Page 28 of Corrupted Deception

My fingers clenched the steering wheel so tight, my knuckles turned white. I felt like a goddamned pressure cooker.

“All right, no worries,fratello,” Deo said, his tone sober now. “Our product is safe. We can give your disappearing act some time to get her shit out of our way. I’d put some flashing lights on her or something if I were you, though. It might help to keep her from disappearing again.”

“Cuffs.” That’s what Charlotte needed. Or rope. Pinned down on my bed. Tied up spread-eagle, her sassy mouth gagged. Her chest heaving, her body slick with sweat

Deo laughed. “That’d be the way I’d go, but I don’t have a clue what gets you off.”

No one did. It was best that way.

When I hung up the phone, I sat for a moment, the distant background noise of the city barely a murmur beneath the rhythmic thump of my own heartbeat echoing in my ears.

As I stepped out of the car, the sounds of the city seemed to recede, giving way to a different kind of symphony. The distant roar of a crowd, an electrifying cacophony that filled the night air.

The entrance was unmarked, blending seamlessly into the urban landscape. It had only been weeks since I’d been here; usually, it took months to get to this point.

Pushing open the heavy door, I was hit by a wave of sensations that were both familiar and intoxicating.

The unmistakable thud of fists connecting with flesh reverberated through the walls, and the air was thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and something barbaric, something that stirred a primitive urge within me. It was the smell of adrenaline and raw emotion, a scent that fueled my every step.

I made my way through the dimly lit corridors, navigating the labyrinthine passages that led to the heart of the club. People who recognized me stepped aside, their expressions a mixture of respect and curiosity.

Stopping briefly in front of the club’s owner, Vince Abruzzo, a burly figure with a calculating glint in his eye, I nodded in acknowledgment.

“I’m in tonight,” I said, my voice steady and resolute.

Vince’s eyes lit up with a hint of satisfaction. “Good to have you back,SignorLuciano,” he replied, a wry smile forming on his lips.

Good fighters meant good bets. And there would be plenty of good bets tonight.

I nodded then continued to make my way toward the locker room. With every step, I could feel the anticipation building, like a coiled spring ready to snap.

The air in the locker room was heavy with the scent of sweat. I found a locker and stripped off my clothes, revealing the well-conditioned physique beneath, muscles honed through relentless training and years of nights in places just like this. Beneath my tattoos, my skin bore the scars of past fights, a testament to the countless opponents I had faced and conquered.

I reached for a roll of gauze, and as I wrapped my wrists, my mind focused.

My breathing steadied.

My senses sharpened.

The sounds from the arena beyond the locker room walls grew louder, the roar of the crowd punctuated by the thud of fists and the rhythmic chants of support for their favorite fighters.

I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the energy of the club wash over me. This was where I belonged, where the controlled chaos of the fight provided a release for the pent-up intensity that simmered within me.

With my wrists securely wrapped, I walked out of the locker room and down the corridor.

The arena buzzed with anticipation as I entered the ring where the overhead lights cast an unforgiving glare.

Across from me stood my opponent, tall with black hair, equal in size, with a steely gaze that mirrored my own determination and tats all over his body. Not just artwork; these tattoos told the man’s story.

He had a cross tattooed between his eyes—a tattoo that wasn’t only indicative of murder, but a high body count. Three simple dots around his eye that represented “mi vida loca”’—"my crazy life”. Devil and horns on his right shoulder and a joker on the other—a man who lived outside the law and had no fear. And a rosary across his chest—a deeply religious man, just like many of the South American cartels tended to be.

Mafia versus cartel.

I looked to Vince, who smiled wryly, though his eyes were pinched at the corners and his forehead was covered in sweat. He knew he’d taken a gamble here.

The ref’s voice, a distant echo in the roar of the crowd, signaled the start of the match as the cartel soldier smiled at me.

We circled each other, a wary dance of combatants, testing the waters. The tension in the air was palpable, a coiled spring waiting to be released.

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