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"Great, just what the kiddo needs," I mutter under my breath. I pull Evelyn in for a hug, her frame a stark contrast to the hardness seeping into my bones. Then I drop to a kneeto ruffle Evan's hair, trying to offer him a grin that doesn't quite reach my eyes. "You be good for Evelyn, champ," I say, swallowing the knot of fear lodged in my throat.
"Alright, let's go," the soldier mumbles, forcing me to break away from both of them before I want to.
I reluctantly follow him out. The soldier's boots echo down the hallway, a death march I'm obliged to make. As we walk, I try to needle him for intel, not expecting to get much. "You ever seen Declan fight?" I prod, testing the waters.
"Once or twice," he admits with a shrug that could mean anything.
"What's his style?" I continue, because knowledge is power, and right now, I'm scrapping for every bit I can get.
"Brutal," he says with a ghost of a smile, like he's tasted the violence himself and found it sweet. "He's got this left hook—like a sledgehammer."
"Thanks for the tip," I say dryly, but my mind's already turning over the information, weighing it against every trick I know.
We stop before a door that's seen better days, its paint chipped like an old prizefighter's teeth. "Good luck," the kid offers, but his eyes say he doesn't think it'll do me any good.
"Who needs luck?" I shoot back with a smirk, even if my insides are coiling tight as a noose. The door swings open, and I step through, leaving the soldier—and maybe my last shred of certainty—behind.
I step inside and the air's thick with the tang of sweat and mildew—it's reminiscent in a way.
"Nice digs," I mutter to myself, my voice echoing slightly off the concrete walls. The locker room's cramped, just enough space for a bench and a narrow aisle to walk through. Dim light filters through a grimy window, casting shadows across the floor and over the solitary pair of shorts lying there, waiting for me.
"Guess we're going primal tonight." My chuckle is dry, bouncing off the lockers. It's an odd place and I wonder why it's here in the back of the warehouse.
I pick up the shorts, cotton worn thin from countless washes, and wonder if they've been lucky for anyone before me. No gloves, no tape—nothing to cushion the blow. Declan's message is clear: no quarter given.
"Strip down, get in the ring," I say to myself, stepping out of my clothes and into the role of the fighter. "No time to play nice."
As I change, my mind starts running scenarios—dodging, weaving, striking. I'm usually all in for the rush of a brawl, the chaotic dance where instinct leads and reason takes a backseat. But something's different now. A strange hesitance claws at my gut, maybe it's the stakes or maybe it's...
"Snap out of it," I scold myself, shaking free of the doubt. "You don't get to choose your fights. They come to you, and you answer."
I pull on the shorts, the fabric clinging to my skin. There's no room for hesitation, not when every hit could bring darkness—or worse, expose the shakier parts of me, the ones I keep under wraps with leather straps and cocky smirks.
"Declan's left hook, huh?" I muse aloud, recalling the kid's warning. Can I trust it? Or is it another mind game? "Well, let's not give him the chance to show it off."
I give one last glance around the dingy room, committing it to memory. It might be the last thing I see before the world fades to black, or the sight I recall when I'm standing victorious. Only one way to find out.
Stepping through the door, I'm hit with a wall of cool air, the kind that reeks of sweat and bad decisions. It's darker in here, the kind of dark that swallows whispers and turns them into screams.
"Nice place you got here, Declan," I murmur to myself as my eyes fight against the gloom, scanning for something familiar. "Real cozy." My gaze flits to the side where a few rows of seats huddle together. Empty. No sign of Evelyn or Evan.
There's a creak of a door, and then this faint light starts to bleed across the room. I squint against it, watching as it frames him—Declan O'Leary, the Westie kingpin himself, swaggering in like he owns every shadow in the room.
"Damn," I exhale, the word more a hiss than anything else. Declan's decked out in boxing gear that looks like it's painted on, all muscle and menace.
"Look at you, all beefed up and ready to go," I say, voice steady even though my confidence takes a hit. It's like staring down an angry bull; you know the horns are coming, but you can't help admiring the beast's size before it charges.
"Constantino Maldonado," he rumbles, voice echoing off the gym walls. "Hope you're ready to become a footnote in my rise to power."
"Footnote?" I scoff, feeling the smirk crawl back onto my lips. "More like the damn title, Declan. Don't get too ahead of yourself."
I roll my shoulders, trying to shake the unease that gnaws at me. It's not fear—it can't be. It's just... awareness. Yeah, that's it. Awareness that each punch thrown could be a coin toss between standing tall or hitting the floor with my brain short-circuiting.
I step closer to the mat, my heart thrumming a savage rhythm. The door creaks open and a sliver of light slices through the dimness again, heralding their arrival. Evelyn's silhouette is unmistakable, her blond hair a golden halo in the stark contrast, while Evan is a small shadow trailing behind her, his innocence about to be tarnished, once again, by the brutality of men.
"Take a seat over there," the Irish soldier gestures to the seating area, his voice devoid of warmth. I watch as she guidesEvan to the chairs, her protective hand on his shoulder speaking volumes about the world we're dragging him through.
"Ya really think he should be seein' this?" I can't help but growl at Declan, nodding towards Evan with a scowl. "It's a bit much for a kid."
