Page 23 of Rio (Redcars #3)

Bruno’s right hook clipped my cheekbone and rattled my vision. The strike lit a fire in my chest, a surge of adrenaline so sudden and pure it tasted metallic on my tongue. My hands came up automatically; my body snapped into rhythm, muscle memory overriding thought.

We traded blows—tight, clean shots. I landed a jab to his ribs, and he countered with an elbow that scraped my temple. The cage echoed with every impact, the crowd roaring louder with each connection. Sweat stung my eyes. Blood was in the air, but not his.

By the time round one ended, I was bleeding. Split lip, maybe a cut near my brow—didn’t matter. The bite of pain made me focus. I stood tall, chest heaving, jaw clenched.

Bruno? He was posturing. Cool and composed, the barest smirk twitching at his mouth as he shook out his arms as if he wasn’t even warmed up yet.

Asshole.

But I wasn’t done.

The bell rang again.

Round two.

We moved faster this time—less testing, more teeth. I ducked a hook, swept low with a kick to his shin that threw him off-balance. He came back with a brutal uppercut that clipped my jaw, and stars burst behind my eyes.

Bruno was clean, controlled, and relentless. Every hit from him had purpose—no wasted movement, no showboating. He didn’t fight to impress. He fought to end it.

And I fought to feel something other than the fire tearing through me.

I landed a solid body shot that made him grunt— small victory. I felt the shift in the crowd, a ripple of sound, as if they’d smelled blood. Maybe mine. Maybe his.

He charged, and I took him to the cage wall, shoulder first, gritting my teeth as my taped ribs screamed in protest. We broke apart, both of us breathing harder now. Sweat slicked my spine. The air reeked of rust, metal, and old violence.

He got a glancing blow to my gut. I caught his jaw with a cross that sent sweat flying. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

We circled again, slower this time, bruises blooming with every breath.

By the end of round two, I’d given more than I’d taken—but only by a small margin.

And Bruno? He still wasn’t fucking bleeding.

Round three.

No more measuring. No more thinking.

We collided as if we’d been waiting for it all night—flesh on flesh, bone to bone.

I ducked, threw a kick that connected with his thigh, but he didn’t flinch.

He came back with a combo—left jab, right cross, knee to my gut.

The last one landed hard. I folded just enough for him to catch my temple with a hook that sent me stumbling .

The crowd roared, feral now, their voices blurring into a single, deafening noise.

My breath rattled. The copper tang of blood coated my tongue.

Bruno pressed in, all precision and patience. No wild swings. No wasted effort. As if he were dissecting me. Picking me apart a little at a time.

I got a shot to his shoulder, then another to his ribs. He grunted, maybe, but didn’t back off. Didn’t falter.

Pain flashed like fire through my left side. My ribs were screaming. The tape was holding but I could feel the ache.

I threw a wild punch, but I missed. He countered with a clean uppercut that snapped my head back, stars detonating behind my eyes again. My knees wobbled for a second.

I didn’t fall.

The bell rang.

I stumbled back to my corner, blood dripping from my chin, one eye already swelling shut. I spat red into the corner and didn’t look at Bruno.

He stood across the cage, still breathing steady, arms loose at his sides.

Still not bleeding.

Round four .

He came in as if the previous round had done nothing to him—but I saw it. The tell. A faint hesitation when he pivoted, the stiffness in his left side. That was where I’d hit him. The ribs.

I went for it.

A sharp right feint, then a left hook to the same spot—and I felt it. The way he hunched, instinctive and tight, just for a breath. He recovered fast, but it was there.

I pressed in. Fast hands. Clean strikes. I hit him again, and this time, the grunt was real.

Blood.

It burst from his nose, fast and bright. The crowd reacted instantly—half wild with approval, half stunned it had taken this long. Bruno wiped it away with the back of his glove, but I saw it in his eyes. That flicker.

He was bleeding. And now he knew I’d seen it.

He got erratic after that. Still dangerous, but the precision was gone. He swung wider, missed more. Started chasing me instead of controlling the fight. I moved, ducked, and clipped his thigh again. The edge was mine now.

I circled him, heart pounding, lungs seizing—but I could see the win.

I could fucking see it .

So I went in hard.

I didn’t give him time to recover, didn’t give him room to reset.

I stayed on him, pushed him back with every strike.

My fists found flesh—his ribs, his jaw, the side of his head.

His balance faltered, and I felt the shift again.

The fight was mine. My blood was already spent; I had nothing left to hold back.

Bruno tried to respond, but it was sloppy now—his arms slower, feet dragging. I landed a right hook that spun him. Another to the gut. I could hear the crowd losing it, roaring, but all I saw was him. Breaking. Cracking open under pressure.

One more shot—an uppercut that came from somewhere deep inside me—and he crumpled.

He hit the mat hard, eyes shut, bloodied and beaten, and finally, finally still at my feet.

I stood over him, chest heaving, blood pounding in my ears, my fists still raised as if they didn’t know it was over.

The crowd was roaring, a wall of noise that should’ve made my blood rush with pride, with adrenaline—but I felt nothing but peace in my head.

No glory. No satisfaction. My prize would go to Danny’s sister for the kid.

I kept staring at him, waiting for him to move. For the twitch of a shoulder, the groan of someone waking up from a hard fall. But Bruno wasn’t getting up.

I scanned the edge of the cage, searching for his handler. The man was already retreating, head down, sliding into the shadows like a roach under a light. Probably made bets he couldn’t cash.

Where the fuck was Lianne?

I nudged Bruno’s side with my toe—light, cautious. The ghost of Danny Carbone slammed to the front of my mind. The look in his eyes before he dropped. The way no one moved fast enough to stop it.

And then, somehow, Danny became Lyric.

It was Lyric crumpling at my feet, not Bruno. And that was a panic I’d never felt before.

My vision tunneled. I couldn’t breathe right. Every part of my body said move— do something —but my muscles locked. My heart slammed against my ribs as if it was trying to break free. I’d hurt people before, I’d knocked them cold, but this—this felt different.

This felt as if I’d lost something I wasn’t supposed to touch in the first place.

I found Doc in the crowd. He met my stare without blinking, then slowly raised one hand—five fingers spread .

Five thousand.

That was what it’d cost me for him on top of his already being paid by the organizers, just to come in and check. That was my entire prize tonight.

I glanced at Bruno. Then back at Doc.

And nodded.

Bruno started convulsing.

I dropped to my knees beside him.

“No…”

Doc was there within seconds, pushing through the wall of bodies as if he didn’t even see them. His face was as unreadable as always, but his voice came low and dry.

“Convulsions are extra,” he said, kneeling opposite me, already reaching for Bruno’s neck to check for a pulse.

“I don’t have?—”

He stared at me. “I’ll fix this for free,” he cut in. “But you and your friends owe me, Villareal.”

My head jerked up. “What?” He’d never said that before. Never named a price beyond money. Never asked for anything.

But I didn’t care.

“Okay, fucking do something for him,” I said, fists still clenched at my sides as Bruno twitched beneath us. I don’t know what I was promising us to do, but if Doc could keep this man alive…

Everyone else scattered when Bruno didn’t wake immediately. The factory floor emptied as if someone had pulled the plug; the noise outside turned hollow. There was no sign of Lianne. Just me, Doc, and Bruno.

Doc sat back on his heels, calm as ever. “He’ll live,” he said. “Someone will collect him. Internal bleeding—pneumothorax.” Then he jammed a needle into the side of Bruno’s chest.

I flinched. “Was that sanitary?”

He slapped tape over it without answering. “He needs more than I can do; I’ll call someone to collect and deposit at St Luke’s.”

“Someone who can help?” I asked, but sudden horror pricked me. “Not a cleaner, he’s not dying.”

Doc didn’t reassure me, but fuck, he never reassured anyone. “You need to go,” he added, already wiping the scene with a practiced calm, pulling out a second phone from his coat as if it were routine.

“My money. Tomorrow,” he said.

My phone buzzed—message received.

Money first, and then he called someone else, a garbled message in code .

I crawled backward, blood smeared on my knuckles, heart somewhere in my throat. My blood was all over him. What if he were dead? What if I’d?—

Doc’s hand fisted my shirt, dragging me up with a grunt. “He’s not fucking dead, asshole. Move!”

“We can’t leave him?—”

“What do you think you pay me for?” he snarled, yanking me with way more strength than I thought he’d have. I grabbed my hoodie and backpack from the hidden corner, and we stumbled out into the night. The air hit cold on my bare chest and sweat-damp skin, sharp, biting, and it was so fucking quiet.

Doc waited until I staggered away from him, dazed and useless, before he vanished into the dark.

I stopped around the corner, in the shadows, yanked on my hoodie as I walked, hissing with pain, then forced my feet into my sneakers.

The cut on my forehead was bleeding, probably needed stitches, and Jamie would have normally done that, but of course, he wasn’t at our place anymore.

So, Enzo it was, or me using a mirror, Robbie at a push, and I headed to Redcars with fear dogging my every step.

Had I killed someone else?