Page 16 of Ruthless Lord

“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.