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Prologue
Paddy
There’s a good-sized crowd tonight, so the takings should be good. My opponent is a big, brutish Russian. Ivor Stravinsky. He’s got a good record. Mine’s better.
I turn my eyes to where my crew is sitting, lounging off to the side of the ring. Seamus Fitzpatrick, our fearless fucking leader and my best mate for the last twenty years is scanning the crowd. Connor Fitzpatrick, his cousin, is beside him, trying his luck with one of the gorgeous lasses dotted around the crowded warehouse.
Fitzy’s eyes find mine, and he nods, turning to grin at something his cousin says. Almost the whole crew is here tonight. Liam, the young lad, he’s still on babysitting duties tonight. Ronan’s a lucky fucker that he’s not there too.
Ever since Fitzy found out his missus was pregnant when she was involved in a shootout, he’s been a little over the top in the protective side of things. Needy fuck.
As it is, Ronan is distracted, stalking over to the back corner of the room. No guesses where’s he’s going. One of the strippers from the club, the little blonde one who is friends with Fitzy’s wife, shows up at these fights every so often. Ronan fucking hates it.
The crowd parts for him like water breaking over a rock, and his little stripper looks pissed that he spotted her. To her credit, she’s not backing down. It seems like he’s trying to convince her to leave, but she’s ignoring him, her eyes scanning the crowd. She is probably looking for the fighter she is here to see.
Perry, the announcer, does his little hyped-up spiel about Ivor. The fighter dances his way to the ring, the strains of whatever clichéd anthem he’s selected blasting obnoxiously loud as the Russian corner of the room erupts.
He does some shadow boxing once in the ring, and the crowd laps it up. The eejit looks like he’s in some grand Hollywood production, not an illegal underground fight ring.
When I’m announced, I walk over and climb into the ring. No music, no dancing or playing it up to the crowd. The Irish cheer, the Russian’s jeer, and Ivor juts his chin at me, a smug grin on his ugly mug.
He’s probably got about forty pounds on me. He’s solid like a black bear. But we’re roughly the same height, six foot three, so it’s a pretty evenly matched fight. Fitzy’s got a lot of money riding on this, but I’m just here to fuck cunts up. I don’t give a shit about the rest of it.
Perry announces Herman Ford, the referee, who climbs into the ring, says his piece about no eye-gouging, biting, or nut shots, and the bell rings out.
Ivor leads with three sharp jabs and a huge uppercut, going for the immediate knockout. How pathetically predictable. The man starts every single one of his fights the same way. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone not see it coming from a mile off.
Dancing out of his way, I clock him with a sharp cross to the jaw, following with a jab to the ribs. He stumbles back, growling, and glaring at me. I let a slow, feral grin steal across my face, jerking my chin in an invitation. It’s all he needs. He roars, charging me, swinging wildly.
The fight continues in the same vein. Ivor relies on brute strength, charging, swinging wildly as I dance out of his way, jabbing and parrying, landing some decent shots. My knuckles have split, and they'd be aching if I concentrated on them. I’m not concentrating on them, though. I’m too focused on fucking Ivor up. Just because I can.
Ivor is flagging while I’ve led him on a merry dance around the now bloodstained ring. We’ve been going at it for almost fifteen minutes straight, and he’s rapidly running out of steam.
His significant blood loss doesn’t help his flagging energy. Considering the fight is only over through submission or knockout, I’m going for the knockout.
Darting forward, I slam my fist into his jaw. His head snaps back as he crashes into the mat. He doesn’t get back up, and Ford calls the fight.
Irish cheers fill the air to one side, angry rumbling countering it from the Russians on the other. Now the adrenaline has finished spiking, I’m starting to feel the prolonged beating my body has just taken.
The Russians are rowdy now, and I don’t bother to acknowledge the crowd, sliding through the ropes to exit the ring, walking past Fitzy’s grinning mug out to the back rooms.
It’s quieter in here. There are some private rooms, but I don’t bother requesting one of them. I never do. The large dressing-room-style space is fine for me.
The lads have followed me in, and Niall hands me a water bottle to rinse my bloodied knuckles and mouth. Before Fitzy can speak, Delic, the promoter, throws me a stack of cash. Catching it, I nod to him.
“Good fight,” the swarthy Bosnian grunts, nodding to Fitzy as he strolls away.
Fitzy grins at me. “We cleaned up tonight, Paddy. Good job.”
Ronan shoulders his way into the room, alone. I guess he struck out with his little blonde stripper.
“Ready to go?” he grunts at Fitzy. Connor smirks and opens his mouth. He doesn’t get a chance to tease before Ronan flips him off. “Feck off, Lucky.”
Surprisingly, his mouth closes again. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Connor willing to forgo an opportunity to stir the shit. The lad is born to piss everyone the fuck off with his banter.
“See you tomorrow, Paddy.” Fitzy nods to me, clapping Connor on the shoulder and steering him out of the room. Ronan starts to leave, shaking his head at Niall as he raises his eyebrows in some question.
Niall shrugs, nodding to me as he slides out of the room after Ronan and the rest of them. I’ve no idea what Ronan sees in the little blonde stripper either, but after the way Niall sniffs around after the little brunette bartender at the club, I don’t think he has a leg to stand on.
