Page 10 of Mila: The Godfather

A punch to my left rib.

Motherfucker.

I hiss in pain, yet I smile when I taste copper in my mouth. Blood.

“You fight like a bitch, Cap.” Byrne, the clan’s warlord, grins as he successfully ducks a punch. I wait and when he comes up, I raise my leg and hit him on the head, causing him to stumble. There are no rules in my ring.

None.

I smile wider, teeth stained red as the crowd around us roars in excitement at the brutality they pay so much to participate in, even as watchers.

It never ceases to surprise me how chaos thrills even the most moral of men.

Women, too.

Shit.

Most that frequent this joint are women looking for two types of entertainment.

The fights and the fighters to fuck.

“Since you love talking shit so much, Byrne. You should eat it, too.” With that, I land a blow to his mouth that makes my strongest man fall to the bloody floor with a loud thud as the crowd around the ring screams and shouts, enjoying the fight.

Not many men have the balls to get in the ring with me.

Most, out of respect, choose not to fight their boss, and others out of the knowledge that they won’t be stepping out of my ring as the same men they were when they climbed into it. The clan’s enforcer is a different story altogether.

The fucker not only has a daily death wish, but he is also one of my best fighters. He is a tank. A long-blond-haired solid mass of muscle. He might not have been the wiriest of my men, but what he lacked in speed, he made up for in brute strength and thirst for blood.

Callan Byrne is one vicious fucker when fighting, that is why many come to see him fight, but I am better.

I never leave doubt about that in the ring.

There is a reason why I am the boss of the O’Sullivan clan, and it has nothing to do with blood lineage. The title of captain and Godfather goes to the most ruthless of the soldiers, and like the two bosses before me, I proved to be the savage worthy of the title.

Worthy of this city.

I prove it every day when I take a life in the name of the clan.

I am proving it now.

With my enforcer down on the ground, covered in bruises and blood. If he were any other person, I would have ended him right here, and given the crowd the show most of them come here for.

Savagery.

A death-match, but not tonight.

Not Callan.

Maybe one day, if he keeps running his mouth.

Instead, I wipe the blood off my mouth with the back of my hand and retreat with a smile on my face towards the crowd.

I am not only this city’s Godfather, but they gave me another name.

The Joker.

They never expect my kind of savage brutality. Never from a man who smiles and jokes the way I do.

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