Chapter 2
DANTE
Idon’t hand out compliments, but Katana? She’s a fucking storm, the kind that levels cities.
Everyone in this town knows her reputation, ex-military, ice in her veins, loyal to her club like it’s carved into her flesh. But in person, she’s worse… because I didn’t expect her to be beautiful.
She’s not soft, not polished or perfect. No, she’s something else entirely. She’s fire-forged with scars and knives tucked into her smile. The kind of woman who’d rip her own heart out before asking for help.
The Royal Harlots have been circling since I opened my doors. They think I don’t see them spying, but I do. I’ve broken men for less. But I let it slide because of her. She’s the only reason I’ve been watching them as hard as they’ve been watching me.
I’ve seen her more times than I should admit.
Caught in the static haze of surveillance footage outside my gym, reflected in mirrors, glimpsed through the blur of rain-streaked windows.
Once in the glass at a gas station near her gym.
Another time, through a zoom lens, watching her move inside the ring from a busted apartment window across the street.
It started as curiosity but now it’s something else, something uglier.
I tell myself I’m studying her, learning how she moves, how she leads.
But the truth is, I just want to watch her bleed.
To crack her open and see what she’s hiding behind that steel spine and spitfire temper.
I want to see how far she bends before she breaks.
I stroll into the warehouse with my fists clenched and her words still landing like punches that almost drew blood.
Your ring is a death sentence.
She meant it. And I felt it. Not because she’s wrong. Hell, I’ve heard worse. It’s because she said it like she knew what kind of damage I cause. Like she’s seen the wreckage and wasn’t sure if she wanted to run from it… or dive into it.
The worst part is, she didn’t flinch. Not once. Most people tremble under that kind of heat. But her? She stood there like she’d been through worse and dared me to try.
I walk through the side door and into the warehouse’s main floor. My jaw is tight, my heart drumming too fast. My head’s a mess. That woman gets under my skin like broken glass.
The last match ended ten minutes ago. The cage still stinks of blood and fear when I walk in. Ridge, one of our new fighters, sits slumped against the ropes, wheezing through a busted lip and holding his ribs. Brick’s standing over him, his face grim.
“The opponent tried to bail mid-match,” he says. “The crowd turned.”
“Is he alive?”
“Barely.” He wouldn’t be the first to not make it out of the ring, and he won’t be the last. Yeah, people get hurt. That’s the nature of it. But at least here, they know the rules going in.
“You want to see him?” Brick asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
I glance at Ridge again. His eyes are dazed, panic still wet on his skin. He looks young. Too young. He’ll either crawl back into the ring next week, or vanish. That’s how it works. The ones who survive get meaner. The ones who don’t get forgotten.
Brick raises a brow but he knows better than to argue.
I jerk my chin toward the hallway. “Got something I want you to see.”
We head down the back hall, the hard concrete walls stretching out beneath exposed steel beams. The harsh overhead lights cast a steady glow, catching the contrast between the old bones of the building and the recent upgrades of fresh paint, and reinforced doors.
My office sits at the end of the hall. I push the door open and step inside.
The space is simple but sharp. In the center of the room is a heavy desk, its surface polished smooth, everything in its place.
A single punching bag hangs in the corner, more habit than decoration, something to bleed frustration into when all else stops working.
I take a seat at the desk, my body humming with tension. The same tension that’s been riding me since I let Katana crack my armor.
The security system isn’t flashy. What happens here isn’t meant to be seen. But safety? That’s non-negotiable. I pull up the footage from a few days ago. One of the alley cameras behind the gym and click play.
The girl on the screen is Alicia. She’s been training here for a few months, long enough to earn bruises and suspicion in equal measure. She fights like she’s already run out of second chances, like every swing is a debt she’s trying to settle.
The footage shows her slipping out the back door after a late session, sweat still clinging to her skin, oblivious to what’s waiting.
A man steps out from behind the dumpster moving fast. He twists her arm just enough to drop her, then leans in close.
He says something low in her ear. She doesn’t scream or fight, she just freezes.
And then he’s gone, swallowed by the dark like he was never there.
This moment right here is why Amber ended up in my ring instead of Alicia, bringing the Royal Harlots to my front door.
I freeze the frame zooming in on the red-eyed snake tattoo on his neck.
Brick whistles low. “That’s Serrano’s crew.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “They’re not being subtle anymore.”
Brick folds his arms. “You gonna do something about it?”
I don’t answer right away. I close the file, crack my neck, and move like the tension in my spine’s got nowhere else to go.
“Working on it.”
That’s all I can say, because the truth is I’m losing my grip, one fighter at a time. Every part of me is screaming. I’m two steps from punching holes in the drywall. Three from dragging that snake-marked bastard into the street and showing people what happens when they fuck with my fighters.
After Brick leaves, I make a call I shouldn’t. The phone rings five times.
“You’re not supposed to be calling me.”
“I don’t give a shit. Victor Serrano. What’s he building?”
There’s a long pause, a heavy breath and then, “He’s building a funnel. Fighters go in. Soldiers come out. Anyone who resists disappears.”
“Where’s his base?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m serious. Shell fronts, fake addresses, abandoned buildings. Every time we get close, he’s gone. He’s using girls to run recon. Sometimes worse.”
My jaw tightens. “Worse?”
“You ever wonder where the girls Voss didn’t use ended up?”
I don’t answer. My throat’s too dry to speak. I hang up without another word.
And to think Katana and the Royal Harlots think I’m the poison in this city.
She doesn’t know what I’m trying to stop here. Victor Serrano isn’t just poaching. He’s constructing a damn pipeline underneath us. And if I don’t keep my grip tight on this ring, he’s going to swallow it whole along with every desperate fighter who walks through my doors.
I walk back out to the floor and step into the ring. My boots drag over canvas scuffed by every fighter that’s come through desperate to prove something.
Some people think fight rings are chaos.
They’re not. They’re controlled storms. Precision rage.
Rituals written in spit, sweat, and broken bones.
Every echo, every heartbeat, every scream, it’s predictable once you’ve lived inside it long enough.
You learn to hear the rhythm. Feel it under your feet like a second pulse.
But tonight? The rhythm’s off.
It’s in the silence. It’s in the absence of the fighters who used to walk through these doors. And it’s in the sound of my own heart, punching behind my ribs like it wants out.
The silence stretches like an old scar. And Marc’s ghost lingers at the edge of the ring like he always does, arms folded, eyes unreadable.
My brother, Marc was the first of us to step into the underground fight world, just a kid trying to keep us fed when nobody else gave a damn.
I followed in his footsteps, learned how to move, how to hit, how to survive.
We did what we had to until he was left bleeding in an alley and I found him too late.
I remember the way his blood steamed on the pavement. The way his voice cracked when he told me not to let it all be for nothing. He told me to build something better. Now I run this ring. Brutal, yeah, but it’s ours. And I protect it like it’s the last piece of him I’ve got left.
But it’s not enough anymore. Because the wolves are at the door. Girls are disappearing. And Katana? She’s out there thinking I’m the one dragging them into the dark.
Katana looks at me and sees a villain. She’s not wrong but villains bleed too. I’m not the only monster in this city. I’m the one trying to keep something worse at bay. I’ve buried worse men than Serrano. That’s not a threat. It’s just history.