Chapter 9 #4
Sofia adds a few gold chains from her jewelry box, stacking them around my neck. “If anyone asks, you’re a girl from the neighborhood. No designer labels, no fancy education. Just a pretty thing on the arm of a dangerous man.”
“I can do that.”
“I know you can.” She squeezes my shoulder. “You’re tougher than you look, Adora Montoni.”
A tattooed hand plucks an eyeliner pencil from the vanity, and I look around and see Vincenzo.
His hair is a rich dark brown. He must have used a rinse or a spray to turn it that color.
Holding the skin beneath his eye, he rims his lower lashes with black.
He looks good wearing the liner. Criminally sexy.
Gone is the sleek man in edgy suits. In his place stands someone rougher.
A white T-shirt is stretched across his chest, and he wears worn black jeans and scuffed boots.
There’s a bandage on his forearm, and I guess it’s to conceal his raven tattoo.
With the dark hair and lined eyes, he looks like exactly what he’s pretending to be.
A dangerous man who settles disputes with his fists.
He catches me staring in the mirror and smirks. “See something you like, doe?”
My mouth goes dry, and every nerve ending in my body lights up at once.
He looks rough and raw and utterly devastating, and I want him so badly I can barely breathe.
The eyeliner makes his blue eyes even more intense, and the way that tight shirt stretches across his chest makes my fingers itch to touch him and trace the lines of muscle I can see through the fabric.
I want to cross this room and put my hands on him.
I want to feel his skin under my palms, taste his mouth, press myself against all that hard muscle and heat.
The need is so acute it’s almost painful as a throbbing ache low in my belly makes my thighs clench.
If I don’t touch him soon, if he doesn’t touch me, I’m going to come apart.
My heart pounds so hard I’m sure he can hear it. I’ve never felt desire like this before and never understood how it could make you reckless and desperate and willing to forget everything else.
Heat floods my cheeks. “You look…different.”
“That’s the idea.” He sets down the eyeliner and turns to face me. His eyes travel slowly down my body—the tied blouse, the curves, the red lips—and something hot flickers in his gaze. “So do you.”
“Sofia’s work.”
He reaches out and adjusts one of the gold chains at my throat, his knuckles brushing my collarbone. Leaning closer, he dips his head, and whispers, “You look like you were born for this.”
Finally, he’s going to kiss me. I’ve been aching for his mouth on mine for hours.
His lingers for a moment, but maddeningly, he still doesn’t lower his mouth to mine.
He steps back, his eyes bright with purpose. “Let’s go.”
The sun is setting as Vincenzo parks in the shadow of an abandoned warehouse, the industrial district of northern Malus sprawling around us in a maze of rust and concrete.
From here, we have a clear view of a larger building across the lot.
A former meatpacking plant, Vincenzo tells me. The Dervishi fight venue.
“Hardly a glamorous place for a birthday party,” I observe.
“The Dervishis aren’t into glamor,” he says, cutting the engine. “Now we wait and watch who arrives. See what we’re dealing with.”
I settle deeper into the passenger seat. The leather is warm from the fading sunlight, and the car smells like Vincenzo. We’re close in the confined space, shoulders nearly touching.
Cars begin pulling into the lot, but they’re not the sleek luxury vehicles I’m used to seeing in Montoni territory.
These are battered sedans, mud-splattered trucks, and motorcycles that rumble like thunder.
The men who emerge match their rides, thick-necked and heavy-fisted with tattoos crawling up their arms and faces that have seen too many fights.
The women are hard too, with sharp eyes and sharper cheekbones, cigarettes dangling from painted lips.
“How many people are the Dervishis expecting?”
“Hundreds.” Vincenzo keeps his eyes on the building. “They use these fights to build loyalty. Cash prizes, free entertainment, a chance to see blood. Their soldiers love it and so do the locals.”
An expensive car pulls into the lot, and Vincenzo sits up a little straighter. A black sedan with tinted windows. Two men emerge, thick-necked and tattooed, laughing about something as they head inside.
“Dervishi soldiers,” Vincenzo says quietly. “Not my targets.”
Another gleaming car. Then another. I watch the parade of jaunty criminals, trying to memorize their faces. The Dervishi capos are rough men with hard edges and chains glinting at their throats.
“There.” Vincenzo’s voice sharpens.
A sleek black SUV pulls up, and the men who emerge are different. Better dressed. Alert and watchful. One of them has silver threading through his dark hair, and he moves with the easy confidence of authority.
“Aleksander Dervishi,” Vincenzo murmurs. “The krye.”
I study Aleksander through the windshield. He’s handsome in an arrogant way, with a sharp jaw and cold eyes that sweep the parking lot before he heads inside.
“He looks dangerous.”
“He is.” Vincenzo’s jaw tightens. “He’s the one who stole my weapons shipment. Tonight, I find out where he’s keeping them.”
Another man emerges from the SUV, and I find myself leaning forward.
He’s younger than Aleksander, with black hair that falls across his forehead, and skin so pale I can trace the blue veins at his throat.
But it’s his eyes that hold me. They’re an almost colorless gray, like ice over deep water.
Where Aleksander radiates power, this man radiates cruelty.
Despite the warmth of Vincenzo’s car, I shiver.
“Who’s that?”
“Dashamir. The younger brother.” Vincenzo’s voice is flat. “Don’t let the pretty face fool you. He’s even more ruthless than Aleksander.”
We watch in silence as more cars arrive. The lot fills. Music begins to pulse from inside the building, bass heavy enough to feel in my chest, even from here.
“Ready?” Vincenzo asks finally.
My heart is pounding. My palms are damp.
But beneath the fear, there’s a thrill of anticipation.
For years, I’ve been trapped in my father’s mansion, waiting for the next blow, the next punishment.
I’ve been suffocating. But tonight, I’m out in the world, transformed into someone I barely recognize, about to walk into danger by choice instead of being dragged into it.
I’m not a prisoner or a pawn or a victim.
I’m Vincenzo’s partner, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel alive.
“Ready.”
“Then let’s go celebrate with the birthday boy.”
Vincenzo takes my hand as we cross the lot, and I’m surprised by how natural it feels. His palm is warm and calloused against mine, his grip firm but not crushing. We’re playing a role, I remind myself. Just two people attending a birthday fight night.
The warehouse swallows us whole. Inside it’s chaos, with bodies packed tight, the air thick with sweat and cigarette smoke and the metallic tang of blood.
A makeshift ring dominates the center of the space, ropes strung between metal posts, and the concrete floor is stained dark in places I try not to look at too closely.
Bare bulbs hang from the rafters, casting everything in harsh yellow light.
Two men circle each other in the ring. Both shirtless, both slicked with sweat, both bearing the marks of violence. One has a gash above his eye that streams blood down his cheek. The other spits a tooth onto the concrete.
I wince as the next punch lands with a wet, meaty crack, but quickly smooth my features back to interest.
The crowd roars, a wall of sound that pounds through me like a heartbeat. Boots stamping concrete. Voices screaming in Albanian. The wet smack of fist on flesh. The bell that signals the end of a round is sharp and tinny and swallowed by the noise.
Vincenzo guides us to a spot near the back where we can see the ring, but the exits are still in sight. His hand stays locked with mine.
“Breathe,” he murmurs against my ear. “You’re supposed to enjoy this.”
I paste a smile on my face and try to look entertained instead of horrified.
The fight ends when the bleeding man goes down and doesn’t get up. The crowd erupts in frenzied cheers. The winner raises his fists in triumph, blood dripping from his knuckles, and the referee grabs his wrist to present him to the crowd.
“Sloppy footwork,” Vincenzo says quietly. “He won on power, not technique. A smarter fighter would have taken him apart.”
I glance at him. “You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”
Vincenzo casts me a mysterious smile.
Two Dervishi soldiers duck into the ring and approach the winner.
One claps him on the shoulder while the other hands him a thick envelope.
Cash, I assume, his prize for drawing blood and entertaining the crowd.
They gesture toward the roped-off VIP section at the front of the warehouse, where Dashamir and Aleksander sit with an entourage of hard-looking men and beautiful women.
The fighter follows, still breathing hard, still bleeding, but grinning like he’s just won the lottery.
When he reaches the platform, the krye stands and shakes his hand, all smiles and paternal warmth.
Dashamir remains seated, those pale eyes assessing the victor with clinical interest. A woman appears with a bottle of expensive liquor and pours drinks.
The fighter is offered a chair among the Dervishi elite, and he takes it like a man who’s just been crowned king.
“Fight hard enough, bleed entertainingly enough, and you get a seat with the men in charge,” Vincenzo murmurs.