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Eloise LeBlanc.
Eloise, who I turned my back on ten years ago when she cut out a sizable chunk of my soul. Eloise, who should have stayed the fuck out of my life after that.
Eloise, who should have stayed if not in my past, then at the very fucking least on her fucking side of the country in California with her shithead mafioso husband, instead of moving here.
New York is my goddamn town. And having her living in it now as well, even if we’re buffered by eight million other people, is…problematic.
Hence, throwing myself into underground fights like this at least three times a week recently.
“Look around you, Kratos,” I shrug, glancing around. “Pure entertainment. It’s all for show. It’s theater.”
Kratos rolls his eyes again. “This isn’t fucking Shakespeare, bud. Or a courtroom.”
“All the world’s a stage.”
Kratos sighs and nods past me to where Peytor’s buddies are scraping him off the ground. “He gonna be okay? That was fucking brutal.”
“Cracked rib, maybe two, probably a concussion, macular contusion, loose lower molar, broken nose—and a completely obliterated sense of pride.” I pat Kratos on the shoulder. “He’s going to be fine.”
Peytor moans pitifully behind me and spits a large mouthful of blood onto the ground as his friends drag him away.
“I mean…eventually,” I shrug.
Whatever. This is my therapy. And besides, Peytor Chernov is a piece of shit anyway.
“You ready to go collect my money?”
Kratos snorts. “After I take my cut? Sure. Oh, and one more thing…” His look darkens.
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“It depends on what phase of the moon you and your brother are on right now. He’s here, looking for you.”
Shit.
To be clear, Gabriel, my adoptive brother since I was six, is my best friend in the world. He’s my other half. The yin to my yang. The grounding force to my chaos.
We also sometimes want to kill each other, and would probably benefit from beating the shit out of each other in this very ring. But I like to think that’s just the sign of a strong and healthy brotherhood.
I glance around, my eyes scanning the crowd of unruly criminal underworld types. A few seconds later, I spot Gabriel standing by the door, looking hilariously out of place in his Tom Ford suit and polished dress shoes. His arms are crossed, and his brows furrow deeply as he glares at me.
“Gabriel isn’t the biggest fan of your extra-curricular activities?”
“Whoa. Nothing gets past you, does it, Kratos.”
“Har har.”
Toweling off my face and bare chest, I clamber over the side of the ring and make my way through the crowd. I get a few jeers from the suckers who lost on my fight, and grins and claps on the back from the smart ones who made money off it. Finally, I find myself standing in front of my brother.
He’s got the same dark hair and hazel-green eyes as our sister, Tempest, while I’ve got dirty dark-blond hair with piercing blues. He and I are the same age, same height, and same build, despite us not sharing a single drop of genetics. Same profession, even. Other than that, we’re polar opposites.
“If I’d known you were coming, I’d have gotten you VIP seats.”
He gives me a look. “Now, would those seats be next the Nazi biker gang, or the Columbian cartel?”
“For you, Gabriel, it can be both.”
He glares at me. “What the fuck are you doing here, Alistair?”
