Chapter 20
Matt
I wish I could make Aron understand. I have to fight the biggest, baddest, meanest newcomer.
I’ve fought every other enforcer in the Syndicate at one time or another—even Javier—and come out victorious each time.
If I don’t fight Grady, if I don’t face him in front of the entire remaining Syndicate, I risk losing their respect.
Worse yet, I could lose the chance at gaining Grady’s respect. That in itself could be deadly.
Bare knuckles, bare feet. No weapons—or rather, since Grady has the surgical enhancements—no weapons that aren’t implanted.
I wonder if he thinks those studs impress me. I’ve been hit with my share of brass knuckles in the past. This can’t be that different. I just have to focus past the pain. Simple enough. Nothing I haven’t done before.
Since it’s getting late, I have some of my men set up a ring of spotlights in the courtyard.
That way, everyone can see. The lights are set up at specific angles, so Grady and I won’t be blinded during the fight.
We’ve also piled sandbags around the edge of the proclaimed battleground, creating a physical barrier to identify our boundaries, with the agreement that neither of us will use said sandbags as improvised weapons.
Our older associates seem to be treating this as the somber affair that it is, but the younger Syndicate members and new recruits all act as though this is some frat house party. They’ve brought folding chairs and coolers full of beer and snacks.
Children. They’re all children these days.
Grady shows up right on schedule: eight o’clock, on the dot. He’s barefoot, shirtless, and wearing loose linen pants, just as I am. His muscles ripple with each step, and loud cracks echo in the courtyard when he rolls his neck and shoulders to stretch them.
Since I can’t compete with the volume of his joints, I don’t bother trying. I stretch with calm, leisurely movements, purposefully taking care to avoid cracking.
“So, what other rules are there, Don Matteo? I suppose we can’t grapple or lock?”
“Grappling and locking are allowed, but chokeholds are not.” I bounce back and forth on the balls of my feet and throw a few light punches to loosen up. “It would make for a rather boring show if one of us were to be choked out in the first few minutes. Wouldn’t you agree?”
He nods his agreement, then beings to crack each knuckle loudly.
More showing off. More theatrics. He’s cocky, perhaps too cocky.
My odds of winning this just significantly improved.
“You plan on dancing around the whole time, Don Matteo, or will you actually fight like a man?”
Grady thinks he can unnerve me by making thinly veiled gay comments, but little does he know that I’ve dealt with that my whole life. He can’t get under my skin that way. Hell, implying that I’m gay has less effect than if he started saying I was weak or claiming I was unfit to run the Syndicate.
I’m living proof that gay men can fight. Can kill. Can rule.
Still, I want to avoid that revelation for now. My hold on the Syndicate is tenuous, and if I let Grady reveal my secret, it could end me.
“Projecting, Grady? If you swing that way, it’s fine by me, but there’s no need for self-hate here. The Syndicate is a very progressive organization.”
Grady snarls and snaps at me, his jaws clamping down on air.
“Is biting permitted?”
“My, you’re a desperate one. No. No biting. We’re not fucking savages.”
He growls again and turns his head to the side, spitting out his grill to reveal steel canine fang dental implants that match the ones on his grill, both in length and sharpness.
I glance at the discarded grill, then look back at his grin. “Hm. A bit redundant. A little longer than probably is necessary, too. Compensating for something, perhaps? They do say that steroid use can cause …” I let my gaze flicker to his crotch “… shrinkage.”
That comment pushes things too far. I’ve just effectively given a raging bull a stimulant and waved a red cape in front of it.
He snorts. He huffs and sputters.
Is he foaming at the mouth?
“Enough fucking playing!” Grady snatches a phone from a nearby spectator who’s recording the fight and crushes the device with his bare hand, leaving shards of the screen embedded in his palm. “We start now, or you forfeit.”
He’s so busy with his theatrics, he doesn’t even block the roundhouse kick to his face.
Granted, it might not have been the smartest move of mine.
His steel implants aren’t exactly comfortable to kick with my bare foot, and, despite how hard I hit him, he still barely reacts.
All I succeed in doing is cutting his cheek on those stupid fangs of his.
He spits out blood and growls like a wild animal.
“You did say to begin, didn’t you?” I ask as I bounce backwards, moving out of his reach.
This may end up being a battle of attrition. If a kick like that doesn’t even phase him, I’ll have to wear him out first before I try in earnest. Let him chase me around the ring, force him to expend his energy.
Cheers rise from the crowd, and chants of “Don Matt! Don Matt!” echo in the courtyard. I shouldn’t allow them to be so informal, but “Don Matteo” makes for an awkward chant.
Grady’s fist sails through the air and glances off my chin. I allow my head to whip around, though the hit barely touched me. Better to appear more injured than I really am. The weaker Grady thinks I am, the easier he’ll be to take down.
We go at it like this for twenty minutes, landing minor blows while we circle the edges of the ring, only darting to the middle for a moment at a time. I do my best to conserve energy with my strikes, purposefully holding back, but Grady seems to be going full-out.
At least, I hope he is. If he’s hitting this hard with restraint, I might be in trouble.
Ten more minutes pass, and Grady doesn’t seem the least bit tired. I’m still good to keep going, but if I want to end this, I need to start making my hits count.
Then I see him: Aron.
He’s back from the doctors, though I note that his hands aren’t bandaged. Was that his choice? He’s an idiot if it was. What does he hope to prove by walking around with his shredded hands on display?
My momentary distraction proves just the opening Grady needs. He lands a solid punch on my temple, one that’s devastatingly disorienting. I bounce away, barely keeping my balance as I try to shake off the stars in my vision. This might be a concussion in the making.
With each pass, we trade a few punches. With each pass, Aron moves closer in the crowd.
By the time Grady and I collide in the middle and batter each other, Aron’s now at the edge of the ring, right behind the sandbags.
He’s within easy reach if Grady decides to switch targets.
I don’t like that, but I can’t risk telling him to move back.
That would create another distraction, another chance for Grady to land a stronger hit.
Just when I think I’ve fought off the worst of the effects of his headshot, Grady nails me in the back of the head with his elbow. I double over in pain, and a collective gasp rolls through the crowd.
Fuck.
Now, in addition to the stars, I see two of everything. Two Arons, two Gradys, two crowds.
This is getting me nowhere. I’m clearly not wearing Grady down in the slightest, and he’s only hitting harder. At this rate, I’ll lose for sure.
While I’m bent in half, Grady chuckles and rears back for another hit.
Leaving himself wide open.
Since Grady’s got a fucking twisted idea of what’s fair and what’s not, I figure he won’t object too much if I play a little dirty.
I reach out.
Grab his crotch.
Hook my finger on the ring I feel there.
And yank.
Grady’s howl of pain is loud enough to cause several spectators to cover their ears. I stumble to the other side of the courtyard as a red stain blooms on his pants.
I expect him to be shaken, but what I don’t expect is for him to fall to his knees.
Is this monster of a man really so weak as to go down from that?
“F-fucking asshole,” Grady stutters as he grips his crotch, rocking back and forth where he kneels. “You fucking fight dirty.”
I wipe blood from the corner of my mouth as I brace for more. “We never said ‘no ripping out piercings.’ Not my fault you got that stupid thing.”
Then, something happens that makes my blood run cold.
Aron steps into the ring.
Before I can say a single word in protest, Aron strides up to Grady, stands behind the massive man, and grabs his head with both hands.
“Can you continue?” he asks.
Grady whines—whines—and trembles in Aron’s grasp. “H-he fucking ripped my dick in half!”
“That wasn’t what I asked,” Aron says calmly. “Can you continue?”
“Y-you want me to fucking continue with my dick bleeding out?”
Aron looks at me, his gaze questioning. I know what he’s asking; he wants permission. He wants the order, an order that only I can give.
I give the barest of nods, and Aron snaps Grady’s neck.
Grady drops like the sack of shit he is, but I know it’s not over yet. I have to put a stop to future challenges before they happen. If I don’t, this will never end.
“Who else wants to challenge the don?” I ask the crowd. My ears are ringing, and my vision still shifts from single to double and back again, but I can’t stop now. Just have to hold on a little longer. “Well?”
Murmurs ripple through the gathered crowd, but no one takes the bait.
No one wants to end up like Grady.
Aron steps up beside me and offers an arm, which I gladly let him place around my shoulders. At this point, I’ve proven myself to anyone who might have doubts about my strength. The time for posturing is over; now I need medical attention.
Cheers and praises of my prowess follow us into the mansion. At the door, Jules stops us for a moment.
“Good job, boss. I knew you could beat that fucker.”
“Thank you, Jules. Make sure this is all cleaned up, will you?”
He nods. “Of course, Don Matteo.”