Mickey?”
He’s been twitchy ever since we got into the car after seeing Connie. The shower did nothing to calm him, and I started talking about random things to fill the silence of our motel room. Even when he laughed, the corners of his eyes creased with unease. Whenever I asked him what was wrong, he’d shut off or start pacing without saying a word.
Now we’re back in the car, and it’s hard to breathe with all the tension in the air. My question turns his silver eyes into steel, and he twists his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.
Something is wrong, and I’m trying hard not to let my insecurities get the better of me, but all I am thinking about is the worst. What if someone else puts a gun to my head? The guy from before—Damien, Mickey called him—doesn’t exactly look like a friendly, law-abiding citizen. My radar went off when I saw him, and my brain recognized him as a threat. I’m not stupid; I know he’s part of a gang.
Mickey gave me the backstory of their relationship and the CliffsNotes version of the jobs he’s done for Damien. Basically, he’s bad news whichever way I look at it.
Wherever Mickey is driving us has the hair at the back of my neck standing on end. I mean, we’re literally going somewhere so he can do a job, and none of the jobs he’s told me about seem like anything I want to be involved in.
Taking a deep breath, I place a delicate hand on his lap. “Mickey, where are we going?” He blinks a couple of times and drops his attention to my hand. “It’s not fair that I don’t know where we’re going.”
The tension in his muscles relaxes ever so slightly. He licks his bottom lip, then grits his teeth.
“We’re about to go somewhere dangerous. You are not to leave Damien’s side. Do you hear me? Not even if you need to go to the bathroom.”
“You’re leaving me with him?”
Molten silver eyes bore into mine as he squeezes my hand. “I’ll be right there, baby. I just won’t be able to look out for you as much as I need to. Nothing will happen, I promise.”
The lethal edge to his voice slices through me, and the lump in my throat doubles in size. I guess staying in the car isn’t an option. Staying at the motel wasn’t an option either, apparently, in case some guys manage to track us down. But I don’t know if this is much better.
I’m pretty sure anything would be safer than whatever we’re heading into.
I saw the stack of cash he pulled out of his pocket earlier today. There’s no number of commissions I could do that would make up that amount of money, so following Mickey into Hell is my financial contribution to our relationship.
“Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t look at anyone. If you see anything happen to me, don’t scream. I mean it, Bella, don’t you dare leave Damien’s side if I’m not there. Promise me.”
My breath catches. “What’s going to happen, Mickey?”
“Promise me, Isabella.”
“I promise,” I whisper. “Why do we have to go?”
“It’s the fastest way to make money.”
For some reason, his answer reminds me of the men from yesterday. “Do you owe someone money?”
He shakes his head. “The money is for us, baby.”
Part of me believes him. The other part reminds me of what a fool I was for believing everything he says.
Roman lived a double life I had no idea about. It explains why he was so unphased about all the deaths he’s caused and how lighting bodies on fire wasn’t a big deal to him. What else is he hiding from me?
I’ve seen the movies. Guys always have ladies crawling all over them, and the men in those movies never hesitated about finding a dark corner to have their way with them. Mickey might have said I was his first, but I don’t believe him. Not when he’s older than me, had this other life, and then went to prison, of all places. And especially not when he pounded into me the way he did.
He didn’t move like a virgin.
I mean, it’s not like I’d actually know, but I’m fairly certain no virgin could move like that, have magic fingers like he did, or last that long.
Either way, I don’t believe him.
He’s hidden so much from me. Now that I know his other side, all those missing nights make sense.
I should be angrier about it, not just upset, but the more I think about it, the more I realize he never really lied to me about it. He simply kept it a secret. Which might be better, but it doesn’t stop it from hurting any less.
My selfish side is glad he never told me what he was doing all those nights, because I wouldn’t have slept, too busy worrying myself sick about him. But the tired part of me is too exhausted to give a shit about anything that happened over three years ago. The broken part of my heart doesn’t seem to feel much anymore, so used to having shattered bits break more each day.
Mickey parallel parks on the street of an industrial area. There are a few cars around, but apart from it being ten o’clock at night, nothing is setting off my alarm bells. Or maybe my fight-or-flight senses are fried because sleeping inside a car is incredibly unpleasant, and I’m very much ready for bed.
Mickey kills the engine, then turns to cup my face. “Remember your promise, okay?”
All I can do is nod.
Don’t talk. Don’t look. Don’t scream. Stay by Damien, even though he looks like he could kill me with his bare hands. A man who looks like he carries a gun.
Click.
I can still hear the sound of the safety turning off as if it were happening again.
I’m not ready to die.
Mickey kisses my forehead before grabbing the bag from the back seat. He flicks off a text to God knows who and tugs me beneath his arm as we walk down the poorly lit street. He’s rigid, but there’s almost a bounce in his step and a slight smirk on his lips, like he’s excited.
What the hell is going to happen, and where on earth are we going? What if we’re going to a strip club or something? Or like an underground lair with a bunch of naked ladies? I don’t think I’d survive. Not because I’d stick out, or because I’ve grown up feeling men’s leering gazes, but I’m self-aware enough to know that I’m a damn jealous person.
I’m heating up enough at the thought of half-naked women looking at Mickey, or worse, of Roman looking at half-naked women… it wouldn’t be envy or jealousy I’d be feeling, it would be unbridled fury.
My heart works double time when we get to what looks like an abandoned warehouse, not exactly screaming strip club. But there was a brothel on the same street as Greg and Millie’s house, so who knows.
The streets in the vicinity are deserted except for the singular burly man standing next to an entrance off to the side of the warehouse. The place where he’s standing is illuminated by a single droplight. Shouting and music spill through the gaps in the door, growing louder the closer we get. Is it a club?
Damien steps out of the warehouse. “They’re with me.”
The bouncer puts a hand on Roman’s chest when we step toward the door. “Security check.”
An annoyed grunt leaves Roman’s throat, but he reluctantly peels himself away from me, lifting his arms from his sides. Jaw tight, brows low, lips curled, his disdain toward the man’s pat down is a living, breathing entity.
The bouncer checks the bag next, then turns to me.
“Don’t fucking touch her,” Roman warns.
Unfazed, the bouncer continues moving toward me, only to stop two feet away. “No check, no entry,” he says simply. There’s nothing untoward about how he looks at me, but it doesn’t stop my nerve endings from screaming.
“Touch her, and I’ll—”
“That isn’t necessary.” My new babysitter comes to my rescue at the same time I say, “It’s fine.”
I hope Mickey sees the plea in my eyes. I want to get this over with so I can crawl into bed and pretend my life is normal. “We need the money. It’s okay. Let him.”
There’s no mistaking the internal war unfolding behind Mickey’s steely eyes. “Do it.” The resignation is loud and clear in his voice, and I send him a silent thank you.
The bouncer is a lot more delicate with me than he was with Roman, which I put down to the fact that I’m a woman and I look like a grunge child in pigtails, wearing Mickey’s bleach-dyed hoodie.
He doesn’t hesitate to usher me through the doors, shooting the bouncer a scathing look. Damien’s I-don’t-give-a-shit demeanor isn’t adding to my comfort in the slightest when all I can hear is yelling.
My focus is on Roman and the tension lining his face, deepening the further we descend into the basement. With an aching heart, I reach for his hand and give him a reassuring squeeze. As the sounds grow, the taut muscles of his shoulders relax with predatory ease, head tilting up with the confidence of a man who owns the place.
It isn’t just one or two people making some noise in the basement; it sounds like a whole crowd. The second we make it to the bottom of the stairs, I hate how right I am.
The putrid smell of sweat, booze, and cigarettes singes my nostrils. Bodies clump together, jumping up and down, fists pumping the air as they jeer. Scantily clad women move between the throngs of men, some holding drinks, others hanging off a man or two’s arm.
Two temporary walls cage me in, so the only choice is to move forward into the throng or back the way we came. I arch my neck, squinting my eyes to get a better look at the people poking out just above the wall.
Suddenly, the underground basement comes alive. Everyone jumps to their feet, roaring and screaming their heads off. The men and women closer to the entrance turn and give us their backs, joining in with the cheering.
My blood heats while my skin turns cold. I can barely hear my thoughts over the mixture of people and music… and the smell. This is almost too much for me to handle. There’s too much noise, too many people. I need air.
The bodies part as Roman pushes me forward with a hand on my back. Then I see it: the stage.
No, not a stage; a platform.
A fighting ring.
That’s what Roman is here for. That’s why he packed clothes and cash into his bag. He’s going to fight.
In the ring, a man as big as the bouncer straddles another equally large man. His fists fly, one right after the other, landing on the other person each time. His hands are up in an attempt to block his face, but it isn’t enough to stop the assault.
Fingers wrap around my hand, making me jolt back. But I can do nothing to stop Roman from dragging me behind him. My mind is running a thousand miles per hour, and it still isn’t fast enough to comprehend the fact that Mickey will be in there.
He’s going to fight someone.
And he’s going to get paid for it.
How long has he been doing this? When I returned to Mickey after I was taken away as a teen, I thought he seemed a little calmer. I explicitly remember thinking he wasn’t itching for a fight every few minutes and brushing it off as puberty. He must have been around fifteen years old.
Oh God, is this how he paid for all my gifts?
How did he keep this from me? How did I not know? I can’t count how many times Mickey has picked me up, bruised and bloody, and I barely questioned it because he would give me the same answers each time.
They deserved it.
You should see the other guy.
Don’t you worry your pretty little head.
My stomach churns and I focus on the back of Roman’s head. I’m mildly aware of the strange looks I’m getting and the occasional scowl, but I’m reeling too much to fully pay attention. We go down a corridor, where the deafening noises are muted, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s been here before. I’m not sure when he might have had the time to drive to Chicago, but he’s moving around the place like this is his home.
Damien and Roman stop before a set of doors, where a man leans against the wall beside the entrance. He’s shorter than Mickey, with slightly smaller muscles and a tattoo of a rose peeking through his faded buzz cut.
He’s another gangster, if the teardrop tattoo and the skull on his neck are any indication.
“Hey, Bella,” he purrs.
A shiver rips down my spine. How does he know my name? Not Isa, but Bella? Only Mickey calls me that; no one else.
The way he’s looking at me isn’t leering. It isn’t ogling, either. The only word I can think of to describe it is challenging. He’s looking at me like he’s waiting to start a fight… with Roman.
“Isabella,” Roman corrects, squeezing my hand and pulling me behind him. I’m all too happy to oblige.
The man with the buzz cut raises a shoulder and drops it in a noncommittal shrug, clearly not caring what Roman wants me to be called. Pushing off the wall, the guy stuffs his hands into his pocket and moves closer to me.
“Did you like my handiwork on your boyfriend’s chest, muñeca?”
Doll.
Even after all the comments I get from random men because of my childish hairdo, I can’t bring myself to retire the pigtails.
His question slowly registers. What does he mean about his handiwork on Mickey’s chest? When I look at Roman in question, he’s grinning from ear to ear like he’s pleased with something I said. Or didn’t say.
Wrapping his arm around my shoulders, he says, “This is Rico. He’s the fucking annoying cellmate I told you about.”
“I thought that was Tao?” I whisper.
Rico’s laugh bounces across the concrete hallway, and I feel self-conscious more than anything. Today, Mickey told me stories about his time in prison, but he’d get distracted and jump to another topic, so I never really got the full picture.
“You didn’t tell me that she’s funny, hombre. But no, bella, we like Tao.” He says the word with an accent, like he’s calling me beautiful, rather than my actual name. “Yang makes us money. We like money.”
Roman ignores him and turns to me. “Remember what I said about staying by Damien?”
I nod skeptically.
“That does not include Rico. You are not allowed to be alone with him. And you—” He whips around to Rico ‘—If I see you talking to Isabella, you’re a fucking dead man.”
From where I’m standing, I don’t think his threats are empty. Rico apparently disagrees. He must have a death wish because he gives Roman a big, goofy smile that says that he’s going to go out of his way to make sure we’re left alone together.
But it’s odd… I’ve never seen Mickey act so… civilly with another person after being taunted. Death threat aside, this is the first time I’ve seen him interact with someone else for more than five seconds without using his fists.
I never thought I’d see the day Roman Riviera has friends. I’m actually… proud of him. Now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t think he’s threatened Damien about anything, and Mickey clearly trusts him enough to be my part-time babysitter.
“And, Bella?” I chew the inside of my cheek and make a strained sound as Roman tips my chin up to him. “Eyes on me the whole time. I’m going to win the match for you.”
I can’t focus on his promise with how close his lips are to mine. I don’t want him to leave, and I don’t want him to fight. Even if it is for me.
“Alright, hermano. Get a room.” Rico claps Mickey on the shoulder. “Time to get you suited.”
Roman grunts and kisses my forehead. “Remember our promise.”
I nod and watch as the two of them walk down the hall to one of the doors. Their chests are both puffed, as if trying to out-posture one another. It’s kind of cute to see.
Mickey looks at me one last time and winks. Then Rico does the exact same thing and says, “Chica, you and me are gonna be the bestest friends.”
Front-row seats are meant to make you feel like the top of the food chain, but I feel anything but good about this. The beer Damien brought me is making me feel worse, but that could also be because it tastes like crap.
The ring is more daunting up close. With the arena-style seats, everyone here has a clear view of what’s going down on the platform.
Men pass money to other men, who then give them a ticket of some sort. I can’t hear who everyone is bidding on. I’ve heard Ares a couple of times, and the name Copper thrown around even more. I know for a fact Roman wouldn’t be caught dead with having Copper as a stage name.
It’s the calm before the storm. The atmosphere is buzzing with booze, nicotine, and anticipation. Everyone is high off the last match because one of the fighters had to be dragged out of the ring unconscious.
“Your boy’s good. He’ll be fine,” Damien says from beside me.
I glance over at him to find him staring at the hands I’ve been wringing since the second I sat down.
“Is Copper any good?”
He nods once. “The best.”
How the fuck was that meant to make me feel better?
His eyes narrow slightly. I would have missed it if I weren’t paying attention. He seems to communicate in micro-movements. Even though he doesn’t speak much, he misses nothing.
“So is Riviera,” he explains. “They’re both fast and agile. Same height and weight group. Both arrogant, with just as many wins.”
Again, I do not see how this is supposed to bring me peace.
“This is Copper’s crowd. Over there.” He nods toward the group of men in suits on the other side of the room, all with half-naked girls on their laps.
I don’t need to move closer to know they have money spilling out of their wallets. Golden chains hang around their necks beneath Armani suits that match their bulky golden watches and diamond rings.
“The Bratva,” Damien explains. “Copper’s on their payroll. To the Bratva and every other person in this room, Ares is a nobody. Copper will think he has the upper hand because this is his territory.”
“I don’t understand.” Is Roman being set up to lose? Is that how he makes money?
“They’re both cocky, but Riviera is smarter. No one in this room knows he’s already won. We’ve got the key that will make him win.”
“What is it?”
“You.”
My brow line flattens at his answer.
“People fight for all sorts of things: money, power, glory,” he continues. “Copper will fight for money and to add another win to his belt. Riviera will be fighting for you. And that is why you, me, and Rico are going to be rich tonight.”
I down the rest of my drink, willing the night to move faster. Or better yet, come to an end.
I’m not sure what to make of what Damien said. Like any person who’s told they’re a lucky charm, I feel special. But at what cost? I want Roman to win, but I don’t want to watch him get beaten to a pulp just to get there.
“And what are you?” I ask when the alcohol hits my bloodstream. “They’re Bratva, and what does that make you? Cartel?”
“Who said I’m part of anything?”
“Deflection doesn’t answer the question.”
The corner of his lips tip. It’s barely noticeable, and I’m not sure if my alcohol-addled brain is making it up. “Alvarez Cartel.”
“Never heard of them.” It’s a stupid thing to say, because I’ve never heard of any of the cartels. The only cartel I know about is the El Chapo Cartel that had all those exotic animals at their mansion. Or is El Chapo just a person? I can’t remember.
“Keep it that way. The less you know, the better,” Damien says, his attention only partially on me as he glances around. “You see the man with the scar on the top row to your left?”
I look at where he said, and sure enough, there’s a man clad in black, sporting a scar from his forehead to the other side of his cheek.
“What about him?”
“Pay attention to everyone sitting around him. Never cross paths with any of them.”
“Who are they?” My blood roars in my ears as I subtly try to ingrain each one of their faces into memory.
“Riviera lost them a lot of money. And people like us hide our weaknesses so someone else doesn’t hit us where it hurts.”
He doesn’t need to say what he means.
I think I need another drink.
“Muñeca.” Rico plops down into the empty seat next to me, sandwiching me between him and Damien. He shoots me a lopsided grin. “Your man is fucking insufferable when you’re around. It makes pissing him off easier. Thank you.”
Words die on my tongue. What do I say to that? Men who want to have casual, non-creepy conversations with me are few and far between. What would I say to Mickey if he said that? Am I meant to laugh? Say you’re welcome?
“You never answered my question before.”
I inhale sharply. “What?”
“The tattoo on his chest, Bella.” He purrs my name in a joking way.
My brows hike up my forehead. “You did that?”
He nods proudly. “Thought it was fuckin’ weird that he wanted ‘beautiful’ tattooed on his chest. Gave him shit about it for a few months. Then I saw him drawin’ you. Connected the dots after that.” He shrugs.
The lighting changes before I respond, then Rico pulls me onto my feet without warning.
Copper comes running in wearing a red silk robe when the MC calls out his name. True to his name, Copper has copper hair. How original. The crowd goes wild as he waves his hands and beats his chest like a neanderthal. Girls giggle, and men cheer, some chanting his name. There isn’t a single person here other than the two men beside me who isn’t eating up his performance.
His face is riddled with the evidence of his battles. Scars mar his porcelain skin, cutting through his lip and splitting his brows. Another sits on his crooked nose. What’s more daunting is the patchwork of tattoos covering his fingers and arms, especially the Oskal tiger baring its teeth on his neck. The man is a full-blooded criminal.
I think I’m going to throw up.
How is Mickey going to win against him?
There’s no grandeur or cheering when Roman—Ares—comes out. No one is jumping up in their seats, the air not buzzing with electricity or excitement the way it did for Copper. Because Ares isn’t walking out from the shadows. He stalks out of it. The darkness seems to follow as he moves, reaching for him and blending into his obsidian robe. The air around him vibrates with danger; not even a knife could cut through it.
Copper may command the room, but Roman owns it.
Like an apex predator, he prowls toward his prey, eyes narrowed, lips peeled back into a sinister grin.
His focus doesn’t shift when he bends beneath the rope and into the ring. Not once does his attention stray anywhere other than on Copper.
Until it does.
In a split second, the air vanishes from my lungs because his predatory stare falls onto me. His eyes immediately notice the arm wrapped around my shoulders.
Rico plasters me to his side and taunts the beast in the ring. “I got your girl, chico.”
The key, the winning ticket. The men sandwiching me are handing it to him.
And they’re showing everyone here where to hit Roman to ensure he gets hurt.
Murder flashes in Roman’s eyes. Gone is the hunter playing with his prey; he’s ready to go in for the kill.
Rico leans down to my ear, keeping his eyes on the man who’s a heartbeat away from tearing his throat out, as he whispers, “Like I said, best friends.”
Roman barely reacts when the referee introduces him or when Copper goes to the corner to get ready. His stare belongs to the madman beside me.
“He’s gonna kill you,” I mutter.
Rico’s chest shakes against my shoulder with his chuckle. “No, bella. He’s gonna kill Copper while wearing your li’l bracelet.”
I’m not sure whether I should feel sick or elated by this knowledge. Right now, I’m feeling both. Maybe my stomach is turning because I feel chuffed. In the ring in front of at least a hundred people, to Roman, having me marked on his chest isn’t enough. He wants to win while he’s holding a part of me. He’s going to beat a man while showing everyone who he belongs to.
Roman breaks his stare off with Rico and hulks to his corner, where a stool and bottle await him. When he removes his robe, all I can see is the scar between his shoulder blades, half concealed by ink. I can just imagine how much shit Rico would have given him if he knew that he was shot by an old lady.
I’m barely aware of what’s happening, when a minute later, fists wrapped in white bandages meet skin. The crowd erupts into madness because the men don’t waste time circling each other first. They’re here to do one thing: annihilate.
My eyes are on Roman, not because he told me to, but because I can’t look away. He’s hypnotic. He’s… smirking.
Roman’s muscles ripple with each motion, hitting, blocking, sidestepping. Each move is practiced and executed with perfection and vicious grace. There’s no hesitation, no regret. This is his element, and we are in his arena.
He’s beautifully fit for his name. Ares, God of War.
The slick sheen of sweat coating his skin makes the scene all the more entrancing. The defined V-line above his low-hanging shorts is distracting. I wish I could have felt it in the woods. I know Mickey would let me do what I want if I just asked, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
Rico is losing his mind beside me, screaming instructions at the top of his lungs.
Block.
Fuck him up.
Uppercut.
Get him, motherfucker.
Roman staggers back from a blow to his face. Blood flies from his mouth, but he recovers faster than I can blink, sending Copper backward with a kick to his chest. Mickey is on him a second later, laying punch after punch, making crimson explode from Copper’s face.
It doesn’t take long before the other man is on him. More red colors the scene, splattering onto the platform and onto sweat covered skin. Then Roman hits the floor.
I wrap my arms around my middle, regretting the beer.
He’s back on his feet before his opponent can pounce, swerving away from each attack, letting a hit or two land like he isn’t trying to avoid them. Why isn’t he moving out of the way? Why isn’t he hitting him back?
Over and over, they throw punches and the occasional kick at each other. Roman’s arms are up, attempting to block the hits, but he’s waning. Even his punches are weak, barely stirring Copper. Roman’s hunched over, focused on retaining this balance, cornered against the pillar.
The crowd’s elation is potent, and Copper must taste it, too. A slow, victorious smile etches across his pale skin.
We’re going to lose. Roman is going to lose.
“I told you he’s going to win.”
I startle, forgetting Damien is there. What the fuck? “How?” They’re both covered in blood; I’m not sure whose blood is whose. And Roman looks like he’s barely holding on.
Damien nods. “He’s putting on a show.”
Rico leans forward until his breath tickles the side of my face. “He’s fuckin’ with the pendejo’s head.”
Roman’s eyes flicker my way for a split second. Out of nowhere, and with energy I thought he no longer possessed, he delivers a clean blow to the other fighter’s jaw. Copper’s head whips to the side, and an audible gasp rips through the arena.
The boys weren’t kidding.
This is a game, and Roman has Copper right where he wants him; tired, shaken, and delusional.
That’s my man up there.
“Go, Mickey!” I yell with every bit of energy I have.
Roman’s smile isn’t slow or weary; it detonates across his face. But he isn’t looking at his opponent like he’s the prey. He’s looking at me like I’m the one he wants to ruin.
Before Copper can recover, Roman uses the momentum to send him careening back. Gone is the fighter who took the blows. Ares is a god here to remind Copper that metal is nothing in the face of the divine.
Murderous energy vibrates from Roman as he lands hit after hit, after hit, until the Russian is backed into a corner. Ares is acting like a madman. An absolute lunatic.
“If Copper loses, he doesn’t get to fight tomorrow,” Rico says.
“Tomorrow?” I squeak. He means I have to go through all this again? I have to witness Roman getting his ass kicked again?
I can practically smell the Bratva’s anger from here. A fight means money. Roman is making them lose money.
Oh God.
This isn’t just a fight anymore. This is a death wish. What if they retaliate for losing? What if the next fight kills him?
Copper doesn’t tap out, even though he can barely block Roman’s punches anymore. One right after the other, Roman descends his fists onto his prey. People with eyes filled with bloodlust wince, but they don’t look away from the massacre.
And I realize in an instant, as I avert my gaze from the fight, the Bratva aren’t the only ones who are pissed.
Ares is a nobody around here, and he just proved everyone wrong.
