“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.”
“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.
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Blood of Cupids Page 17
