24
Alessio
The crowd’s screams are deafening, but I don’t give a shit.
What’s burning inside me isn’t excitement.
It’s something raw, something darker , and I’m out for blood tonight.
The guy across from me looks like a damn tank.
Muscle stacked on muscle, and arms so thick he can’t even drop them to his sides.
His chest heaves, fingers twitching like he’s either nervous or coming down from something hard.
He’ll be lucky to make it out of here alive.
The bell hasn’t even rung before he charges at me, full speed.
His eyes are locked on my head, fist cocked back, ready to take it clean off.
I drop low, and the wind from his swing swooshes past me, close enough to blow through my hair.
Sloppy prick.
He’s bigger, but I’m quicker.
My feet shuffle sideways, and my shoulder grazes the steel cage behind me.
His eyes narrow, jaw clenching tighter with every stomp as he closes in.
His lips curl, and he swings wildly, not one but two wild punches, full of power but no precision.
He’s throwing his weight around like it’s supposed to scare me.
But it doesn’t.
I weave back; my body is loose but coiled to strike.
His next move will be his last mistake.
I sidestep; my cold eyes are locked on his.
He growls like some feral animal trying to prove he’s a predator.
I don’t growl.
I don’t beat my chest like a caveman.
I let my strength speak in action.
I drive into him, my shoulder slamming his ribs.
He collapses with a solid, bone-jarring thud.
The gasp he lets out is ragged and wet, like he’s trying to drink from a broken straw.
I’m on him before he can recover.
My fists pound into his ribs.
Once.
Twice.
Crack.
There it is, the sound I was waiting for.
Bones snapping under pressure.
His face turns a few shades darker, his mouth is open, but I’m pretty sure no air’s getting in.
But I’m not done with his ass yet.
My elbow smashes down into his face.
Cartilage shatters with a wet crunch, and his nose practically fucking folds, blood spraying across my knuckles and chest.
It’s warm and thick, dripping down to the concrete .
What’s left of his nostrils flare, but the blood pours faster than he can breathe, coating his lips in red.
His body jerks, each move is weaker and slower than the first, but he’s still awake.
I lock his arm, twisting him into a kimura.
His body seizes, muscles pulling tight, but he’s not getting out of this.
“Still think you’re tough?” I hiss, twisting harder and…
pop .
His guttural scream rips through the gym, raw and feral, but I let go of his arm and watch him crumple to the floor like the useless piece of shit he is.
His face is wrecked.
Blood and sweat smeared together, cheeks swelling up like balloons, and his skin is splitting under fresh bruises.
Still, the dumb-fuck grabs onto the cage, trying to haul his sorry ass up, fingers slipping in the blood staining the metal.
He spits a thick mouthful of blood and a couple of teeth I knocked loose onto the floor before stumbling toward me.
He swings, but the pathetic bastard barely taps my ribs.
I’ve had worse in a pillow fight, but I know it’s just a pathetic attempt to stay in the fight.
I shove him away and start circling him.
Blood and sweat drip from his chin, pooling with every step he stumbles through.
He’s still standing, when his sorry ass needs to drop.
I take a step in, my knee drives into his gut with a sick, meaty thwack.
His body folds, breath flying out in a nasty, wet wheeze.
Blood sprays from his mouth, spattering my legs and soaking the ground.
Before his body can hit the floor, I grab him, knotting my fingers in his greasy-ass hair.
And I slam my knee into his face.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
The cracks are sickening to some, but this shit makes my balls tingle.
His cheekbone collapses under my fist, splitting wide open.
His nose is just about fucking gone.
A ruin of bone and cartilage, crushed into his face with every hit.
Blood and bone crunch together, the wet, sticky sounds filling the cage.
He stumbles back, and what’s left of his teeth scatter across the ground like debris.
He’s choking with each breath, every inhale drowning in the blood flooding his throat.
He must’ve taken some good shit tonight, he should not be conscious.
I grab his waist and lift him up.
And slam him into the floor.
The impact is fucking beautiful and brutal.
His skull plops against the concrete with a sound that silences the crowd for a beat.
His body twitches, limbs spasming violently, blood already pooling fast beneath his head.
But the stubborn fucker still manages to roll onto his stomach, pushing up on shaky arms like he’s got anything left .
Before he can get a knee under him, I lock my legs around his waist, crushing his ribs between my thighs.
My arm snakes under his chin, and I yank back with everything I’ve got.
His back slams into my chest as his throat caves under my forearm.
His hands are bloody and shaking, slap at my arm, but it’s fucking useless.
He’s got nothing left, so I squeeze harder.
His body convulses, wet gurgle sounds spew from his mouth, while blood bubbles from his lips.
His eyes bulge before there’s nothing but terror before the last fight drains out of him, but I hold until the twitching stops.
When I let go, his body drops face-first.
He’s motionless.
The ref rushes in, grabbing my arm, lifting it high.
I stand, barely winded.
The crowd loses their minds, screaming for more blood, but my eyes are on the mess at my feet.
A crumpled pile of shattered bone, broken pride, and blood soaking the ground beneath him.
He thought he was a fighter, but he’s just another body to bury.
I’m already walking out when two of my guys slip into the cage before dragging him away.
I’m out, heading for my room to clean off the blood that isn’t mine.
Kota’s right behind me, his eyes glued to his phone, scrolling through the numbers.
“Big haul tonight,” he mutters .
Yeah, no shit.
I felt every damn dollar of it cracking through my knuckles.
He cuts himself his normal percentage while I scrub off the remnants of the fight.
My opponent was a fucking bleeder and drenched me.
The water runs red, swirling down the drain until it disappears.
Once I clear most of the prick’s blood off me, I throw on a fresh pair of sweats and a hoodie.
We’re heading to the car, and Kota’s unusually quiet.
Not his usual running commentary, not his usual shitty smirk.
Then, just as Kota unlocks the car, he finally speaks.
“You need to tell Alonzo to ease up on Olivia,” he says, dragging a hand down his beard.
“I don’t know what you had him do, but hitting a woman? Man, that shit doesn’t fly with me.”
My hand pauses over the door handle.
“What the hell did you just say?”
Instead of getting in, I look over the car, my eyes narrowing in on him.
He didn’t say what I think he said.
Kota’s eyes are hard when he looks at me.
He raises his hands like he’s bracing for the blowback.
“I’m saying he hit her,” he shakes his head, heaving a sigh.
“I don’t care what orders you gave, Alessio, but if Alonzo’s laying hands on her, that’s a fucking problem . ”
Fucking Alonzo.
I told him Olivia doesn’t get special treatment, but I never said he could touch her.
The burn from the fight, the violence I thought I left in the cage is back with a fucking vengeance.
My knuckles throb, but they’re already itching for more.
“I’m gonna break his fucking neck.” And I mean every.
Damn .
Word.
I yank the car door open and drop into the seat, slamming the door harder than necessary.
Alonzo crossed a line.
And now I’ve got to make sure he understands how to keep his grimy fucking hands to himself.