Chapter 4
DANTE
The pier is dead quiet this time of night, just the groan of waves and the wind cutting through warped wood.
Fog rolls in off the water, thick and cold, curling around the rusted hulls of boats that haven’t seen the deep end of the ocean in years.
It feels like the city erased this place from memory. Which is exactly why I picked it.
I lean against the rail with a cigarette burning low between my fingers, the cherry pulsing like a warning with each slow drag.
Brick’s late, and I don’t like waiting. It makes my skin itch.
I scan the shadows again, the creak of boards echoing too loud in my head, my muscles tight with the kind of tension that crawls up your spine and lingers there.
I take another drag, checking the time again.
Five minutes later, I hear boots crunch sand and grit as Brick approaches from the far end of the dock.
He has a dark hoodie pulled up over his shaved head and hung tight over his tall, broad frame.
His walk’s different tonight. Slower, hesitant, glancing over his shoulder.
That alone tells me things are worse than I think before he even opens his mouth.
“Tell me,” I say, straightening up.
Brick pulls his hood back, his jaw clenched tight. He doesn’t say anything for a long beat. Then with a slow draw he hits me with it, “It was Mikey.”
I go still.
Mikey is one of my runners. He never had the heart of a fighter but he’s fast, quiet, and until now, loyal. Or so I thought.
Brick spits chew to the side. “Sold schedules, and names to Serrano for five grand and protection.”
My jaw ticks hard. I toss the cigarette to the ground, grinding it beneath my heel.
“Protection from what?” I mutter.
Brick shrugs. “You.”
I scoff under my breath. He needs that protection cause I’m gonna kill him.
I stare out at the water, the pitch black surface churning under the moonlight. My fists tighten until my knuckles pop. Five grand. That’s all it took to turn a man who worked with me for years. To sacrifice everything I’ve built. Everyone I’ve built this for.
“Where is he now?”
Brick’s silent but shrugs.
I nod once. “Find him.”
Brick doesn’t flinch. He knew what to expect when he told me. I run my gym clean but I’m not a damn saint. There’s too many devils in the world to pretend any of us are anything less.
I turn back toward him. His heavy silence telling me there’s another bomb to drop. “What else?”
He hesitates a beat longer.
“Dammit Brick. Spit it out.”
“Briggs is gone too.” He finally says, “Didn’t show up for his match. Phone’s off. No sign of him anywhere.”
Briggs isn’t the type to run. He’s ex-military, honor’s in his blood. Fights for a paycheck, sure, but he has a code. I trained him myself. He bled for this ring. For me. If he’s gone, something’s fucking wrong.
My mind flashes to the security feed of Alicia being grabbed by the dumpster. The red-eyed snake on that bastard’s neck. Serrano’s crew isn’t just watching us. They’re thinning us out. One by one.
“Run every camera around his place. I want his last twenty-four hours. I want names. Plates. Patterns.” Brick nods. “And Brick?”
He meets my eyes. “No more runners. Not for now. You or me. That’s it.”
He doesn’t argue. Just turns and disappears back into the fog like a ghost.
I wait until his footsteps fade, till the air stills again. Eyes are everywhere lately. Serrano’s… the Royal Harlots.
The pier groans underfoot as I cross the boards.
Mist clings to my jacket like cold fingers creeping down my spine.
I stay off the main path, cutting through an alley that stinks of fish guts, past old storage sheds tagged up with gang signs and warnings.
A shape flickers at the fringe of a streetlamp but it’s gone in a blink of the eye.
It’s hard to tell what’s real when the dark breathes down my neck and every creak sounds like boots behind me.
My hand drifts to the knife in my belt, my thumb brushing the handle.
Paranoia’s a predator and tonight it’s gnawing straight through my bones.
By the time the lot three blocks down comes into view, my heart is hammering like I just went ten rounds. I circle my Charger once, hand on steel, scanning for wires, trackers, anything out of the ordinary.
Nothing.
I slide into the driver’s seat, holding my breath as I turn the key. I let it out to the sound of the engine rumbling to life. Old habits die hard, especially when the past is this close.
The steering wheel’s cold beneath my palm, I grip it tight anyway and drive back toward the city, toward the apartment I haven’t slept at in months.
Glass towers rise before me, polished and glowing, too clean to be touched by the filth crawling through the alleys downtown.
My tires hum as I turn into the underground garage.
Here, everything smells like fresh paint, new rubber, and money.
Not blood, not sweat. I don’t belong here. That’s why I like it.
I kill the engine, step out, and shut the door with a satisfying thud. My boots echo across the smooth epoxy floor, too dirty for a place this sterile. My fingers twitch as I press the key fob, hear the soft beep of the lock, and pocket it.
The elevator’s fast, and silent, the kind that doesn’t creak or groan.
I lean against the wall, my head tilted back, and watch my own reflection in the brushed metal.
I look like hell. My jaw’s clenched tight, stubble creeping over my chin.
The look of a man unraveling slowly. I drag a hand down my face, try to scrub off the weight clinging to my skin but it doesn’t budge.
The door opens with a whisper on the tenth floor. I step out into the sleek hallway of dark wood floors, soft lighting and minimalist art that costs more than most people make in a month. I walk like I’ve got a purpose, even though the only thing waiting behind that door is silence.
I reach my unit at the end of the hall, punch in the code and step inside locking the door behind me.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around one side of the apartment showing off a skyline of glass and steel lit up like a damn stage.
Inside, it’s all exposed brick and matte black fixtures.
Modern. Masculine. Designed to look lived-in without actually being lived in.
There’s a leather couch I’ve barely sat on, a kitchen I don’t cook in, a bed I never sleep in.
This place is a vault for the part of me I never let anyone see. The one still playing the game.
I pour myself a bourbon, neat. Let it burn a little on the way down. Then I peel off my jacket, drop it on a chair, and sink into the silence.
The city looks beautiful from up here. Clean. Untouchable. But I know better. Down there, Serrano’s building an empire. Turning good fighters into addicts and weapons, girls into bait.
I turn away from the view and sink into the plush leather sofa. My body aches. Not from fighting but from the mental weight of this war I’m trying to fight with two fists and a sense of honor no one fucking believes in.
Katana’s face flashes in my mind. The storm in her eyes when she accused me of poaching her fighters.
The disgust when she said I was luring her girls into danger.
I wanted to scream at her. Grab her shoulders and make her see.
I’m not the villain here. I’m not the threat.
But fuck. How do you defend yourself to someone who’s already written your epitaph?
Truth is, a part of me liked that she was thinking about me at all. I drag a hand down my face and lean forward, my elbows resting on my knees. I stare at the floor like it might offer answers.
What the fuck am I doing?
When I started this ring, it was about control.
About building something Marc would’ve been proud of.
He died trying to escape the filth. I wanted to make a place where fighters didn’t have to crawl through it.
A place where desperation wasn’t a death sentence.
But it’s slipping away. Fighters are disappearing.
Girls are getting grabbed. Runners turning traitor.
I used to be good at the game. Now the board’s shifting, the pieces are being taken off one by one, and I’m playing against someone who doesn’t play by the rules.
The phone in my pocket vibrates once. I pull it out and answer sharply. “Yeah.”
Brick's voice is tight and panicked. “Briggs didn’t run. Someone took him.”
I sit up straight.
“Are you sure?”
He takes a fast breath, “My contact tapped into the street cameras. Black van with no plates was seen grabbing Briggs late last night.This has Serrano written all over it.”
“Fuck.” I hang up without another word.
I stare at the phone like it might have answers I don’t. Like how I can stop this.
Serrano is declaring war. Not the kind with gloves and rounds. The kind that leaves a body count.
I laugh, bitter and sharp, but it catches in my throat. Because maybe I can’t fight this alone.
The thought burns like acid in my gut. I stand, pacing. After a long beat, I grab my burner phone, the one I don’t use unless it’s urgent and send a message to the one person who might have more eyes on this city than I do.
Need Serrano’s location. Now.
I don’t sign it. They’ll know who it’s from.
Then I grab a bottle from the cabinet, and drop back onto the couch. I take a swig. The burn hits hard, but not hard enough.
The response comes minutes later, my burner screen glowing cold blue.
Message received. Will dig. You owe me. -Sable
Yeah. I fucking do.
I stare out the window, where the city lights flicker through the glass, and I wonder how much longer I can hold this together. How many more fighters I’ll lose? How many more girls will disappear from this city?
Marc’s voice whispers in the back of my mind.
Don’t let it be for nothing.
I won’t, brother.
Even if I have to fight this whole fucking city to stop it.
I don’t sleep. I just pace the apartment until the walls start to close in.
The city’s a fucking ghost town when I hit the streets again. It’s past three a.m., and the only thing awake out here is the shit that doesn’t want to be seen. The streetlamps don’t quite chase the dark off the edges. I walk like I’ve got somewhere to be, but the truth is, I don’t. Not really.
My boots hit the pavement, every step heavier than the last.
I can’t get Briggs' face out of my head. The kid’s only twenty-three.
Left hook like a sledgehammer. He’d just signed on for two more fights.
Talked about saving up to move out of his shitty studio apartment.
Now he’s probably rotting in some warehouse pumped full of steroids or meth and made to fight for his life instead of a paycheck.
That’s the Serrano model. Break them down, rebuild them as killers or end up corpses. I should know.
I light a cigarette with hands that won’t stop shaking and lean against a rusted lamppost. The smoke burns in my throat. I don’t even like the taste anymore. I just need the fire.
I toss the cigarette, sparks spitting across the sidewalk, and pull my phone out again. No missed calls. No texts. No answers.
I’m alone in this.
After Mikey’s betrayal I can’t even trust the loyalty of my crew. Brick’s rock-solid. But I see the fear growing in the others eyes, the second thoughts, the doubt. It creeps in through the seams.
And now? Now I’ve got the Royal Harlots sniffing around like I’m the big bad wolf.
Katana.
Fucking hell.
The way she looked at me, like I’m guilty of everything she despises, makes me question if she’s right. But I saw something else beneath her suspicion, beneath the armor she wears. She’s fighting the same war, just on a different front.
I think about calling her. My thumb hovers over the keypad on my phone. But I don’t dial. Because what the hell would I even say?
Let’s hold hands and clean up the mess together?
Fuck that.
I grind my teeth until my jaw aches and push off the post, heading back to the apartment.
The streetlights flicker overhead. I walk fast, sticking to the shadows. I don’t take the main roads.
When I reach my apartment, I slam the door behind me, flick the deadbolt, and toss my jacket over the chair. My holster’s still strapped to my side. I don’t take it off. Not tonight.
I pace the floor. Back and forth. Each step grinding broken glass deeper into the soles of my boots.
Briggs is gone. Alica’s been threatened and hasn’t answered a call in two days. And Serrano’s creeping closer to my back door with every hour. This whole fucking city is drowning in shadows and I’m running out of air.
I grab the bottle of whiskey off the crate and take a long pull. It scorches all the way down, but doesn’t burn deep enough to kill what’s festering inside me.
What eats at me most? I saw this coming. I just didn’t want to believe it. It’s Philly repeating itself. I thought if I kept the payouts fair, I could run the pit in the dark and still come out clean.
But loyalty doesn’t mean shit when survival’s on the table. Money talks louder than honor. And the Serrano crew doesn’t ask. They take.
A sound rattles at the window. I freeze. Whiskey still in my hand. Gun in the other.
It’s probably the wind but I check anyway. I edge toward the blinds, my body coiled tight. Slowly lifting two fingers to peek through.
The balcony’s empty, of course it is this high up. But my gut still knots. I’ve seen this pattern before. Pressure. Isolation. Confusion. It’s the setup before the ambush. Serrano’s playing chess while I’m still swinging bare knuckles.
I sit down hard on the mattress, drag both hands down my face, and exhale sharp.
I need help.
The thought feels like swallowing glass. I don’t ask for help. I claw my way through. I fight. I bleed. I outlast.
But this isn’t just about me anymore. They’re taking my fighters. They’re closing in. And if I fall, they’ll use my ring to bury me. All that blood I’ve tried to wash clean? It’ll flood back in.
I stare at the ceiling, my eyes dry and burning from lack of sleep. Katana might hate me. Hell, she might shoot me on sight. But she wants the same thing I do. Her girls safe, the threat dead.
I grab my phone from the side table. My thumb hovering over the keys. I type out a message, stare at it for a long minute before deleting it.
I try again. Nothing sounds right. Finally, I settle on the truth.
It’s getting worse. If you want answers, we need to talk. -Dante
I don’t give myself time to rethink it. I just send it. And sit in the dark, waiting to see if the fuse I lit leads to an ally or a bullet.