Tempt Me, Taint Me (Dark Hearts #3)

Chapter 1 - Augusto

Augusto

The cloth tightens around my knuckles, stretching away its softness and readying my hands for the damage they’re about to inflict.

There’s no room for softness down here in the ward that time forgot. Only broken gurneys, dusty tables and once-sterile cabinets long-emptied of medical supplies and pharmaceuticals.

It’s a quiet night tonight. Just two of my men are here this evening.

Only one opponent.

And judging by the sound of footsteps echoing through the stairwell, he’s just arrived.

I don’t look up as he enters. Instead, as always, I focus on my hands.

I wrap the final section of cloth and secure it carefully, obliterating the inked patchwork of thorns that covers the back.

The fabric bites into skin that is already scarred from a lifetime of impact, the pressure familiar and grounding.

Cutting to the cold concrete, I let my gaze find the man.

His boots first. Combat-style.

First timer.

Anyone who’s taken part in an underground fight knows the heavier the boot, the slower the move.

He’s thinking a few kicks to my shin—or, if he’s feeling particularly athletic, my ribs—is going to buy him a victory.

What he’s too na?ve to know is I have the speed and strength to knock him out cold before he can engage both thigh muscles.

Next, his pants.

Sweats. Loose, light, airy.

Green.

Extra fabric makes it hard for a limb to slice through the air. And that shoestring waistband is a strangled kidney just waiting to happen.

His torso is ripped beneath a tight gym top. He’s going to be an upper body fighter, entirely. And that, right there, is how I’ll take him down.

But, judging by the look on his face, he’s expecting the opposite. A smug sneer curls his top lip, making his handlebar moustache look comically lopsided.

Shame I’m not in the mood for laughing.

This fight isn’t a game, and this club isn’t kindergarten. People come here to fight, to pay off debt, to settle scores, to get the beating they deserve.

Not one person has walked out of this place unscathed, and part of me wonders if that’s the appeal. Every asshole who takes me on wants to be the first to put me on the ground, the last to tap out.

If I had a bigger ego, that might make me snicker. But I don’t, so it kinda pisses me off.

I formed this club as a way to keep consequence and retaliation off the streets. The fewer incidents the authorities have to deal with, the better we look, and the more likely they are to turn a blind eye when, on the rare occasion, our business activities take an unfortunate turn.

I hold his gaze as I rise to my feet. He fixes his expression but I don’t miss the glimmer of apprehension in his eyes when I tower over him by a foot, at least. It almost doesn’t seem fair.

Which makes the first and only question I ask every opponent even more important.

We meet in the center of the room, ensuring there’s enough space around us. My voice echoes deeply through the sparse forgotten ward.

“Are you here out of choice?”

His eyes widen, just a touch, then he frowns. “Do you see anyone holding a gun to my temple?”

I give my head a half shake, allowing the underestimation of what he’s walking into to hover like a rancid smell. “Coercion isn’t always visible.”

He barks out a laugh. “Trust me. I want to be here.”

My eyes narrow as I size him up. Maybe he’s one of those kids who thinks he needs punishing.

Maybe he knows he has an ego problem and wants to be brought down a peg or two.

I’ve come across a few of those. Or maybe he’s here as part of a dare, or a bet.

Or maybe he genuinely thinks he can beat the shit out of me and be crowned the new king of the street-fighting scene.

I’m not part of the ‘scene,’ but that doesn’t seem to stop waifs and strays from coming in off the sidewalk, wanting to fight the only undefeated name this side of the Brooklyn Bridge.

They come for the challenge and they leave with a rearranged jaw.

I fight those who deserve it, those who don’t deserve it and all the grey in between. I say no to no one. Because I get more out of this game than they will ever understand.

I nod once at my opponent and he takes a cocky step forward, signaling the beginning of the fight.

I lift up onto the balls of my feet, my fists braced ready to shield.

As always, I’ll allow him the first three strikes—enough to let him think he’s got the upper hand, and enough to kick my adrenaline into gear.

His boots thud heavily on the floor, anchoring him, then he pulls his right arm back before swinging his fist gracelessly toward my cheek. I duck enough that it grazes my temple. The force of it does more to set him off balance than me.

I wait for him to right himself, then he takes another swing, this time with the left. He catches my jaw, sending me back a few inches.

I resume my defensive stance and wait for his third and final unhindered attack. His confidence is up, his swagger peaked. He uses his right again, harder and sharper. When the knuckles collide with my face, something inside me reliably snaps.

To the edge of the room, Gian is holding his breath.

He always does this for the first three strikes.

No matter how often I reassure him that despite my fifty-two years, I haven’t lost an ounce of grit, he still worries I might one day take a little too long to fight back.

Just a second and I could be on the floor.

That thought fuels me even more. I might be three decades older than this prick but I consider that to be compounded skill, not a liability.

I bounce on the balls of my feet, building some momentum, then I flick out three fast jabs.

Bam, bam, bam.

The guy staggers backward, blood pouring from a gash on his right cheek. The sound of impact is wet and final, of skin splitting under precision.

The look he shoots me is one of shock and petulance. I don’t let it register too deeply. The day I allow judgement into my fight is the day I let something other than core survival drive me to the edge of destruction.

He tries another swing but it’s shaky, non-committal. It lands on my shoulder, nudging me to a useful angle. I drive forward again, screwing three more punches into his left cheek, then one into his stomach, folding him in two.

Air leaves his lungs in a broken grunt, his ribs screaming under the pressure.

Gian is in my periphery, breathing normally now, his arms folded across his chest. There’s a sense of disappointment in the air. Usually, fights take at least ten minutes. This one’s nearly over.

The bruises on his face are turning purple fast, but he doesn’t give up. Trying to bounce in heavy boots, he runs at me, throwing his fists in an uncoordinated rhythm. I duck and dodge most of them, one or two landing on my cheek and chin.

I hardly feel the impact.

I sense an opportunity to get this over and done with, so I can focus on what I really came here for.

Glancing over at Gian, I nod once, then turn my attention back to the kid who’s now panting and grunting, angrily.

From the sound of feet moving around the edge of the room and a bag opening, I know Gian is preparing for the next part of the fight. It’s my cue to finish.

I need to get him on the ground so I can inflict the right amount of damage.

I bounce once to the right then drive a hard kick into his ribcage, knocking out his left side. Then I drive my right fist into his jaw, sending him sideways. He remains upright though.

Still bouncing, I thrust a foot into his sternum, knocking the wind from his chest. Then follow it up with a series of quick punches, one after the other, to his face.

He falls to the hard, cold ground with a cry, but the lactic acid is infusing my muscles now, and I don’t stop.

Another kick to the ribs, a punch to the face.

His arms come up to block me, so I hammer those too.

Each strike lands heavier than the last, fueled by something darker than rage.

Then his foot starts to kick the ground.

“He’s tapping,” Gian says, calmly.

When I still don’t stop, he stands over the kid and presses a hand into my chest. It halts me immediately. Even though I can only see red now, and my muscles are twitching with unspent energy, I know when Gian places his hand on me, it’s time.

I step away and catch my breath. A low groan floods the room. It should fill me with victory, but instead I’m filled with other things.

A memory.

A pain so acute it takes the point out of life.

And a need to fix it all.

Gian’s voice is calm behind me. “Shall I move him?”

“No.” I cast my eyes over the instruments Gian has laid out on a length of cloth.

I reach for the saline and sterile wipes first. I need to see what I’m dealing with and rapidly drying blood has a way of concealing the truth.

My sneakers are soundless as I make my way back to the kid. Lowering to my knees beside him, I take a long look at his face. It’s screwed up in agony, the skin a patchwork of blues, purples and blacks.

As my gaze homes in on the pale skin and perspiring surface, my vision cuts to someone else.

She’s lying at the foot of the stairs, her breaths short and staccato. Her usually vibrant green eyes faint and watery, her lips dry.

A flash of panic stabs my chest from nowhere, drawing a choke from my lungs and my attention back to the boy on the floor. My pulse slows again when I focus on the three deep cuts on the left side, to his eye, cheek and jaw.

Dragging my gaze downward, I assess the rest of his torso. I pull up the hem of his tee and inspect the bruises forming around his ribs.

I run a hand carefully around the bone structure. When I reach the side I laid a few kicks to, he winces between clenched teeth. I drop the tee and return to his face, since that’s where most of the reparable damage is, then I set to work cleaning the skin.

Once the blood is cleared from his eye, it opens and stares back at me, narrowed. He attempts to speak but his top lip is swollen and dry. Gian offers him a sip of water and we lift him enough that he can draw from a small cup, then lay him back on the ground.

He tries again.

“I heard this about you.”

I don’t care what he heard. My focus is singularly on fixing his face. Most of the blood is coming from his cheek. The cuts across his eyelid and jaw can be covered with gauze easily enough, and they’ll heal within a few days. His cheek, however…

“He needs stitching up.”

Gian knows I’m speaking to him without me lifting my gaze. He’s assisted me hundreds of times and knows the drill.

Within seconds he’s by my side, handing over a surgical needle.

The kid’s breathing quickens when he sees what I’m holding.

“The Surgeon,” he says, in a dry breath. “That’s what they call you.”

I glance back at the cut. It’s deep.

“I’m assuming since you were happy for me to beat the shit out of you, you don’t require an anesthetic?”

The kid sighs. “No. Just do it.”

The room stills while I thread the needle carefully.

“Some say it’s because you only fight down here.”

I look down as his gaze cuts to the walls. This was once a surgical ward for the district’s main hospital, but it was decommissioned about fifteen years ago. Its location underground and out of sight makes it ideal for our purposes.

“But others say it’s because you like to stitch people up.”

A wry smile pulls at a corner of my mouth, then I lower my hands and line up the needle. His eyes track mine, curiously, until the point pierces the surface and he sucks a breath in through his teeth.

With steady fingers, I push the needle through his skin, pulling the thread through in a neat line. I pride myself on stitchwork that is more precise than the city’s best surgeons. Maybe I’ve had more practice. I’m not sure what that says about the state of our city’s crime level.

I’m halfway through when I furnish him with a response.

“Maybe it’s both.”

Triumph flashes in his eyes, so I cut it off.

“Or maybe I just enjoy beating people half to death.”

No one knows the real reason I do this. And no one other than Gian, Rocco and Durante knows who I really am. I pay them a lot of money to keep my biggest secret.

Not even Cristiano knows, and he’s my don, my boss.

I finish up the stitching and snip the thread, then sit back on my heels.

“Is he good to go?” Gian asks.

I nod once then get to my feet.

I keep my back turned as Gian and Rocco help the kid to his feet. I sense his gaze lingering on me, the way they all do before they leave me as undefeated as I was when they arrived.

Then footsteps hit the stairwell, loosening my shoulders.

When it’s only me in the room, covered in my opponent’s blood and surrounded by surgical instruments, I can finally breathe.

Reaching my hands to the back of my head, I stretch out my biceps and roll my neck. Then I lower to one of the rusty chairs and set to work unwrapping the cloth from my hands.

Most all of the blood is his, not mine, and a comforting sense of satisfaction fills me knowing I fixed him up—I undid the damage.

But the triumph is short-lived.

My eyes are glued to each length of cloth as I unwrap it, and each layer reminds me how I’d learned too young that some damage can never be undone.