Page 11 of Dance of Devils

A few handshakes and a couple of “always good to see you, Mr. Nikolayev”s later, I’m walking out the side door into the New York night.

The sweltering, locker-room stink of the warehouse dissipates as the relatively cool city air washes over me. I roll my neck and crack my knuckles, and I’m heading back to my car when something catches my attention and doesn’t let go.

It’s ironic that tonight’s fight happened to be held here, at a warehouse directly across the street from The Mirage strip club.

Dimitri owns the Mirage. At least, he will until the terms of our agreement go into effect six months from now and he’s forced to sell it. But it’s not Dimitri’s flickering neon sign advertising “GIRLS GIRLS GI-LS”—as if there’sanyconfusion about what goes on in that shithole—that captures my attention.

It’s the young woman.

From here, she’s just another blonde in a skirt and t-shirt, half turned away from me, holding what looks like a ratty old gym bag to her chest. But I’m not looking at her because she’s caught my male attention.

I’m looking at her because she’s currently surrounded by four fucking hyenas.

Finance douchebags, by the looks—all Dockers and polo shirts and watches they can only afford if that long-shot short position of theirs pays off by the next quarterly meeting at Black Rock, or Ironclad Holdings, or whatever other fucking hedge fund they work at.

The definitely don’t look like they belong outside a neon dump like The Mirage, circling the girl like carrion birds.

Whatever this is, it doesn’t look…friendly.

Italsodoesn’t look like my business. So I turn away with my keys out, ready to feel the rev of my Aston Martin DBS Superleggera, listen to some Nirvana on full volume through the speakers, andgo the fuck home.

It’s her scream that stops me.

Not the shriek of a damsel in distress. It’s more like a battle cry as she prepares herself for war. But when I turn back to the scene behind the strip club, I don’t see a battle.

I see hyenas chasing prey.

The girl is running through the back parking lot, dropping her bag at some point as she dashes across the street. The jackals stay right behind her, closing in fast.

My jaw tenses. My muscles coil. My hands curl back into fists, like they were earlier.

One of them tackles her to the concrete of an old, beaten-up parking lot, and the rest of them pile on.

I don’t even realize I’m running until I’m almost on top of them. I’m unaware of crossing two streets and another parking lot until I’m milliseconds away from crashing right into them.

Which is exactly what I proceed to do.

The motherfuckers have her clothes half ripped off, but scatter like fucking bowling pins when I slam into them with a guttural roar. After that, it’s not even a fight, even though there are four of them.

One, they’re apparently a bunch of pussies. And two, there’s a fury in my blood I’m not even sure I felt back there in the ring with Roman.

The first one crumples when I break his nose and smash his front teeth in for good measure. I hit him again, because why the fuck not, and this time, the light dims in his eyes before I throw him back and turn to his friends.

Down goes another. Then the third, as he’s turning to run like the little bitch he is.

The fourth shitbag actuallydoesstart to run away. But he doesn’t make it ten steps before the hunk of broken tarmac I throw at him hits him squarely in the back of the head, shutting that down.

I have half a mind to line the four of them up and execute them right fucking here. But before I can think through the logistics of committing quadruple homicide, a soft, broken,heartbreakingwhimper comes from behind me.

I turn, and my eyes finally land on the girl.

Christ, they did a number on her. I move toward her, my teeth grinding tighter with every step. Blood covers half her face, her long blonde hair matted into it covering the other half.

I avoid looking at her bare breasts, her ripped shirt and half torn-off bra. She makes a small move to push her skirt back down over her underwear. As I get closer to her, her eyes snap to mine, bright, crystal blue. Even through the pain, the tears, and the blood.

But when they lock with mine as I start to kneel down next to her, something dims in them and she collapses utterly, like her body’s just…given up.

The rational thing to do back in the ring was tostopfighting the big motherfucker fifteen years my junior. Same as the rational thing to donowwould be to call an ambulance, or the police—or both—to make sure she gets the help she needs.