Page 103 of Broken Blood Ties

I pull my gloves tight over my fists, the leather creaking under the strain. I sway, teetering back and forth on my feet and willing myself to block out Cormac’s talk of the odds and payouts.

Focus.

The thought is short-lived because Marco bursts into my prefight mask like a bull.

“You! Why are you letting Riku’s fighters walk all over this place. Ryo hasn’t been here but for two weeks and he’s already moving up class rank. He shouldn’t even have set odds for or against him.”

Most new fighters in our ring don’t have odds assigned to them. They’re playing to rise in ranks, to fight tougher opponents. Allows for my team and those placing bets to get a good handle on the newbie’s abilities. Riku shattered that with his threats.

I don’t have the time or the patience to deal with Marco, especially before my fight with Oscar. Shite. I hate going up against him.

“Piss off,” I say, moving around him and knocking his shoulder.

“Salvatore will hear about this!” My head snaps to look at him. He didn’t waste any time crawling up Salvatore’s ass.

Unease stabs my gut. I don’t like this. Riku thinking he can strong-arm me, and Marco using the Cosa Nostra as a scare tactic. I’m the bloody Irish Mob—since when do I have to answer to anyone? My father surely wouldn’t.

I curl my lips as I approach the ring, dragging those uneasy thoughts to the forefront of my mind.

I mold them; shape them until I’m determined to tear Oscar’s head off. I’ve almost convinced myself I can win.

Glancing up, I eye Oscar as he steps into the ring. He averts his gaze as soon as we connect, and my brow furrows. The crowd screams his name, and the energy he brings to his rounds crashes with force. He’s the fan favorite.

The stale stench of alcohol burns my nose, and another wave of cheers, albeit not as intense as for Oscar, thrum through the arena as I climb in.

My heart pounds as I swing my arms and roll my shoulders, trying to ease the last of the tension in my muscles. Heavy bass music blares from the surrounding speakers and Joe announces Oscar.

Looking down, dried blood is caked onto the floor, and I can almost taste the coppery tang mingling with the scent of adrenaline and fear from those earlier tonight.

Come on, get it together. I gently knock myself in the head a few times as Joe announces me. Oscar looms across the square, hulking and gleaming with hunger. Still, he never meets my eyes. Even when we meet in the middle and raise our fists defensively.

A moment of silence hangs in the air as the referee’s arm raises between us. The referee muffles the thunderous crowd in the background as he yells to Oscar, “You ready?!”

He nods.

Then to me, “You ready?!”

I nod.

In a sharp chop, the ref’s hand comes slicing down, and the fight begins.

Chapter31

Kieran

Oscar throws the first punch with the force of a wrecking ball. His red glove is a blur as it crashes into my eye socket, sending a slice of pain down my right side. Quickly, I retaliate with my fist in an upward motion that connects with his jaw. The sickening dull crack hones me in on the fight, while I ignore the jeers and gasps from the crowd.

Shuffling, I bounce on my toes, calculating my next move. Sweat already beads above my upper lip, and my tongue darts out to taste the salty skin. Forward motions seem like the best bet, so I push a jab, but he blocks me. I grit my teeth over my mouth guard.

Oscar explodes back at me, landing a combination—jab, cross, uppercut—in quick succession sending my knees buckling. The crowd fuels me, and I spin for a roundhouse kick, landing it with a solid whack on his thigh. He hops back.

I ignore the burn in my lungs and the ache in my muscles to suck in a breath. I’ve spent less time in the gym the past two weeks, and it shows.

In my brief pause, Oscar prowls, landing a right hook across my cheek. Then he grapples behind me. Flesh squeezes around my neck as Oscar puts me in a standing rear chokehold. I stumble back as he exerts more pressure. His muscles flex over my thudding pulse, his elbow underneath my chin, his other hand flat against the back of my head. A white haze bleeds into my vision, and more black spots filter in until I’m blind, completely unable to see.

A sultry voice accompanies the sea of black around me, and it’s then she walks toward me. She sways her hips and reaches up to flip her short hair back behind her. Far away, she’s an inky onyx, but as she nears, the veil melts off of her, revealing the familiar olive-toned skin. The pixelated picture of her renders clearer the closer she gets. Cocoa-colored hair with eyes to match. The petite figure approaches. The woman I’ve been seeing for the past year gives way to the woman occupying all of my thoughts lately.

Summer.

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