Page 5 of Ruthless Lord

“We’ll see.” He moves closer. His body’s overwhelming and warm. “What’s your name again?”

“Charlie.”

He considers me, his stare more than a little unnerving. There’s nothing hesitant about this man. It’s like he doesn’t care if I catch him looking me up and down, and he sure as hell isn’t shy about what he thinks. He stares down at my body like he’s sizing me up, chewing on the edge of his lower lip, before nodding to himself. Like he just judged me worthy. Which is both extremely insulting and weirdly arousing.

“Follow me.”

He strides off into the night.

“Shit,” I whisper, hesitating. Should I really follow the big, dangerous fighter into the unknown streets of deep South Philadelphia?

Apparently, yes. I hurry after him.

Chapter 2

Charlie

Stefano leads me along the quiet streets past trash-strewn lots and boarded-over townhouses. “Neighborhood’s seen better days,” I comment, keeping close to him.

“Give it time. Some clever realtor will give this place a trendy name and it’ll gentrify.”

I frown at him, surprised to hear such a massive guy talking about gentrification. “If you had to name it, what would you use?”

He seems to consider. “Shittington. No, Bloodbath South. Bloody South? Bloody Shit?” He touches a finger to his chin in thought. “Doesn’t have the right ring.”

I shake my head in awe. “Your mind truly is incredible.”

“Thanks. Don’t usually get complimented on my smarts.”

“What do you get complimented on?”

“My looks.” He grins at me, dashing and confident. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” I mutter, shaking my head. “You know, I’ve never seen you around the ring before. Was tonight your first fight?”

“First at that place,” he says dismissively, waving a hand. “I bounce around between the spots.”

“Really? Don’t you have to get vouched for to get into the warehouse?”

“That wasn’t much of an issue. I’m on a win streak.”

“Oh, impressive. How many now?”

“Fifteen.”

That gets my attention.

“Seriously? Fifteen unbeaten in the pit fights?”

“Might be sixteen. Don’t know.”

I study him, suddenly curious. Most of the fighters at my grandfather’s venue have impeccable credentials. Most are former MMA guys, though some come up through the underground rings and clubs scattered throughout North America. If this guy is local, that means he’s either well connected or very, very good at what he does.

I’d guess both, based on what I saw back there. If he’s not kidding about that long of an unbeaten streak, then he might be the best fighter to have ever come through this region in a long time.

Stefano slows outside of a rundown-looking dive bar about two blocks from the warehouse. I know it instantly and try not to groan. It’s called Paddington’s, like that stupid bear, and all the fighters from the warehouse end up drinking here after hours.

There’s no doubt in my mind at least ten people inside will recognize me.