Page 17 of Ruthless Lord

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.”