Chapter 4
DECLAN
Ilean against the ropes, watching the first fight play out. Two bare-knuckle fighters trade blows like they've got nothing left to live for. My fighter lands an uppercut that makes his opponent's head snap back like a broken toy.
The crowd roars, half in delight, half in horror. People who don't fight don't understand how beautiful destruction can be. The perfect arc of a fist, the spray of sweat and blood, the way a body falls. It's art, if you know how to look at it.
My stitches itch. A week out from the fight that gave me this pretty new scar above my eye, and I'm benched.
She told me not to fight, whoever the hell she is, and I almost did just to spite her. But Keira told me not to fight. So did my father. Even Callum gave me that look when I told him about tonight's tournament.
Instead, I've got three guys fighting under my name tonight. All of them are expected to win. Especially the new one, some hotshot from Jersey with hands like sledgehammers and a mouth that barely stops moving. I guaranteed him cash even if he loses.
There's only one problem. He hasn't shown up yet, and he fights next.
"Where the fuck is Knox?" I yell to one of my men over the crowd, already pissed off.
My man shrugs. "He ain't answering. You want me to try his phone again?"
"Yeah, and tell him either he shows or I'm putting him in a fucking coffin."
The cut above my eyebrow throbs as I say those words, the damn stitches a constant reminder of the woman who put them there.
"Straight to voicemail."
I run my tongue over my teeth, irritation taking over. "He knows what's at stake tonight, right? Twenty-five grand guaranteed, plus his cut of the bets?"
"He knew."
"Then I guess he didn't want it as bad as he said." I shrug, hiding my annoyance. "Plenty of fighters would kill for that spot. Let's bump Martinez up. He's been itching for the spotlight."
I turn just in time to see my fighter throw a right hook that sends the other guy tumbling to the ground. The referee starts the count, but I can tell it's just a formality. That man isn't getting up anytime soon.
They call it, and the gamblers surround us, a mix of wealthy men in suits to petty street criminals. They cheer. I don't give a hell who they are or where they come from. All are here for the thrill and are willing to pay good money to see men beat each other half to death.
It's a beautiful racket.
"Boss," someone yells, then taps me on the shoulder.
I turn to see Jimmy, one of my security guys.
"Sir, you better come see this."
I don't like those words, especially when they come from someone who hardly speaks.
It can't be good.
I follow him out the back door and into the alley behind the gym. It's cold. The kind of cold that only Boston can deliver.
"Over there," Jimmy points.
At first, I don't see anything but shadows. Then a shape materializes, a man slumped against the wall, head hanging forward.
There's blood. A lot of it. Pooled near the dumpster and smeared down the bricks. He fought off his attacker for sure.
"Is that?" I ask as I approach. "Son of a bitch."
Shit. It's my fighter.
"How long's he been out here?"
"Don't know," Jimmy says. "One of the staff found him ten minutes ago, taking out trash."
"Get someone," I say. "Someone medical."
"The hospital?" Jimmy asks.
I give him a look that shuts him up immediately. "Inside. There should be a doctor or nurse. Whoever's working the fights tonight. Get them."
Jimmy disappears back into the warehouse, leaving me alone with the dead man. I study Knox's face, peaceful despite the violence done to him. Twenty-three, immigrant from Venezuela. Trained in boxing since he was eight. Hungry for success, for a better life.
Now he's just another body cooling in an alley.
The door opens behind me, and I turn to see Jimmy, another one of my guys, and an overweight guy holding a bag.
The man walks past me and kneels beside Knox.
"What happened?" he asks as he checks his vitals.
"Was hoping you'd tell me," I say. "He's one of mine. Supposed to fight tonight."
He looks up at me and then back to the body.
He presses his fingers to my fighter's neck, lifts his eyelids, examines the wounds. The blood doesn't seem to bother him at all, just another day at the office.
As much as I hate to admit it, I'd be more interested in watching her work, but maybe it's a good thing that little Ghost Angel isn't around tonight.
"He's been dead at least an hour," he says finally. "Multiple stab wounds to the chest and abdomen. Throat's been cut. That probably killed him. Someone knew what they were doing, if I had to guess. The cuts are clean."
"Great," I say. "That narrows it down to about fifty people in this building."
He doesn't respond to my sarcasm, just continues examining the body. Something catches his attention, and he frowns, leaning in closer.
"What is it?" I ask, trying to read his face.
He doesn't answer at first, just reaches into Knox's mouth.
"Hey. What the fuck are you..." I start.
"There's something..." he says, trailing off.
He pulls it out and holds it up to the dim light. It's dark and wet with blood.
It's a feather curled at the tip like it was stuffed deep in his throat.
"The hell is that?" I ask, moving closer.
"A raven's feather," he says, turning it between his fingers. "Someone put it in his mouth after he was killed."
The man stands, holding it in gloved fingers.
"You ever seen anything like this?" he asks.
I take it from him and turn it over. Still wet.
"A feather?"
"A feather dipped in blood," he clarifies.
I shrug. "Some weird-ass message. Gang shit, probably."
"Maybe, but this doesn't seem random."
"I didn't fucking ask what you thought," I say, staring down at him.
"Yes, of course. Sorry, I—"
"Not my problem," I say, cutting him off, and toss the feather toward the dumpster.
"Clearly he pissed some people off," I say, but I can feel my jaw clenching. "I'll send money to his family, make sure they're taken care of. But solving his murder? Not my job."
I look at my men.
"Clean him up," I say, gesturing to Knox's body. "I'll send someone to take care of the rest."
I turn and walk back inside the warehouse, to the fights, to the life I understand. Behind me lies a dead man with a feather in his mouth, but not just any dead mean, one of mine.
Is someone trying to send me a message or am I just letting paranoia creep in? Either way, I should keep this from Callum for now.
And on top of all this bullshit, I can't help but wonder why the fuck I wish she'd be the one to come out. Why does this woman refuse to leave my thoughts, no matter how much I want her to?
I wish she were dead so I didn't have to think about the ways she screwed me over or why the hell she's haunting my thoughts.
l deal with her soon I'm sure of it, I think to myself as I step back into the noise and the light, leaving the darkness behind.