Page 6 of Ruthless Lord

Stefano

I t’s quiet in the locker room of the arena. The hum of the crowd is blocked by twenty feet of cinderblocks and insulation. I sit on the hard bench, elbows on my knees, listening to death metal to psych myself up.

My heart is steady. My fists still hurt from my last fight.

This is the calm before everything good.

There’s a tap on my shoulder. I flinch and look up, half standing in an instant.

Enzo’s there, holding his hands up with a cold frown.

I rip out my earbuds. Enzo glares at me, disappointment written all over him. “What are you doing here, Stefano?”

I let out a grunt and tilt my head to the side, cracking my neck. “Fighting.”

“I can see that.” He gestures at my shirtless torso and the simple black athletic shorts I’m wearing. My fists are wrapped with tape. “But I’m wondering what the fuck you’re thinking.”

“Not thinking.” I sink back down to the bench, my back turned to him. “Fighting.”

Enzo sighs. He paces behind me. I don’t pay him too much attention. He’s like an annoying fly buzzing in my ears.

The guy has no power over me.

Luca’s another story. He’s my Capo and I’d die for him. I’d rather kill, though. And there’s Adriano Marino, Don of the entire Famiglia. But he’s the boss of all bosses, and I never see much of him.

Enzo’s only Luca’s second-in-command. Ever since Luca got married and started focusing on different parts of the business, I’ve been stuck with the pain in the ass.

Leo’s gone, working in New York, and Davide basically never leaves his computer cave.

Which means I’m stuck with Enzo most days at the trucking depot where we run our operation.

“This is beneath you, you know that?” Enzo grunts as he lowers himself down beside me.

The guy’s only thirty-four, though, and he acts like he’s ancient.

I’m over forty with more scars, broken bones, and wounds than any human has a right to survive, and I don’t grunt and groan like he does.

Even if every part of me aches all the damn time.

“I don’t agree.”

“You got a promotion, Stefano. You don’t need to be out here doing this sort of thing anymore.”

I frown at my fist. Promotion, my fucking ass. Now I sit in an office and make phone calls. I hate phone calls.

“I like fighting.”

“God damn it, Stefano, come on. Stop doing the caveman routine for once and talk to me. What are you thinking?”

I look at Enzo. I’ve known him for a long time. He’s pragmatic, smart, and normally very calm. But we don’t agree on certain things.

Like risk, for example. He doesn’t like risk. Whereas I live in that gray area between a plan coming together and a job failing catastrophically. That’s where I feel alive.

But thanks to my promotion, I’m not out on the streets much these days.

“I really like fighting.”

He groans and leans forward, elbows on his knees, shaking his head. “Is there any way I can talk you out of this? You need money? More work or something? You’re not busy enough?”

“I’m fine.”

“Then what is it?”

The door bangs open. The gruff stage manager pokes his head into the locker room. “Stefano Bianchi? One-minute warning. Get moving.” Then he’s gone.

I get to my feet. My right knee aches. My shoulders are sore. When I flex my hands, all my knuckles creak and crack. I’m pretty sure I have a broken rib and the fucker won’t heal all the way.

“This is where I belong.” I pat him roughly on the shoulder. “Put some money on me, will you?”

“Already did,” he mutters, shaking his head.

I limp away from him, smiling to myself. Enzo’s not such a bad guy. Different opinions on some things, obviously, but he’s not stupid.

He knows what I am.

Just like I do.

The roar of the crowd hits me. The lights are too fucking bright.

The bass is deep and thudding and the music’s way too loud.

Who the fuck can talk in a place like this?

I’m so damn old these days. Over forty now, somehow.

Not sure when that happened. I stalk forward toward the ring where a man half my age is warming up, a muscular prick with lots of ugly tattoos and a shaved head, shadow boxing and flexing. Putting on a show.

I barely look at the people around me. Money’s passing hands right now. Lots of these morons are making bets based on what they think of me as I slowly climb up into the ring, my back aching, my heart thudding nice and slow.

Let them see what I am.

A man past his prime, slower than he used to be, beaten up from a thousand fights and a dozen wounds that would’ve killed lesser men.

I stand facing my opponent. No jumping around, warming up, showboating, none of that shit. Things I might’ve done in my younger days. Back when the world made more sense. When there was a path I wanted to follow and goals I wanted to achieve.

I’m not him anymore.

Now this is all I need. The ring under my feet. The threat straight ahead. The simplicity of two men with a shared goal.

Kill or be killed. Fight until you win or you can’t move anymore.

The announcer says my name. There’s a tepid applause. When he calls for my opponent, the crowd goes totally wild.

Their screams mean nothing to me.

I stare at the younger man. He’s beaming, feeding off their approval. To him, what they think is everything. I remember what that feels like, and I know it’s a dead end.

Adulation fades away.

But the fight remains.

I’m wicked and broken. It took me a long time, a lot of violence, and even more pain, to finally understand what I am at my heart of hearts. What’s ticking inside of me, what I want.

What I need.

And it’s this, right here.

“Rules are simple,” the announcer is saying, “the bout continues to submission or knockout. No rounds, no breaks. Fighters ready?”

My opponent raises his arms with a wicked grin. The crowd screams their joy.

I nod solemnly.

“Let the battle begin!” the announcer shouts.

My world focuses into this moment. No matter how many times I do this, no matter how much I ache and how bad my wounds get, this always happens. Nothing else matters but the fight. I know it makes me an evil man. The way I live for violence.

There’s nothing good left in me, and I accepted that a long time ago.

That’s why I step into the ring.

That’s why I fight.

Because this is what I am.

My opponent comes hard. He’s snarling, overconfident.

I step back, making space, judging his speed.

He lands a few quick jabs, grinning as his fist thuds into my arms and shoulders.

I’m in a guard, playing defense. I can smell the violence and his reeking bloodthirst. Another jab comes for my face, and this time, I slip forward.

I take the punch on my jaw, but it’s soft.

He’s off balance as I land a shattering punch to his midsection.

I hit him a second time with my knee, crunching it straight into his ribs, and he cries out as he stumbles backward, flailing wildly to keep me at bay.

In the old days, I’d be on him, punching until he stopped moving. But that knee hurt my fucking hip, and when I step forward to press, my bad ankle nearly gives out. I grunt in pain, clenching my jaw, and pretend like I chose to hold back.

Now my opponent has the measure of me. His face is locked in a determined stare as he moves around me, feinting lightly, favoring one side. Definitely bruised something. Might’ve broken it. He comes on again, and this time, I decide striking’s not going to work for me.

I catch a couple punches as I barrel in for a takedown. I grab his legs and we struggle, but I’ve done this a thousand times to a thousand better men than him, and soon his back’s on the mat and he’s trying to hit me as I take the top position.

Strangely, as I pull back and rain down punches, I think of Charlie.

And all the disappointment I felt when I saw her slip from my bed, out my door, and into that black car waiting out front.

My fist shatters my opponent’s jaw. Blood sputters from his nose and mouth as I hit him again and again.

This is how I felt when I was deep between Charlie’s legs.

Fully alive, deeply in the moment, like I was built to make her come.

Just like I was built to break this man.

It’s not elegant. There’s nothing beautiful about the way I pummel him over and over again, breathing hard. I’m out of fucking shape and too damn old for this. My fists feel like pulp as I keep going, again and again.

He’s not moving anymore, and I feel someone grab me from behind.

The world comes roaring back. The crowd’s screaming like crazy and the announcer’s begging me to stop. I look around in a daze and realize my opponent’s face looks like a bulldozed watermelon. I get up wearily, breathing hard, completely exhausted and spent.

I’m pretty sure the guy’s still alive.

I don’t care either way.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner!” My arm is lifted into the sky. I scan the faces around the ring and spot Enzo sitting in the front row, smiling grimly.

Bastard probably won a fortune on me.

I limp back to my corner and drink some water. The bliss of the fight is already fading away. Now that it’s over, I’m lost. What’s the point of me? A man who knows only how to kill?

What does this world need with another old warrior past his prime?

I limp heavily down the stairs and back toward the locker room. My mouth hurts from taking a punch. My knee feels like it’s going to be swollen tomorrow.

I make it to the back door and into the hall before a man steps in my path.

“Stefano Bianchi?” He’s got a sharp face, a bald head, and soft eyes.

Built large and flabby, but that probably hides a street sort of strength.

I’ve seen men like him lift cars before.

He’d probably look comfortable in a pair of cutoff jeans and a sleeveless shirt, although he’s in a dark suit tonight.

“That’s me.” I shuffle past him and into the locker room, desperate to get off my feet.

“My name’s Albert Morton.”

I stop walking.

Well, shit. I know that name.

I slowly turn to face him, squinting. “You’re the fight manager.”

“You know me.” He smiles warmly. I don’t trust anyone who grins at a stranger like that. “I know you as well, Mr. Bianchi. I know you work for the Marino Famiglia.”

“That’s not a secret.” I slump down on a bench with a groan. “What do you need?”

“My employer wants to speak with you.”

“Yeah? And who’s that?”

“Harrison Westbrook. You might not recognize the name, but I assure you, he’s very much worth your time.”

Westbrook…

I try not to show my surprise. That’s Charlie’s last name. And she was talking about how she’s connected and knows people…

Can’t be the same fucking family.

There’s no way I slept with the daughter of the man who runs these underground fights.

But knowing my luck, that’s exactly what happened.

The way Albert’s looking at me, I get the feeling this isn’t exactly a request. Men like Westbrook, men who have resources and power, rarely give men like me any options.

My lower back aches. My knee’s definitely sprained.

Slowly, I push back to my feet, despite how badly I want to sit and rest a while.

“Let’s go then.”

Albert’s smile fades. “You don’t want to change?”

“No reason to.”

“You have blood—” He gestures at me. “All over.”

I grab a towel and wipe it off my chest. Then I pull a shirt on. “Better?”

Albert laughs as he turns away.

“Good enough. Follow me. He’s not far.”