Page 3 of Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia Don

A thunderous roar shakes the foundation of the room. I feel it in my chest, in the soles of my feet, in the back of my molars. It drowns the announcer’s words into a squeal of sharp interference. The fighter has entered on the other side of the room, and whoever he is, these madmen love him.

Even on my tiptoes, I struggle to see. The ring is elevated off the ground floor, but still, my best view is of the back of men’s heads.

The lights lower until the ring is highlighted in a dramatic, strobing spotlight. One light angles in my direction, casts the fighters in shifting silhouette.

As the man enters the cage from the other side, the room falls into an eerie hush. The silence feels reverent. The skin on my arms prickles with goosebumps.

On my side of the cage, the opponent ambles in. Upon his introduction, no one says a single word. He’s a stocky blonde built like an industrial fridge, but despite his mean mug and solid build, he has uncertainty in his eyes. He makes a show of marching toward the ring, pushing through the silent crowd that has turned to him, but I sense the fear in him. He’s already sweating.

Through the smoke, the lighting, the constant shuffle of the crowd in front of me—I see only the silhouette of the one who caused the stir. He prowls around the cage. I get glimpses of him in flashes, pieces of him here and there. The topography of a powerful back, all rolling muscle. The outline of a chiseled, grinning profile as it catches the light just right. He moves like a caged tiger, limber and sure-footed, always pacing, always moving, keeping his eyes on his opponent.

I wonder who he is. Why he makes such an impression.

There’s something off about it, something I can’t quite shake.

Even my eyes are locked on him. A magnetic pull I can’t resist.

Everyone in this room is dangerous in their own way, and yet it’s only when I look athimthat the siren song of danger sings in my belly. I know how to recognize a bad time, and my instincts warn me that this man is darkness in skin. It draws me closer, aching for a better look.

The mystery man and his opponent circle each other, inching closer and closer. The tension in the room reaches a buzzing, mind-numbing frenzy. I feel it in my stomach. The sense thatsomethingis about to happen.

The tension snaps with a single, powerful lunge. Like a predator pouncing on prey, the outcome is decided in a single motion. Screams erupt as the crowd favorite pounces, landing a devastating shot. But the men do not fall and disappear into the floor where I can no longer see. The short blonde gets crowded up against the chain-link bars of the cage, pinned there as the hits rain down on him.

My eyes stay locked on the shadowy figure doing the damage, throwing those swings.

What is it about him? The way he moves. The shape of his outline. I’m hungry to see him. It feels almost familiar in some terrible way, the mere aura of him filling me with equal measures of wanting and dread.

I slip forward and merge into the crowd, propelled by that burning curiosity. Theneedto know, to finally see his face.

Through the crush of bodies, I inch my way, little by little, toward the front of the ring. The fight is briefly obscured as I’m swallowed in the crowd, nudging my way through the men whose eyes are only on the bloodbath in front of them.

It’s already over. I can hear it in the crowd. There’s no coming back from this. Even if the beaten man is still on his feet, it’s only the cage that keeps him pinned there, half-standing and half-slumped. His full bodyweight is leveraged against the crisscrossing metal wire, skin bulging through the grid, the cage rattling like a sentient, snarling beast with every hit.

That nagging uncertainty in my belly doubles, draws me nearer to the front. I squirrel my way through the crowd and push out to the foundation of the cage. I’m close enough now to hearthe punches as they land. Knuckles on bone. No breath to be knocked out of him. And they keep coming. The crowd begins to roar in unison with each strike, urging him on, his punches the tempo of their awful chant.

It’s merciless.

He’s not going to stop.

The frenzy in the room is a call for blood, urging him on.

Even in the underground, it’s not often that a fight ends in death. It’s bad for the family, and therefore bad for the business. But the chance must always remain, because it’s that chance that brings money to the table and eyes to the ring.

The crowd’s excitement spurs on the carnage.

When you walk into a ring like this, your life is already on the line. You know that from the moment you cross the threshold. I don’t have much sympathy for someone who puts themselves in that situation, but the reality is if that man dies, the Mori family is going to have to clean up the mess.

“Enough,” I hear myself yell, my tiny voice lost in the chaos. I’m pushed forward by the crowd at my back. My hips dig into the concrete barrier standing between me and the cage. I have nowhere to go.

Another strike, and the beaten man makes a terrible noise. It might be an attempt to surrender.

Goddammit.

I vault the low wall separating the crowd from the ring. The cage towers over me. I am cast in the shadow of the collapsed fighter, who has sunk lower and lower with each hit. I hook my fingers into the chain-link and haul myself up.

“I said enough!” I yell as I pull myself to standing, getting my feet under me and slamming my hand on the rattling cage.

The man’s next punch flinches. He freezes mid-motion as our eyes lock.

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