Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 57707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
“You ever been in a real fight—the sort of fight without backup? In a cage? It’s just me and him. I don’t know how old he is. I don’t know his background.”
“Are you scared?”
“Only an idiot isn’t scared before a fight,” I growl, “but I know one thing. I’m going to put my fist through his head.”
Raffie grins, and I turn away. I don’t like that smile. It’s like he thinks I’ve said this for his benefit. It’s simply the mindset a man needs before a fight.
“I mean it,” I growl, feeling the beast come out in me, the demon it takes to win a war. That’s what people have forgotten. Regular people, even Raffie, with his Mob shit … It takes a competent, aggressive, and beautifully violent man to make something happen. A man must love violence—fair violence, which means he might get hit, too.
It’s all well and good, “ooh-rahing” when the close air support is coming in, but when the enemy fires an RPG, and the cobra has to swerve suddenly, that buzz-cutting machine gun emerges. I had a friend who used to joke about the enemy, giving him another buzzcut.
Raffie looks lost. I snap back to the present. Something lately has got me feeling more, just feeling more, that’s it. I don’t get it. I need to focus on the fight—the beautiful violence.
“I mean a real fight,” I tell him. “One on one, or maybe there’s five of them and two of you, but you’ve got the better gear. Fine, but they don’t want to die, either. A fight, Raffie.” I walk right up to him, my chest pounding.
He looks offended for a second. Then he does a witness check as if he needs to make sure none of his Mafia buddies see this moment. I almost laugh. Raffie smiles, and the boy pushes through the lines and alcohol acne on his face. He’s the same kid who was cheering when I cleared my bike over Death Valley.
“You got this, man!”
He offers me his knuckles. I know he’s probably coked- and boozed-up, but for a second, it doesn’t matter. We bump knuckles so hard. It’s a miracle I don’t break something, but he grins and gestures with his cigarette.
“Light it,” I say, shrugging, as I go back to pacing the room and rolling my shoulders. “If a smoke’s worth of secondhand smoke is the difference maker here, I’m a dead man anyway.”
Raffie laughs, and, with my back turned, I hear the tsk of his lighter. I make the same noise. Tsk, tsk, tsk, throwing quick jabs.
Part of me wishes I had something to fight for or somebody, but I tried that. I can’t be thinking that now. I punch myself across the mouth, tensing my jaw. I need to forget. I need to be a monster. Whoever they put me against, they’re dead.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MAYA
The event is like an upside-down wonderland. We walk into the back of what seems like an electronics store, down a flight of stairs, and then into what seems to be a vast basement with a raised ceiling and several rooms. Riley walks at my side, wide-eyed. For several minutes, we forget about Matteo and Carlo—my “date,” Matteo joked on the ride here, which I hated—and walk around this magical, strange place we’ve fallen into.
“This place is crazy!” Riley beams in my ear.
Fire-breathers and stilt walkers roam through the crowd, their elaborate, fantastical costumes flickering under the dim, multicolored lights. Contortionists twist and turn gracefully, their movements entrancing in the surreal ambiance. The décor is opulent beyond belief. Rich velvet drapes in deep reds and purples hang from the ceilings and walls, interspersed with shimmering golden tassels and twinkling fairy lights. Crystal and brass chandeliers cast dazzling light patterns across the room, adding to the magic.
We turn a corner and walk into another large room with many interesting art pieces. I touch a sculpture that comes alive with light in response. The displays shift and change. Riley giggles. “Do it again.”
There’s so much to see. I find myself drawn to a series of kinetic light sculptures. These large, moving pieces change shape and color in response to soft music pulsing from somewhere I can’t see.
Across from it, an interactive projection mapping installation covers parts of the wall and floor. As I move closer, the projections react to my presence, swirling and shifting in intricate, ever-changing visuals that seem almost alive. Each step I take causes a ripple of color and light, making me feel like a part of the art.
Finally, I come across a wall of interactive digital graffiti. I pick up a stylus and draw on the large touch-sensitive screen. I write the word Mom and then laugh in pure delight when an image of a maternal figure suddenly appears.
“It’s AI,” I hear a nearby guest say. “Anything you write, it will create. Clever, right.”