“Declan,” I moan, bucking my hips toward him, “I need you...”
Chapter One
Somewhere beneath Las Vegas, Nevada, present day...
A thousand rabid boxing fans leap to their feet as the fighter squares off against his challenger. The two fearsome, ruthless men have been at it for nearly a dozen rounds, flying at each other with nothing short of deadly force. Each man has been bruised and beaten, taken and given staggering blows—but only one can walk out of this ring with his life, it's the only way this fight ends.
The very canvas beneath the fighter’s feet begins to tremble as the crowd stomps and jostles, craning their necks for a glance of him. He knows that he’s something to behold. At six and a half feet tall, 200 pounds and change, he’s a man to be reckoned with. His balanced, cut form ripples with muscle, but not the curated, manicured muscle you find on urban gym rats and vain, desperate men. No—the fighter’s bulk has been earned. Built up on the battlefield, in the ring, fighting hand-to-hand, tooth and nail. Just as he does now.
He wipes the blood and sweat off his brow, a wild grin spreading across his full lips. His opponent has put up quite a fight, but he’s fading fast. The challenger’s knees wobble, his chest heaves, he may just collapse of his own accord. But the fighter can’t take any chances. The stakes are too high to leave anything up to fate. He has to finish this man, for good.
“Dante’s Son. Dante’s Son. Dante's Son.” the crowd chants feverishly, crying out the fighter’s ring-christened name.
They can smell blood in the air, and they’re lusting for more. This is what they came for, after all. If they’d just wanted to see a good fight, anywhere in Vegas would have done. But here underground, far from the reach of the law or God, this is where real fighting lives. This is where men fight to the death, while millions of dollars trade hands at the end of every night. You can feel the tension, the excitement, the primal drive of money, power, and the finality of death electrifying the air. The fighter breathes it in, all of it, as he prepares to strike one last time.
“Finish him!” screams a young man’s voice from beside the ring, “Kill him now!”
“Eyes on the prize,” another voice joins in, “Focus now, brother.”
“He’s weak in the knees,” howls an older, gruffer man, “Go for it, son!”
For a moment, the fighter lets his eyes flick toward the rollicking voices. His pounding heart swells in his chest as he sees his brothers lined up along the ring. They cling onto the ropes, their faces flushed with pride and vigor. No, they’re not the fighter’s flesh and blood, but they’re the only family he’s ever known.
Faces old and young, tanned and pale, brutish and bright—he knows them all. And at the very end of the line sits a handsome, silver-haired man. He doesn't cheer as he watches on, only looks calm, composed. The deep lines in his face are unmoved by chants or jeers. He simply meets the fighter’s eye and nods, once. It’s as much encouragement as the fighter needs.
They each wear their black leather cuts, patched and faded but symbols of power all the same. Across the back of each man, the words “Dante’s Nine” and "Las Vegas, NV" are emblazoned. It’s their family title, their club’s identity. One of the most feared and respected MC names in the United States. And they’re here on the fighter’s side.
Emboldened by his brothers’ ferocious loyalty, the fighter sails across the ring, fist cocked back. Time slows to a crawl as he watches his opponents eyes. The defeated fighter watches the other man approach, he simply stands there accepting his fate, knowing that he’s about to die. It’s a phenomenon Dante’s Son has witnessed many times before. This year alone, two other boxers have given up their lives to him. This man will be the third. After he falls, one more fight stands between the fighter and his freedom. But he can’t think of that now.
His balled fist cracks against the challenger’s temple; he quickly grabs the dazed man's head between his own powerful hands, and with a skillful twist a sickening crack rings out in the turbulent air. The fighter raises his inked arms as his opponent's lifeless husk crumples onto the canvas, his soul has fled. The eight other men of Dante’s Nine vault into the ring, hoisting their victorious brother onto their broad shoulders. “Dante’s Son” is his ring name, and the crowd shouts it now. He drinks in their clamoring, cacophonous praise. He fights for his brothers, his club. And for them, he hasn't won yet again.
Back in the locker room, alone at last, the fighter shucks off his gear. He lifts the heavy golden belt off his tapered waist, setting it reverently down beside his street clothes. It’s a symbol of victory, but he knows he still has business to finish. He can’t stop thinking about the contract he signed just last year, locking him into four death matches; tonight’s was number three of four. He’s managed to come out on top of these first three, but who’s to say what the fourth will hold?
The fighter looks down at his inked, weary body. The thick panes of his chest rise and fall with each labored breath. Each of his abdominal muscles stands out in sharp relief as he winces with the aching pains shooting through him. How is he going to make it through another fight like this one alive? He shakes out his mane of dark curls, stepping into the hot spray of the shower. Warm water runs in rivulets over his broad shoulders, his biceps and sculpted thighs. He’s built his body into a fighting machine, but how much longer will it run?
He scrubs himself clean, watching the blood and sweat swirl away down the drain. By now, he’s used to being a killer. All his years in the military taught him how to tamp down his human guilt and disgust at taking another life. But all that repressed shame and sadness hasn’t evaporated; his humanity hasn't completely been killed. With each of these fights to the death, it comes just a bit closer to the surface.
Clean of body, if not of soul, the fighter wrenches the water off and grabs a towel. He wraps it around the muscular v of his waist, shoving a hand through his wet curls. He should be pleased with himself for coming out on top yet again, but the usual sense of achievement is nowhere to be found in him. The only reason he signed that contract was to funnel some extra cash to his club. If he had his druthers, he’d stick to regulation boxing. Civilized sports. But a deal is a deal, and he has one more match to go. If he's honest with himself, deep down, maybe this is the way he wants it to be—maybe he doesn't want to win that last fight.
Footsteps echo off the tile of the locker room, catching the fighter’s ear. His training sends him straight into action at the sound of an intruder. He reaches beneath his street clothes and snatches up his handgun. As he levels it at his unexpected company, a light laugh rings out from the shadows.
“No need for that, boy,” says a smooth voice, “I’m just here to talk.”
“It’s you,” the fighter grunts, lowering his firearm, “I almost put three bullets through your chest. Can’t sneak up on a guy after he’s just stepped out of the ring.”
“My apologies,” says his visitor, stepping out into the florescent glow of the locker room. He’s shorter than the average man, but handsome all the same. His black hair is slicked back, not a strand out of place. The smile he offers the fighter is blindingly white, even more so offset by his deeply tanned skin. His every finger sports a ring of gold or diamond, and his fine Italian suit is cut to perfection.
And for all this, he’s the least welcome sight the fighter could imagine.
“It’s not every man that can look intimidating in a towel,” the well dressed man smiles, “But I suppose you’re not every man, now are you?”
“You need something, boss?” the fighter asks roughly, crossing his thickly muscled arms.
“I wanted to congratulate you on a great fight,” the visitor says, tucking his hands into his pockets, “I knew you’d pull through. I doubt there’s any man who could beat you in this ring.”
“Here’s hoping,” the fighter says, “One more win and I’m out. The club will have its cut of the money you make off me, and we’ll all be square.”
&nb
sp; “I hope you’re still comfortable with our little arrangement?” the man asks, raising his manicured eyebrows.
“Sure,” says the fighter, turning his back, “Even a sliver of what you’re raking in on my fights will save the club from bankruptcy. And I’ve already said that I’ll do whatever it takes to keep Dante’s Nine afloat.”
“Why don’t you bail out the club yourself, if that’s the case?”
“I may be rich, but not that rich,” the fighter says, shaking his head, “Besides, most of my money is tied up in investments. The money that I have to spend won’t come close to saving the club. We need a big pay day, boss. That’s why I agreed to go through with these fights.”
“Well, your sacrifice is paying off incredibly well,” the man smiles, “I’ve made more than I ever expected to on you. I suppose Las Vegas is the city to snatch up the money of impulsive, filthy rich gamblers.”
“I suppose so,” the fighter says, dropping his towel and stepping into a pair of well-loved blue jeans. “I’ll make sure to train hard for the next match, then.”
“That’s the other thing I wanted to talk to you about,” the visitor sighs, “About your next match, my boy...”
“What is it?” the fighter asks gruffly, pulling on a plain black tee.
“We want the same thing out of this fourth and final fight: to make a whole helluva lot of money,” the man begins, “And I intend to, with your help. The thing is, though, you may not be a huge fan of the methods I have in mind.”
“I doubt that you could come up with any method that would shock me,” the fighter scoffs, “I saw shit in Afghanistan that would make your worst nightmares look like goddamn Saturday morning cartoons. Just tell me what I need to do.”
The shrewd man locks eyes with the fighter. “I need you to lose,” he says.
For a long moment, the fighter is silent, processing this unheard of request. He hasn’t lost a fight since he was a boy of twelve, overpowered by his lush of a father. He’s forgotten what it’s like to lose to another man.
“These fights...are to the death,” he says slowly.
“There’s the rub,” the boss says with a shrug.
“You want me to throw the last fight. To let myself get killed.”
“That’s the idea. It turns out that I stand to make a whole lot more money if you go down than if you win. Who would have thought? I know it’s not the best case scenario, but I’m afraid you have no choice.”
“There was nothing about fixing fights in the contract,” the fighter says heatedly.
“Should have read the fine print,” the boss winks, “The outcomes of these matches are mine to decide. And I’ve decided that, come August, you’re going to throw the last one.”
“August...that’s only four months from now.”
“Plenty of time to get your affairs in order,” the boss says, “Just think about how much money you’ll be bringing in for your gang.”
“It’s a club, not a gang,” the fighter snaps.
“Really? So if I went to the police with your club’s history of dealing drugs, running guns, and pimping out anything with enough holes to fuck, that wouldn’t be an issue? Let’s be honest with each other, my boy. Your gang needs this money. And unless you throw the last fight, I’m not going to give it to them. You’ll die, sure, but you’ll leave them quite the parting gift.”
The fighter is silent as the polished man turns to go. What is there to say? It isn’t as though he has any choice.
“I’ll do it,” he says quietly, his hands balled into fists, “For them.”
“I knew you would, Dante’s Son,” the man smiles, “Until next time.”
He disappears into the shadows once more, leaving the fighter alone. All at once, rage takes hold of the warrior. He strikes out at the metal lockers, punching and kicking, turning over benches, smashing mirrors. He’s faced so much injustice in his life, but this has finally pushed him too far. He doesn’t stop until the locker room is destroyed. Only then does he snatch up his leather cut and slip into it like a second skin.
His retreating back bears the name of Dante’s Nine, and below, the club’s sigil: a pair of dice, one that’s rolled a four, the other a five. It’s the fighter’s family crest. His flag. The one thing he’s willing to die for. And now, he knows he will.
Impossibly by Colleen Masters - Coming Soon!!
Riding Dirty Page 18
