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Would I kill tonight? I’d only used necessary force to stay on top yesterday. Today was different—as Enzo Blanco had promised.
I was pulled to an abrupt stop. One of the men yanked the bag from my head, and the other removed my cuffs. A second later, I was blinded by harsh spotlights that lit up the circular platform.
Shadowy contrasts moved in the stands. Thunder rolled in the distance, and my ears were invaded by a rushing sound. I held up an arm, squinting at the light. The insanegleein their cheers almost knocked the air out of my lungs. I realized I was frozen in some way, unable to move.
You’re not alone, sweetheart.
We’re here, pup.
Fight.
I drew a ragged breath and let my vision adjust.
An older man walked up on the platform, two guards in tow, and he spoke into a microphone.
I swallowed dryly, my attention stolen briefly by the sound of a young child in the stands.
I’d seen more of them last night. Younger ones.
These people were evil. Why would they expose childr—
Enzo Blanco walked up on stage too, the audience treating him like some rock star. He chuckled and cautioned the applause with his hands, as if he didn’t revel in the attention.
He was flanked by two of his own men, and they didn’t act as carefree as he did. Even less so when Enzo approached me. The cocksucker patted me on the cheek.
“Ah, the American boy,” he said. “Tonight, we see how strong you are. We will warm up first, yes?” He turned toward the audience and didn’t bother with a microphone. He spoke in Spanish, and I obviously didn’t understand a word, but when a handful of guys raised their hands, realization dawned on me.
Don’t fucking do it.
He was asking for fucking volunteers.
Young men who wanted to prove themselves.
I rubbed my sore wrists and cracked my knuckles absently as I side-eyed Enzo. I could kill him in two seconds flat. He could be a heap on the ground before he finished his next sentence. And then what? How many guns would I have aimed at my head? How many did I already have aimed at me?
I brushed drying mud from my feet onto my calves. The marble platform was protected by a ceiling from above, but the unyielding material of the floor was still too smooth that the slightest moisture made for a slippery surface.
Fighting my natural instinct to protect myself was as fruitless as it was stupid. I was supposed to fight for my life—I just hated sinking back into the mind-set of the fighter I’d once been. I’d been a fucking idiot to fight in the cages around DC. At the same time, that period of my life was child’s play compared to this.
Now I had no choice.
So I prepared myself.
If River and Reese truly were nearby, I trusted them to intervene as soon as they could. The area was flooded with people who probably didn’t deserve to die, and no target was standing still. I could only imagine what they were up against, based on the shadows I saw in the background. Up there on the patios, in the stands, all over.
One girl called out for Nonno, and that meant grandfather in Italian, if I wasn’t mistaken. To which Enzo laughed heartily and waved at the little girl.
Sick fucks.
Close your eyes, girl. You don’t wanna see this.
I shut myself down, one emotion at a time, and rolled my shoulders.
Four men walked up onstage, and the man with the microphone spoke with finality in his voice. The speeches were over, the fight was about to begin, and those four guys formed a line to their last moment in life.
I inhaled deeply and felt myself ignite with burning hatred toward Enzo and his disgusting goons.
“No rigging,” Enzo told me. “Like I promised, no? Best of luck, gringo.”
