Page 77 of Pistols & Peonies

What the fuck is he doing here?

My brain short-circuits, shock freezing me in place.

And that’s when Reaper hits me.

His fist crashes into the side of my head, the impact brutal and disorienting. Stars explode across my vision, my ears ringing as pain detonates through my skull. I hit the mat hard, dropping to my hands and knees, blinking through the haze.

When I lift my head and look out into the crowd again, Kane’s already moving, cutting through the masses toward the ring with murder in his eyes.

CHAPTER 26

Kane

For someone with a reputation like mine, I blend in a hell of a lot better than most people expect. Out of uniform with a baseball cap pulled low over my brow, I’m just another broad-shouldered asshole in a sea of degenerates. Add a black balaclava to obscure my jaw and a faded hoodie that could belong to any day laborer in the city, and nobody gives me a second glance.

The bouncer at the front door of Eclipse sizes me up, but the hundred-dollar bill I slide into his palm speaks his language. He grunts and jerks his chin, letting me through. Inside, it doesn’t take long to notice the steady flow of people slipping through the door at the back of the club. I follow the current, and the second bouncer gives me the same once-over before I grease his palm. He waves me through without a word.

By the time I clear the third layer of security and hit the basement, my wallet’s lighter, but I’ve infiltrated the underground operation without anyone so much as asking my name. No one expects an enforcer to dirty his hands down here. I fold into the chaos of the crowd until I’m practically invisible.

This ‘venue’ is a joke. Concrete floors, bare-bulb lighting, and a plywood bar sagging under cheap liquor. The fighting ring is the only thing they bothered to invest in, though the stained mat is long overdue for a cleaning. Around it, bodies press together so tightly there’s no telling where one ends and the next begins, the air thick with the stench of stale beer and sweat. This is exactly the kind of place where shady deals thrive– and exactly the kind of place Alpha should already have his cut from.

That’s why I’m here.

Pack law is clear: Alpha gets a percentage from every shifter-owned business in the city, legal or not. The club upstairs is on the books, but this little basement enterprise was conveniently omitted. That’s strike one.

Strike two is the amount of money changing hands. Illegal betting requires pack-provided security to keep Chicago PD from sniffing around. The last thing we need is some idiot getting arrested and drawing unwanted attention to the pack and what we really are.

Strike three, the bouncers at the door aren’t pack muscle, which means whoever organized this either thinks they’re untouchable or they’re a fucking moron. Either way, they’re overdue for a reminder of who runs this city.

At least the rebel angle– the reason this tip was escalated to my desk in the first place– is bullshit. Nothing here suggests the money’s headed toward the resistance. It’s just greed. A tidy little operation flying under the radar.

If I play this right, I can wrap the whole thing up and hand it off to Alpha in the morning. Tonight is strictly reconnaissance, gathering intel and determining the full scope of this venture. When we act, it’ll be quiet and efficient, without any need to make a scene.

I claim a spot at the back of the room, close enough to the betting booth to keep an eye on the cash flow but far enough to avoid drawing any unwanted attention. A waitress hustles past with a tray of whiskey shots, and I snag one, tossing a ten on her tray. She flashes a distracted smile and keeps moving, never once looking up at my face.

Turns out, the balaclava isn’t even necessary.

I tug it down to my neck and toss back the liquor.

The Gauntlet is about to start, tonight’s bracket-style bloodsport dressed up as entertainment. Some skinny hipster with an irritating voice is playing MC, dragging out the lineup announcements while the crowd surges and roars. I barely listen. The fighters aren’t my concern.

I watch the money. The bookies, the runners, and the quiet exchanges between management and staff. This place runs like any other ecosystem– messy on the surface, structured underneath. They just don’t realize something higher up the food chain walked in tonight.

After abandoning my shot glass on a nearby table, I do another slow sweep of the perimeter, cataloging the exits out of habit. Two in the back, one up top, one hidden behind the makeshift bar. Good. If something goes sideways, there are options.

The music suddenly surges, bass vibrating through the concrete floor, and a sharp spike of adrenaline hits my bloodstream. My wolf stirs instantly, restless and alert, like he’s caught onto something I haven’t registered yet. I dismiss it at first– there’s always reason to be on edge in a place like this– but it doesn’t fade.

It sharpens. Pulls. Writhes in my chest and prickles beneath my skin.

The crowd erupts as the first fighter of the night makes her way toward the ring, and when my gaze shifts in that direction, everything inside me grinds to a halt.

For a split second, my brain refuses to process what my eyes are telling me– because I know that face, that body, that walk.

The realization lands hard enough to punch the air from my lungs as Violet struts toward the ring like she owns it, clad in a skimpy black two-piece that leaves little to the imagination. She’s all sharp angles and fuck-you confidence, hair pulled back in a tight bun, tattoos on full display. There’s no uncertainty or hesitation in her approach, just fierce focus.

The crowd starts chanting, “Slay, Slay, Slay!” rolling through the basement in a steady, pulsing rhythm, but she doesn’t play to them or feed off their adoration. Her attention is fixed on the ring as she grips the ropes and climbs through with practiced ease.

The MC introduces her opponent as Reaper, and a huge fucker comes striding out to join her. He’s built like a wrecking ball, thick with muscle, bald head gleaming under the lights and a maniacal grin on his face.