3. Prologue | K.O.
Prologue | K.O.
That Same Night - New Orleans, Louisiana
The best thing about fighting in white bars was the money.
Dom knew it was demeaning—dancing for massa's entertainment, beating on other Black folks while white men bet and laughed.
But Claudette had booked her a Garden District fight that paid triple what the Ninth Ward did, and Papa Louie's bar was barely scraping by.
He needed help with rent this month more than ever.
So here she was in a makeshift ring, knuckles already split, facing Lewis Jordan.
She hated Lewis Jordan.
Six-two, dock worker, mean drunk, the kind of man who hit anything weaker than him because he could. Dom had seen him around. Knew he had a kid. Knew what kind of father he was.
Tonight was going to be a pleasure.
"They're letting dykes fight now?" Lewis played to the white crowd, getting laughs.
Dom rolled her shoulders in her men's trousers and suspenders, white shirt with sleeves rolled up. Her hair cut short and tapered close. She looked exactly like what she was.
Let him talk. She had plans for that mouth.
"You even know how to fight, bulldagger?"
Dom met his eyes. Her mouth curved—not a smile, a promise. "Ring the bell."
The bell rang.
Lewis lunged in heavy—lead right, telegraphing it a mile away. Dom pivoted, letting him swing at air. She caught him with a quick combination to the body. Short, tight punches. Make him feel it.
He grunted, tried to tie her up. She pushed off, circled right.
"Stand still!"
"Make me."
He caught her coming back — a clubbing shot to the side of her head that made her vision spark white. She tasted copper, spit blood on the
canvas, then looked at Lewis and smiled.
"That all you got? Your kid probably hits harder."
His body tensed with rage. "Don't you—"
"What? Don't talk about the kid you beat on?"
He came at her wild. No technique now, just rage. Throwing big looping shots, chin exposed.
Dom stepped inside the pocket and drove her right straight through his nose.
The crack was beautiful.
She hit him again. Methodical. Efficient. Thinking about that kid the whole time.
Lewis's legs gave out. The ref counted to ten.
Dom stepped back, breathing hard through her own pain. Her ribs were screaming. Her jaw would be swollen by morning.
Worth it.
The ref raised Dom's hand. The white men cheered or cursed depending on their bets. Dom didn't care. She collected her sixty-five dollars from the fat promoter who looked at her like livestock.
She tucked the bills in her breast pocket and headed for the exit, already doing the math. Thirty for Papa Louie's rent. Fifteen for supplies. Five for the doctor if her ribs were cracked. That left ten for food for two weeks.
She'd make it work. Always did.
That's when she saw the kid.
Sitting on a crate by the back door. Maybe thirteen. Wearing a dress that hung all wrong — too big in the shoulders, bunched weird everywhere else. Face bruised, one eye swollen shut. Holding themselves careful, like breathing hurt.
Lewis's eyes. Lewis's jaw under all that damage.
Oh hell.
Dom stopped. "He do that to you?"
The kid flinched, looked up. A hand went automatically to their hair — chopped short and uneven, clearly done themselves with kitchen scissors.
"I didn't want to wear the dress," they whispered. "He said if I was gonna cut my hair like a boy, he'd beat the boy out of me."
A hot feeling built in Dom's chest, then turned to ice.
"What's your name?"
"CJ." Defensive, chin up despite the fear.
"I'm Dom." She crouched down, kept her voice even. "You hungry? My grandfather's got a bar in Tremé. You can get cleaned up, get something to eat."
Dom didn't think about how another mouth to feed would cut into her budget. CJ looked at the ring where their father was still face-down on the canvas, then back at Dom.
"Your choice," Dom said, and stood, extending her hand.
CJ stared at it, then took it.
Small grip. Shaking. But there.