Page 9 of The Way We Are

The reason behind Isaac’s shift in demeanor comes to light when we enter a door manned by two heavily armed men. The scene inside the warehouse mimics one I’ve seen many times on the premium sports channel my dad watches on the weekends; it just has a grittier association.

Chrome chairs line the edge of a large boxing ring with men of all shapes and sizes warming up on it. There's a bar pushed in the far corner of the room, serving liquor ranging from girly-looking cocktails to scotch on the rocks served in the fancy crystal tumblers. There are even a dozen spectators sitting in the cheap seats, nestled away from the action on the far walls.

On first assumptions, this property could be misconstrued as a secret fight club for the rich and famous. It's only after taking in the many exchanges of money during the short trek across the dirty concrete floor that my assumptions are proven wrong.

This is a secret fight club, but it isn’t for the rich and famous. It's for the underworld.

The cash-only transactions leave no doubts, especially paired with the salt and pepper haired-man standing next to the ring gawking our way. Col Petretti is well-known in my home town. His son Dimitri has been scouring the bottom-feeders in our community the past two years, seeking members to join their association.

You know you’re scraping the bottom of the barrel when you can’t get drafted by a low-ranked mobster. Brax and I were happy to be passed over by the Petretti crew as soon as we were of age, but Chris wasn’t as content with our smooth transition from adolescent to adulthood. He wanted an adventure, and for some insane reason, he believes the Petretti crew could give him that.

“Showtime,” Isaac mutters when he notices the direction of Col’s gaze.

“How much?” Cormack questions under his breath when Col pushes off his feet to head our way. Although Cormack’s eyes remain locked on Col, his words are for Isaac.

“Take him to the cleaners, but be smart or he’ll smell a rat,” Isaac answers. His tone is to the point, but his innocence act never falters.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I shift my eyes to the side of the room, praying Col won’t see my grin. I’ve seen many tricks in my short eighteen years, but this one tops the cake. It’s clever, but I hope I’m not around when the jig is up.

My quick scan of the densely filled space stops halfway when a flurry of honey-colored locks captures my attention. The silky smooth hair reminds me why I am in this warehouse to begin with. It's for her. Savannah.

Keeping my prying eyes on the down low, I watch Savannah from afar, relishing the deja vu of seeing her sit beneath a set of bleachers on my right. She has a book cradled in one hand while her other twists a lock of hair around her index finger. It's phenomenal how comfortable she looks in a dangerous environment. Her legs are curled under her bottom, and her lower lip is two shades darker than its counterpart from the obsessive raking of her teeth as she scans the pages of what is no doubt a romance novel.

Savannah loves reading. From the moment she stumbled upon a box of old Harlequin novels during our street’s annual garage sale nine years ago, she has devoured three to four books a week. She rarely strays from romance, but the heat level varies wildly. She doesn’t care if it's a simple schoolyard peck or hot enough to fog reading glasses, if it is a story of unrequited love, she's there with bells on.

Because Savannah is so immersed in the book she is reading, she fails to notice Axel sneaking up on her. After snatching the book out of her hand, he paces three feet away before thrusting it in the air. Since Savannah is a good seven or eight inches shorter than him, she's unable to reach his outstretched hand when she leaps into the air, wordlessly demanding her book back.

The greasy burgers I was flipping the past eight hours have nothing on Axel’s slimy demeanor when he taps his index finger on his puckered lips, requesting Savannah pay restitution for the return of her book with a kiss. Although the similarities between Axel and Kenny piss me off, I am pleased when Savannah stalks away from Axel, denying his request. I even smile a little when her eye roll is so obvious I can spot it halfway across the room.

My anger doesn’t smolder for long. It returns full force when Axel snatches Savannah’s wrist then drags her back to him. His yank on her arm is so rough, their torsos violently crash. My jaw ticks when Axel curls his arms around her back and draws her even closer. It's as evident as the moon hanging in the sky that Savannah wants to get away from him. If her fists banging on his chest aren’t enough of a sign, her repeated request to be let go is a sure-fire indication.

My bone-crunching steps to reach Savannah are halted by a hand darting out to seize my wrist. Although I don’t remove my eyes from Savannah and Axel, I know who is clutching my arm. Even though Isaac’s eyes remain planted on the ground, his lightning fast reflexes gain Col’s interest even more than his choirboy routine did. Grinning a smirk that makes my hands clammy, Col’s beady eyes dart between Isaac and me, his stare murderous.

“You’re him,” he accuses, his authentic Italian accent on full display. “You turn up to these events looking out of place before leaving with everyone’s money.” His words are delivered without hesitation, indicating they are facts.

“You should have accepted Dimitri’s offer last month because fighting for me may be your only chance to leave this warehouse with your pulse not flatlining.”

Realizing his cover has been blown, Isaac’s slit gaze floats up from the floor. I want to pretend his anger is solely focused on Col. Unfortunately, that isn’t the case. The brunt of his wrath is directed at me, the person responsible for exposing his ruse.

When Col throws his head back and laughs, he gains the attention of everyone surrounding us—including Savannah and Axel.

“Ryan?” Savannah murmurs at the same moment Axel releases her from his grasp.

Axel sidesteps Savannah, his jaw ticking as fast as my heart is racing. When he heads my way, Savannah tries to impede his steps with a flirty touch of his chest. But since his target is locked and loaded, nothing will stop him.

“Back for round two,” Axel sneers, his steps so long he reaches me in under two seconds.

My nose crinkles when his whiskey-laced breath smacks my senses back to the 90s. I didn’t smell alcohol on him before, so it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he did after our war of words.

I fire back, “To start round two, we’d first need to compete in round one.”

I drag my eyes down Axel’s skin-tight Emporia Armani short-sleeve shirt, and five-hundred-dollar designer jeans before returning them to his face. “It’s lucky you walked away when you did. I would have hated to ruin your pretty little threads.”

Isaac’s slit gaze widens as his lips tug, apparently more entertained by my cockiness than Col’s malicious threat.

When Axel attempts to get up in my face, Col beats him to the task. “You challenged my nephew to a fight?”

My eyes stray to Col standing two inches in front of me. “If that douchebag is your nephew, then yeah, I did.”

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