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Chapter Twenty-Eight

M aya

Tony lounges in my office chair like he owns it, his casual posture at odds with the predatory gleam in his eyes. “Day after tomorrow. First fight’s at 7PM at the old McClain warehouse on Industrial. Eight-man tournament, single elimination. Winner takes sixty percent of the pot.”

“And if he loses?” I keep my voice steady despite the knot in my gut.

“Then I own your gym.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Plus, whatever other assets catch my interest.”

His gaze lingers on Damian, who maintains perfect stillness beside me. Although it’s subtle, I notice the slight tension in his shoulders, the careful way he holds himself—ready for action but giving nothing away.

“There are some special interested parties who’ve paid extra for ringside seats. Research types. Very curious about your fighter’s… unique qualities. One group in particular seems quite invested in studying his… endurance.”

My blood runs cold and it feels as though a demonic fist is squeezing my guts. Dad was right about Tony being in bed with the pharmaceutical companies Laura warned us about. I glance at Damian, seeing the quiet dignity in his stance. I need to finalize plans to get him to safety.

“The bracket will be released tomorrow.” Tony rises, straightening his expensive jacket. He pegs Damian with a scorching look as he says, “Don’t disappoint me.”

After he leaves, I wait ten minutes to ensure we’re truly alone before pulling out the burner phone I bought yesterday. Laura’s number feels like it’s lasering a hole in my pocket.

She answers on the first ring. “Hello.”

“It’s Maya. About your… missing friend.”

“Oh, thank god.” Her relief is palpable through the line. “Is he safe? We’ve been going out of our minds—”

“We don’t have much time,” I cut in, glancing nervously at the door. “He’ll be in an underground fight in two days. 7 PM at the McClain warehouse on Industrial in Las Vegas. Tony’s got pharmaceutical companies coming—they definitely know about him.”

“Put him on? Please? The others are here—they’ve been desperate to know he’s alive.” She gives a soft chuckle as she adds, “They haven’t spoken in a long time.”

Damian takes the phone, his expression changing as familiar voices come through the speaker. I step away to give him privacy, but I catch fragments of Latin—his brothers-in-arms, reaching across two thousand years of separation.

“ Frater, ” a deep voice says—Varro, I assume. “We feared the worst when they took you.”

“The gods themselves must have guided us to find you,” another adds. “After all this time…”

“When we learned they stole you away…” A deep voice, thick with concern, cuts through the moment. “The sabotage, the theft… we’ve been searching everywhere.”

Damian’s responses flow too quickly for me to follow, but I see his shoulders relax slightly. These men faced death together, formed bonds stronger than blood. Now they reach across time and distance, offering strength when he needs it most.

“We can have teams in place,” Laura says when she returns to the line. “The tournament actually works in our favor—everyone focused on the fights while we—”

The phone clicks in my ear—sharp, unnatural, like the crack of a breaking bone. I freeze. No static, no busy signal, just silence.

My stomach knots more tightly. “Hello?” My voice feels too loud, too exposed in the tiny room. No answer. I pull the phone away and glance at the screen.

It’s black. Not like the screen is turned off, but dead. No signal, no battery icon—nothing. I jab the power button, hard enough to hurt my thumb. Nothing.

This isn’t right.

Panic prickles at the back of my neck. I drop the phone on the table and stare at it, as though my sheer force of will can bring it back to life. My breath comes too fast now. I imagine our enemies know about our plan to escape. I don’t know how, but they must.

“Try calling back,” Damian suggests, but my hands shake as I dial. Nothing. Not even a ring tone.

“Something’s wrong.” Panic claws at my throat. “This was our only way to contact them. They know where to find us, but we have no way to coordinate, no way to know if they’re coming, no way to—”

“Breathe.” Damian’s voice carries the calm of a warrior who’s faced worse odds. But I see the worry in his eyes. “We told them where and when. They will come.”

“I’m pretty sure Tony’s people heard. What if—”

“Then we face whatever comes.” He cups my face in his hands. “As we must.”

I crush the useless phone under my heel, but the action brings no relief. We’ve revealed we have outside help coming, and now have no way to contact our allies. Two days suddenly feels like both an eternity and no time at all.

Perhaps worst of all, if the gladiators do come, are all of them now in as much danger as Damian?

The next morning brings a glimmer of hope—an encrypted email from an anonymous account. Laura found a way to reach us. Her message is brief but clear: positions her people will take at the warehouse, which exits the other gladiators will cover, and warnings about armed corporate security. Not enough to coordinate a full escape plan, but enough to know we won’t face this alone.

“Trust your brothers,” she writes in closing—clearly a message for Damian from the other gladiators. “They remember their oath, only it’s to each other.” She writes it in Latin, “ Ego feram uri, vinciri, verberari, et gladio necari .”

Damian leans close when I point to the line, then recites it out loud. It translates to, “‘I will endure to be burned, to be bound, to be beaten, and to be killed by the sword.’ The gladiator oath. If you break the oath, your life is sacrificed. This is sacred.”

I picture this gentle philosopher reciting that awful vow and need to know the story of how he became a gladiator. Now is not the time, though.

I memorize every detail of what Laura wrote before deleting the email. Having even this tiny thread of communication feels like a lifeline.

“The pharmaceutical people will be there.” I don’t try to hide the rising panic in my voice. “If something goes wrong, if they get their hands on you…”

Damian doesn’t respond, but his jaw tightens. We both know what those companies would do to him—endless tests, tissue samples, and, in the end…probably dissection. They’ll see him as a specimen, not a man. A perfectly preserved sample of ancient DNA, not a soul who’s already lost everything and deserves to get his life back.

“We should run,” I say suddenly. “Just go. Now. Before—”

“They would find us.” His voice holds no doubt. “And your father would pay the price.”

The truth of it sits heavy between us. We’re trapped—by Tony’s threats, by my father’s debts, by the circling vultures who want to study Damian like a lab rat. And now we might have given away our lifeline.

Tomorrow everything changes. Until we either find freedom or lose everything.