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)
“Tristan,” she murmurs.
“Have you taken anything tonight?”
“Uh, I’m just looking at the lights. At you.” She smiles in that spaced-out way. She reaches for me. I almost let myself do it, touch those tempting hands. I can imagine them all over me, at every point of my body. Stroking over the scars and the blood and not giving a damn.
She’s clearly out of it.
“Raffie,” I say, standing. “I want a real medic to check on Maya and Riley. Who was that bastard?”
“The world is full of bastards. I don’t know.”
That’s such a classic Raffie response. He doesn’t want me to go after anybody in the Mob world and make his life difficult. “Hmm. Well, make sure they’re okay.”
“I will. I promise.” Raffie puts his hand on his chest. “Please, focus on the fight. Think of the money.”
“Get the medic,” I growl, walking toward the stairs.
“You’re not climbing down?” Raffie calls over, and a few of his goons laugh.
The petty in me wants to shut the bastards up for laughing, but Raffie needs his little moments like that, mainly because he could never beat a man fairly like I just did.
Still, when I reach the changing room, I see two medics talking to each woman. It’s not my place to tell Maya where to go and what to do, but goddamn, this isn’t the place for a girl like her. After this fight, whatever it is, I’ll get her out of here.
Soon, I’m standing on the other side of the cage again, my hands freshly wrapped, the blood cleaned from my body. Maya is leaning against her friend now. I can’t tell if she’s asleep. Maybe that’s for the best. Then she won’t have to watch me do this again, watch me become this again.
In the center of the ring, a man in a purple suit stands, addressing the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, for our final event, we have our famous Mystery Box! Who is our esteemed Marine fighting, you all ask? You won’t know until the lights come on. Ha!”
Suddenly, all the power dies. A few people gasp, and then laughter spreads through the room. Around thirty seconds later, the lights flicker on with a harsh buzz. I squint against the sudden brightness, my eyes adjusting to reveal three figures standing before me. They’re not what I expected.
Three wiry street kids, no older than fourteen, in makeshift MMA gear that looks too big and worn for their small frames. Their faces are smeared with dirt and defiance, but I catch a glimmer of fear in their eyes—a fear they’re trying hard to hide behind tough exteriors.
The first, a goddamn girl with wild, unruly curls of fiery red hair, wears a patched-up sports bra and baggy shorts. Her arms are crossed defiantly, but her fingers twitch nervously at her sides.
Next to her, there’s a boy who reminds me of myself at his age. His hair is the color of mud, and he’s lean. He’s covered in scars, but his eyes are alert. He grinds his teeth and takes a terrified step forward, trembling all over. The third wears a thick hoodie like armor, glaring from the rear.
They’re kids. They’re scared down to their bones. This is sick. But I read the situation with my military instincts. These combatants are ready to fight. Whatever the Mob is blackmailing them with or using to threaten them, it’s working.
There’s no damn way I’m letting this happen. “Are you kidding me?” I roar up at Raffie. “I’m not fighting these kids.”
“Get him, Bronx,” the one with mud-colored hair snaps, and I can just imagine being that kid looking up to the girl, confident she was going to make this mayhem work out somehow.
“Yeah, Bronx, get him,” the one in the hoodie says, staring at the girl.
The girl looks at me with her eyes wide open, tears glimmering. But she reaches into the baggy fold of her shorts and takes out a small blade.
“I’m not fighting kids,” I growl. “Put that shit down, kid. This is over.”
“You have to fight,” Raffie calls down. “You keep saying you’re drawing lines, T, but there’s no drawing lines in this life—only blood. This will be a lesson. Your first real night as a Trentini.”
I turn to the kid. “We’re not fighting. Put it down.”
“Get him, Bronx,” the boy says again. “We’ll have a life, then. Remember? Sunsets and sherbet. You said we have to remember that.”
“Yeah,” the girl whispers, passing her knife from one hand to the other, getting herself ready. It’s goddamn heartbreaking. “We can do this. Then we never have to be scared again, right?”
Bronx lunges at me. I duck aside, grab her wrist as gently as I conceivably can in this situation, and quickly take the blade from her tiny hand. When I gently push her toward her friends, she cowers against the cage wall. All of them move away, their hands raised.