Page 37 of Sinful
The whole bar is holding its breath.
This is it. The moment everything explodes.
"I don't need your help," I tell Bravos, standing up. "I can handle myself."
"Didn't say you couldn't." His eyes don't leave the drunk. "But this isn't about you. It's about keeping the peace long enough for tomorrow's meeting. Can't have that if we're all killing each other tonight."
He's right.
Doesn't mean I have to like it.
"Just walk away," I tell the drunk. "It's not worth it."
But being drunk and stupid is a dangerous combination.
He swings.
Not at Bravos—atme.
I duck on instinct, the punch sailing over my head.
Come up fast, drive my fist into his kidney.
He grunts, staggers.
Then all hell breaks loose.
His friends rush forward.
Raiders members move to intercept.
Someone throws a bottle that shatters against the wall.
And Bravos?—
He moves like violence is a language he's fluent in.
Efficient. Brutal. No wasted motion.
Grabs the first guy by the shirt, drives his forehead into the man's nose.
Blood explodes.
Doesn't wait—spins, catches the second guy with an elbow to the jaw.
He drops.
I'm fighting too, can't help it—adrenaline singingthrough my veins, memory from years of surviving taking over.
I duck under a punch, drive my knee into someone's gut.
He folds.
He spins, and catches another with a right hook that splits my knuckles but connects perfectly with his temple.
He hits the floor.
Through the chaos, I catch Bravos' eye.
