Page 4 of Fight

The conversation was over.

A crushing disappointment smashed down at me, but I swallowed it and turned and left the room.

I’d had no doubt before, but this conversation had confirmed it. I was in the shit. The trick now was making sure I didn’t stay there long enough to get used to it.

My mood low, I waved at Nicky and then left the bar. It was midnight, but I was far too wired to go home. Besides, if I went home, I’d be alone with my thoughts, something I was in no mood for.

I cut a hard left and turned my car toward the warehouses. They were a fantasyland for criminals, a place where people with connections, and those who wanted them, could go and hang out away from watchful eyes.

Not my usual scene. The fights, whores, and drugs that were so popular there were of little interest to me, but the distraction would be welcome tonight.

I came to a stop and walked toward the largest building. Its outside was desolate, dead silent, but as soon as I entered, the man at the door having waved me in, the noise hit me like a wave.

I frowned, almost turned and left, but I kept moving forward. People came here for blood. The yelling, the cursing, the screams, were all a part of the package. So I pushed through the gathered bodies, trying to ignore what had me so on edge.

“Ioan!”

I looked toward the sound of my name and saw Alin, a friend and fellow member of Clan Petran, and then made my way toward him.

“You came out tonight,” he said when I reached him.

“I was bored,” I said, shrugging.

“Markov will entertain you. I heard he has something special planned for tonight.”

Markov was the Ukrainian who ran the warehouses. Clan Petran only dealt with him to the extent necessary to keep the peace, and I held him in little esteem. He ran his organization too loosely, took too much pride and pleasure in the notoriety and the fear he inspired.

I tried to feign enthusiasm, but it was difficult. I’d come here for diversion, but instead was only being reminded of my sorry current situation. Somehow, I doubted Markov’s form of entertainment would make me feel any better.

A hush fell over the crowd when Ciprian Dragos, Markov’s most feared fighter, walked to the center of the room and stopped in the makeshift ring. We were here for a show, and the look on Ciprian’s face, one of blank, mindless violence said he would give just that.

I was in no position to judge.

Violence was the currency of our world, but this had always bothered me. Ciprian’s clan had once been strong and proud, but now he was all that remained, a sideshow freak who performed on command.

All at Markov’s behest.

I looked to the far corner of the room where Markov sat surrounded by beautiful women whose affection for him would dissolve as soon as the pile of coke in front of them did, but he barely paid any of them any attention.

Instead, his eyes were riveted to the ring, and even from across the room, I could see his breath come a little faster, see that predatory gleam that lit his eyes. Markov loved his drugs and his women, but he loved his fights most of all. I shook my head at the eager idiots who thought they had a chance against Ciprian. The way Ciprian beat them mercilessly at Markov’s order.

The fact that Markov got paid to watch something he so deeply enjoyed.

The fights made money and lots of it. The bets placed were substantial, and even on those rare occasions that Ciprian lost, Markov always made a healthy profit. That Markov had found a way to make money on something he liked was worthy of admiration even if the man himself was not.

After all, we all had our vices, so I was in no position to judge Markov for his.

I looked back toward Ciprian and saw the impatient gleam in his eye.

He was waiting, ready to dole out punishment and make Markov a fuck-ton of money in the process.

The two men who stood across from Ciprian would have been menacing in another setting. Both were broad, thickly muscled with meaty fists they clearly had no trouble using. Low-level enforcers if I had to guess, though I didn’t recognize them.

No one else would either once Ciprian had finished with them.

They bounced from foot to foot, faces twisted in menacing expressions as they shook their arms to loosen them. Ciprian stood unmoving. I could easily imagine how they had come to be here. They knew Ciprian’s reputation and skills. Everyone did. But they’d talked, decided that there was no way he could beat both of them. They’d win, split the take, and have their own little fortune.

A perfect plan, except Ciprian wasn’t some crooked businessman who found himself in need of a loan or a gambler who got a little too exuberant with a bet and tried to fight his way out of it.

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