me a second to see straight.
“Motherfucker,” I growl, shaking it off as I put my gloved fists back up. “And here I was about to offer my help.”
Owen smirks. “Who says I need your help?”
“Your face did. You look like a man who is about to make a shitty decision.”
He lunges, but I duck and slam a punch into his gut, driving the air out of his lungs.
We spar for three more rounds. By the end, the ref declares me the winner, and I shout, playfully shoving Owen’s shoulder as we leave the ring.
“Yeah, yeah. You won this time,” he mutters, still trying to catch his breath. “Next time, I’ll be the one shouting like a lunatic.”
I chuckle at his assessment.
Owen always tries to best me when we spar, but he never wins. He’s fast, I’ll give him that, but he’s no match for my six-foot-three frame or the thirty pounds of muscle I have on him. His wiry build doesn’t even come close to my sheer strength.
“By help, you mean…?” His voice trails off, but the question hangs between us.
I look up, meeting his gaze.
This has always been our dynamic. We’re both smart, calm—you could even say cold— when it comes to business. But I’m the shark. The risk-taker. The one who knows how to close a deal.
And he knows it.
“I’ll go in and make sure you’re getting the best deal possible,” I say at last.