Page 3 of Consume Me

I can’t run forever. I know it like I know I can’t return. I can’t beat the guilt nor make myself function properly. Nothing will change if I go back. The monster in me blends better out here, cloaked by night.

Walking to the edge of the town—Jesus, I can’t even remember its name. After a while, they all blur in my head, and I don’t care where I am or where I’ll go next.

Two bulky security guys guard the entrance in front of the warehouse. I jerk my chin, showing them the invite on my phone. They size me up, likely recognizing me. I’ve earned the nickname “Steel Fists.” It’s not particularly original, but it doesn’t bother me.

I should fucking leave before another asshole thinks he can buy me to do his bidding. Freedom is the only thing I won’t relinquish again. I haven’t left the Family to become someone else’s property.

Here, I am not Blake Sinclair, an heir of the Family—just another man with an apparent death wish.

“Good luck,” the bigger one says.

Luck. My birthright ensured I should never hope for that.

“I don’t need luck.”

Opening the door for me, I stride inside the dimly lit building. In the middle of the ground floor is a cage where one guy is on top of the other, pummeling his face in; blood spurts out of his nose and mouth as if he’s a damn geyser.

I scan the crowd. People yell over the pounding music, bets are placed, and money is exchanged while the rest of the crowd clamors for their favorite. Over a hundred people have gathered—bloody thirsty assholes.

There are no rules in these types of fights. You fight until the other person can’t stand anymore. Whether or not he’s alive afterward is inconsequential.

While I had a vague idea about underground fights, their reality is more brutal. I had taken part in all the fights Tyson organized on campus. He’s another rich guy who rebels against his father the only way he can. I guess that was what we had in common, and we became quick friends.

A guy approaches me while I crack my neck and sway from one leg to the other to warm up. I know power when I see it. From his cold steel eyes to his roughened features, he emanates silent but deadly energy, and his custom-made suit doesn’t hide the fact that he’s someone important.

“I’m not interested.”

He looks me up and down, his impassive face not letting anything show.

“That alone could cost you your life,” he says with no inflection. He watches the current fight, almost with longing, before he redirects his attention to me.

I jerk my chin, smirking. “Who’s going to kill me? You? You could try.”

“Blake Sinclair, what is an heir like you doing so far away from home and family?” He uses every word with precision and significance.

“That’s not your problem. I am here to fight.”

“Hmm, so it’s true. There is friction in the Family.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Cato Moretti, and watch your fucking tone when you talk to me.”

This guy can’t be more than a few years older than me, but his name lights a bulb in my head. He’s one of the three leaders of the Syndicate. Their names are hushed and whispered about in the underworld with respect and fear. Their business is merely a front for their illegal operations. Behind the scenes, they lead one of the most powerful criminal organizations.

Faking a yawn, I ask, “What do you want?”

“Just wanted to see for myself. Go back home. This is not your place. The Family has never been this vulnerable.”

“Why do you care?”

“Ask for our help before we take it into our own hands. We’ve been watching you.”

“Are we sharing personal stuff now?”

One of his men beside him cracks his jaw. Something tells me he’d like to beat the shit out of me. He could try if he wants to end up a vegetable. “Let me kill this little shit, boss.”

“He’d enjoy that.”

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