Page 81 of Fractured Allegiance
By late evening, I’m back at Dom’s place.
The club is quieter during the day: staff resetting the floor, security running new checks, bartenders restocking with the kind of efficiency that tells you they’ve cleaned up more than spilled drinks off these floors.
The doormen nod. The floor staff don’t look at me. That’s good. That’s how I like it.
One bartender behind the bar is restocking glass tumblers. His shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbows. His neck’s covered infaded burns. We’ve never spoken more than six words to each other.
He slides something across the polished bar without looking up.
A small coin. Heavy. Gunmetal gray with a serpent engraved on one side. The letter R stamped on the other.
No explanation.
He doesn’t meet my eyes.
He doesn’t have to.
I know what it means.
It's not a question. Not an invitation.
It's a summons.
Fight night.
I've heard about these before—whispers from regulars who've earned enough trust to witness what happens beneath Dom's polished club.
Underground fights that aren't on any schedule, aren't advertised, aren't spoken about except in careful code. Invitation-only events where Drazen's people settle disputes, test new acquisitions, or just indulge in violence for sport.
I knew it was coming eventually. Drazen's been circling me for weeks, measuring, testing. This is another layer of the vetting process—not just whether I can hurt someone when ordered, but whether I can do it for entertainment. Whether I have the stomach for the kind of brutality that doesn't serve a purpose beyond proving I belong.
I pocket the coin—heavy brass, warm from someone else's hand, stamped with a symbol I don't recognize but understand anyway—and leave the bar through the rear hallway.
Not toward the main floor where the music still pulses and bodies still move in carefully choreographed desire.
Not toward the staff exit or the loading dock.
Down.
When I reach the underground ring, the atmosphere shifts.
Warmer. Metallic. It smells like aggression trapped under cologne and ambition. The walls are concrete. The cage at the center is iron. The lighting is blood-red, pulsing above the ring like a heartbeat.
A crowd’s already gathered, tightly packed, well-dressed, lips stained with alcohol and anticipation. This is Drazen’s real playground. Not the posh booths upstairs.
Here, everything costs something you can’t buy back.
Renzo gives me a nod. Bishop just grins, a slick smile that never means anything good.
I strip off my jacket, then my shirt.
No gloves. No wraps.
Just hands.
Just punishment.
The gate creaks open, and I step into the ring.
