Page 72 of Unforgiving Queen

I walked away from him, but the knot in my chest remained.

26

AMON

Iarrived at the warehouse where this week’s fight was happening. The club had become my solace, and I’d never been more grateful for it.

Similar ones were scattered around the world, but I usually stuck to the ones in Asia and the States, not wanting to chance running into anyone familiar. My last fight was in New Orleans after I’d gotten Tatiana Nikolaev to safety, and it should’ve been enough to blow off steam to last me a few months at least.

The events from the past few days had set me on edge though, and I was itching to smash someone’s skull in and make them suffer.

The steel doors opened to grant me access. I could already hear the roaring of the crowd and knew tonight would be big. I’d earned myself a reputation over the years, and word traveled fast about each fight.

I stuck to the shadows as I made my way inside, a heady stillness lingering in the air. It was a place of depravity, death, and violence. The pits had been swept out, but they wouldn’t remain vacant for long.

“Amon.” Kian Cortes’s voice traveled through the hollow tunnel. “Nice to see you.”

I turned around to find him waiting with arms crossed and brows raised. I wasn’t exactly surprised to see him here. Kian had been fighting in the underground circuit for the longest time. We’d run into each other before but had never gone head-to-head. I respected him for the fighter he was, even though his brother was a piece of shit. I didn’t hold that against him though; no one knew better than me that you didn’t get to pick your family. He cut off all ties with him a long time ago anyway.

“Blowing off some steam?” I inquired. His silver-gray beard hinted at his age.

“Something like that.”

Kian Cortes, unlike his brother, had a conscience and blamed himself for his baby sister’s disappearance that happened during one of his deployments. This was his way of repenting, and he’d yet to lose a fight. We all carried our crosses in some shape or form.

“Who are you fighting today?”

“Not you,” I said and almost caught a smile on his stoic face.

I started walking toward the back of the warehouse where the bigger fights usually happened.

“Scared?” he said as he fell in step beside me.

“Hardly. Have a death wish?”

He chuckled. “Not today. I’m here for work.” I flicked him a curious glance. “And it involves you.” His eyes met mine, sharp and keen. “Don’t you want to know what it is?”

“Considering you’re here, I’m guessing you’re going to tell me regardless.”

“Smart kid.” My jaw tightened. He might be almost double my age, but I was hardly a kid. I’d lived through enough shit to last me two lifetimes. “Your cousin and my brother are making moves again.”

I stilled, not exactly surprised with that revelation. Lately, Itsuki’d gotten brave, encouraged by his dealings with that lunatic Sofia Volkov. Apparently Perez Cortes belonged in that circle of delusional criminals.

“Thanks for the tip,” I finally told him, eyes scanning for the pit I’d be fighting in.

It didn’t take long for the warehouse to fill up. The sounds of fists hitting flesh filled the air. Sweat and blood stenched up the place. People either made money or fought demons here. I’d started in the former group at the age of fourteen and had since graduated to the latter.

What a fucking joke!

Angelo Leone was dead and I was still fighting the devil.

Each pit was filled with fighters. Bare knuckles, no weapons, and no fucking pussies in the rings. The seats in the makeshift arena swelled with spectators, like Romans looking down on their gladiators. The biggest moneymakers were the pits where the only way out was in a coffin.

A blaring sound echoed through the air, signaling it was my turn. I stripped out of my jacket and my shirt, leaving my torso bare, then jumped down into the pit. A buzz of adrenaline swam through my veins. The fire in my blood simmered, whispering to end my opponent slowly. To make him suffer. To quench this thirst for pain.

The other fighter eyed me warily. I didn’t recognize him, but I knew he was a human trafficker. The men who were forced to fight were always branded, this one was no exception. I had no qualms about killing them. In fact, I enjoyed doing so. So I taunted him, waiting for him to make his move.

The stench of blood. Cigarettes. Dimmed lights. It all fed my addiction.