Page 21 of Ruthless Lord

Stefano

I t’s early evening as I pull over to the side of the road on a quiet highway in the middle of the Jersey pine barrens.

Huge scrubby trees tower over a parked truck, its four-ways flashing.

Traffic blows past, their headlights casting long shadows.

I walk slowly toward where the driver’s sitting on the back gate, legs kicking, toying with something in his lap.

“You better have a good reason for this,” I call out. The driver’s an older guy called Chatty. It’s an ironic nickname since the guy doesn’t talk all that much. He’s grizzled and beaten up from years behind the wheel running long routes, and he’s one of our more experienced and skilled employees.

“I thought you’d want to see this.” He tosses a black rectangle to me. I catch it and frown at the simple plastic case.

“The hell is this?”

“Found it under the rear axle.”

“Stuck from the road?”

“Taped.” Chatty’s expression darkens and he doesn’t elaborate.

I turn the box over in my hands, looking for markings. There’s a serial number on the bottom alongside a company name: Kestral Telematics .

Well, fuck me sideways.

I know that manufacturer. They build GPS tracking shit. I used them all the time back when I was running operations on the street. Their kit’s always high quality, cheap, and reliable.

“You sure it was taped? Not something we did?”

Chatty nods once. “Positive.”

That’s definitely not good. If someone bugged his truck, I’m betting they did the same to all our other vehicles. “I’ve got to make some calls. How’d you find it, anyway?”

“Noticed something was running interference on the edges of the CB radio band. Used that electric scanner wand and came up with it.”

“Smart man.” I nod to him and turn away. Chatty deserves a fucking raise. “Stay here for a few more minutes.”

He grunts and leans back as I pull out my cell.

Davide answers on the third ring. “This better be good. I’m elbow deep in a World of Warcraft raid?—”

“Chatty found a GPS device taped to his truck.”

Davide curses and I hear him fumbling with something in the background. “You’re fucking serious?”

“Dead serious. I’m bringing the device to you. Any way you can figure out where it’s transmitting?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Call the rest of the fleet. Any trucks out on the road need to pull over and scan their undercarriage with the electronic wands.”

“Told you that was a good idea.”

“Great, you’re a fucking genius. Get a crew in and scan the trucks still in the depot. I need all those devices found and removed.”

“Got it.” Davide sounds grim and I hear him typing in the background. “You think this has to do with the break-in?”

“Definitely. The office might’ve been a distraction.”

“You think their real goal was the GPS units?”

“That’s my guess.” I shake my head, gripping the little plastic rectangle in my fist. “How many runs have we made since that night?”

“You probably don’t want to know.”

“Pull a report.” I rub my forehead. This means hours of reading and thinking. I need to know what those thieving bastards saw of our operations. I’m hoping nothing important, but I can’t say for sure. We have a lot of trucks on the road and most of them are running legit cargos.

Others though, like Chatty’s big rig over there, they’ve got other illicit payloads.

“I’ll head over to the depot right now. Drop the unit off when you can.”

“I’ve got a fight in a few hours so I’m not sticking around.”

“Why not? You don’t want to raid with me?”

“I’d rather gouge my own eyes out.”

“Ah, come on. You’d make a great Orc Fighter.”

“I don’t know what that means and I really don’t want you to explain it.”

“My guild is always open?—”

I hang up on him and shove the phone back into my pocket. Chatty’s watching, chewing on a cigarette, smoke blowing around his head. I gave him an alright signal, spinning one finger in a circle in the air. He gives me a thumbs-up back, hops off the gate, and gets back in the cab.

I stick around to watch him rumble off, back into the pine barrens.

Fucking GPS unit. I stare at the thing sitting on the seat next to me. Its red light is still on, and I wonder who’s catching the data it’s sending out. Will they notice this long pause?

I don’t care. I gently pry open the edge, find the battery with my fingernail, and pop it out.

The light fades to nothing.

The warehouse is busy. The private booths surrounding the fighting ring are packed with high-end clients.

Men in dark suits puffing cigars with multiple coke-skinny girls hanging on their arms. They’re probably throwing absurd amounts of money on each match like it’s nothing.

All to impress some expensive Dutch prostitute.

The lock room is buzzing with anticipation.

I change into my fighting outfit: a pair of loose black shorts and nothing else.

I wrap my fists, taking my time, enjoying the prefight jitters.

I always get a little nervous. Doesn’t matter how many times I do this.

No matter how good I am, there’s a lot of luck in every fight.

I can be faster, stronger, and still get a freak knee to the throat or land on my head and break my neck. Shit happens all the time in the ring.

It doesn’t help that I’m hurting all over. My back’s aching from driving to Jersey and back. Goddamn Jersey. It basically infected me with its awfulness.

“You going in soon?” A young fighter who goes by AcidRain puts a foot on the bench next to me. He does some hip lunges. The guy’s wearing this flamboyant fucking pair of boxing shorts, half bright pink and half bright yellow. They’re ugly as sin, but a lot of the fighters do shit like that.

Branding . Seriously.

My only brand is hurting people. But these fuckers all have styles and fancy names.

The world’s getting worse all the time.

“Yeah, soon.” I check the time and finish wrapping my knuckles.

“Good luck, old-timer. I’ve watched your last few bouts. You’re really good. I bet you were a beast in your prime.”

I slowly get to my feet. AcidRain grins at me. He’s got more shoulder than neck. “I’m still peaking.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Sick thing is, I believe you. But you do know who you’re up against?”

“I don’t look at the schedule.”

“Seriously?” His smile fades and he looks incredulous. “You really don’t know?”

“Now you’re getting on my nerves.”

“Sure, no harm meant.” He raises his hands apologetically. “But just a heads-up, you’re in with Vladimir tonight. Good luck, man.”

AcidRain walks off. I glower at his back, frustrated as hell.

This is why I don’t check my opponent. It doesn’t matter who’s across the ring from me. A fight’s a fight no matter who’s throwing the punches. But now that I know, doubts start to creep in.

There are two undefeated fighters that I know of. I’m one, and Vladimir is the other. He’s called the Butcher of Moscow, and he’s one vicious motherfucker. I’m pretty sure he’s a hitman for the bratva, but we don’t talk about that sort of thing as a professional courtesy.

Doesn’t matter. Keep focused. I do my prefight stretches, which get harder and more important every year, and methodically crack all my joints, from neck to toes.

It’s the only way I can properly loosen up.

When I’m done and finally feeling ready, about five minutes before showtime, a chill falls over the locker room and half the guys go quiet.

I look around, expecting to see Vladimir coming over to try intimidating me before we go at each other, but I find something much worse instead.

Charlie stands beside my locker, her fists jammed into her hips, looking both uncomfortable and deeply pissed.

God damn, that woman is beautiful. She’s in black ripped jeans, a black shirt, and a dark checkered flannel shirt.

She’d almost fit in with half the normal people in this place, except it’s obvious everything she’s wearing costs a small fortune.

Even when the rich girl’s trying to slum it, she still shines.

That’s not a bad thing, if I’m being honest with myself.

She could shop at Goodwill and still walk away looking like perfection incarnate.

It’s not the clothes, but the way she holds herself, like rooms should bow down at her feet.

I’m constantly amazed at this girl, and even more impressed that she’d waltz in here a second time, now without a man chasing her.

“Didn’t expect you,” I say honestly.

“I heard you were on the list again.” Her scowl tightens. “What are you doing?”

“I guess you talked to Albert.”

“He’s smart enough to mention when my husband decides to risk getting killed.”

I grunt, shaking my head, aware of the other fighters listening. But fuck it, let them eavesdrop. “Not worried about that.”

“You might not be, but I am. Do you know how annoying it’ll be if you get killed in the ring?”

“Glad you’re worried about my safety.”

“The paperwork’s going to be a nightmare.”

“Feel free to dump my corpse in the Schuylkill.” I tilt my head, smiling slightly. “I know a few guys there. I’ll be comfortable.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be funny. This is stupid.”

“You know this is what I do.”

“Right, but I thought?—”

“What, that I’d change for you?” I step closer. I like the way her eyes drift to my bare torso. She’s looking at my muscular chest, at my defined abs. At the tattoos stabbed into my skin. The scars and the knotted flesh. The canvas of all my hurts. “This is who I am.”

“That was before we got married.” Her voice lowers, eyes narrowing. “Our marriage is important. Your Don wanted it, remember?”

“He’s not here asking me to stop.”

“But you would if he did, wouldn’t you?”

I lick my lips, leaning closer. “I’m a man of my word. As you damn well know.”

She’s frustrated by that. “Your wife’s asking you not to fight.”

“My wife won’t even let me touch her.” I hear AcidRain suck in a snickering breath and I shoot him a look. The young man claps his mouth shut and pretends like he wasn’t listening. “Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t go out there.”

“I heard about the guy you’re going up against.” She’s talking softly. Is she actually worried right now? There’s a glimmer of fear in her eye which surprises me. “He’s serious, Stefano. The last guy he fought ended up in the hospital on life support.”

“Pretty sure he pulled through.”

“With a permanent feeding tube. Please don’t do this.”

I reach out. I want to touch her cheek so badly it aches in my chest. I want to reassure her, make her understand.

I’m not those men. All my aches, all my pain.

All the wounds that nag and keep me up at night when she thinks I’m sleeping soundly.

All of that’s just proof that I was built for that fighting ring.

It’s who I am.

“I want a week,” I say softly, almost whispering, forcing her to come closer. I want to touch, but I don’t. I know the rules.

“What do you mean, a week?”

“One week with no rules. Freedom to touch you as I please.”

Her lips part. She’s breathing quickly. “That’s too much.”

“Are you afraid?”

“No, it’s just—” Her shoulders sag and she glances to the side. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

“I told you, I’m a man of my word. Give me a full week, and I won’t go out there.”

She takes a deep breath. I can tell she’s considering it. A big part of her wants to let go, wants to let me have what I desperately want.

Which is her, under my fingertips, writhing and moaning. Sweating, gasping, arching, digging her heels into the mattress, taking me deep.

And I know that’s what she needs too.

“I can’t,” she whispers. “That’s just too much.”

“Then go find Albert’s box and enjoy the fight. I’ll be thinking about you.”

“Stefano—”

“You heard my deal, wife.” I turn away from her. If she’s not going to bend for me now, then I have no reason to change for her either.

Besides, Vladimir is waiting, my fists are taped, my joints are warmed up, and I’m ready.

The bloodlust thrums in my heart. A steady hunger in my chest. I want to go out there and lose myself in simple violence.

There’s nothing better than releasing all my worries and fears and becoming a vicious animal.

“Don’t get yourself hurt,” she calls after me. “I’m not going to take care of you!”

I smile to myself, pushing open the door. It’s like she doesn’t know me yet.

I’m always hurt. Every part of me is hurt.

That’s what I do.

Eat pain and keep going.

She’ll figure it out sooner or later.