Knuckles & Knives (Empire of Shadows #1)

Chapter 1

The bass thrums through my chest like a second heartbeat as I stand outside the rusted steel doors of the Obsidian fight club.

Five years. Five years since I last stepped foot in this underground hellhole that smells of sweat, blood, and broken dreams. Five years since my world imploded in a spray of gunfire and my father’s blood painted the concrete of our family estate.

I bite my lower lip—a nervous habit I’ve never been able to shake—and adjust the strap of my leather jacket.

The weight of the switchblade in my boot is a familiar comfort, a reminder that I’m not the same naive eighteen-year-old girl who fled this city with nothing but rage and a thirst for vengeance.

Raven Blackwood is dead, I remind myself. Tonight, I’m just another fighter looking for a quick payday.

The bouncer at the door is new. He’s a mountain of muscle with gang tattoos creeping up his neck. He doesn’t seem to recognize me, which is exactly what I need. I slide him a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and he waves me through without even checking my fake ID.

The moment I step inside, the familiar chaos strikes me like a blow to my gut.

The main floor is a writhing mass of bodies pressed against the chain-link cage where two fighters are currently trying to beat each other into unconsciousness.

Money changes hands faster than punches, and the air is thick with cigarette smoke and the metallic tang of blood.

Nothing’s changed.

Everything’s changed.

I navigate through the crowd, keeping my head down but my eyes sharp. The Obsidian was always more than just a fight club. It was the beating heart of my father’s empire, the place where deals were made and enemies were buried.

Literally, in some cases.

A roar from the crowd draws my attention to the cage, where a lean fighter with intricate blackwork tattoos has just dropped his opponent with a vicious uppercut.

The unconscious man hits the mat like a sack of concrete, and the winner doesn’t even look winded.

He moves with a fluid grace that speaks of years of training, and when he turns toward the crowd, I catch a glimpse of striking features and hair with an unusual silver streak.

Interesting.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Ghost Rivera remains undefeated!” The announcer’s voice crackles through the speakers. “Who’s brave enough to step into the cage next?”

Ghost. Even his name is intriguing. I file away the information for later as I continue my reconnaissance. The VIP section overlooking the main floor is where the real power brokers conduct their business, and I need to—

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

The deep voice stops me cold. Every muscle in my body tenses as recognition floods through me like ice water. I know that voice. I know it intimately from years of hearing it bark orders, offer protection, and murmur gentle reassurances when nightmares about my mother’s death kept me awake.

I turn slowly, praying I’m wrong. Praying the years have played tricks with my memory.

But no. Dominic Vega stands behind me in all his intimidating glory, six-foot-three of lethal muscle wrapped in a black henley that does nothing to hide the scars decorating his knuckles.

His dark hair is shorter than I remember, and there are new lines around his brown eyes that look almost black in the dim lighting.

His gaze rakes over me with the intensity of a man who’s seen too much violence and survived it all.

“Little Raven Blackwood,” he says, and my heart hammers against my ribs. “All grown up.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I bite my lower lip. “I think you have me confused with someone else,” I say, my voice as cool as can be despite the panic clawing at my chest.

Dom’s lips curve into something that might be a smile if it wasn’t so predatory. “Same amber eyes. Same way of biting your lip when you’re lying. Same scar above your right eyebrow from when you tried to break up that fight in the back alley when you were sixteen.”

His fingers twitch like he wants to reach out and trace that scar, and I take an instinctive step back. The movement makes his eyes narrow.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” he continues conversationally, as if we’re discussing the weather instead of my carefully constructed false identity. “Funny thing about dead girls. They usually don’t show up at underground fight clubs looking for trouble.”

“Maybe I’m a ghost,” I say, lifting my chin defiantly toward the cage. “This place seems to attract them.”

Something shifts in his expression at my reference to the fighter still celebrating. “What are you doing here, Raven?”

The way he says my name sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.

Dom was always my father’s most trusted enforcer, the one man Vincent Blackwood relied on completely.

He was also the man who taught me how to throw a punch, how to read an opponent’s tells, and how to survive in a world that would kill me without hesitation.

He was supposed to protect me. Instead, he let my father die.

“I’m here to fight,” I say, nodding toward the cage where they’re already dragging out Ghost’s unconscious opponent. “Unless that’s a problem?”

Dom’s jaw tightens. “Everything about this is a problem.”

“Then I guess we have a problem.”

For a long moment, we stare at each other while the crowd surges around us, oblivious to the tension crackling between us like live wire.

He looks older, harder, carved from granite and violence.

But his eyes still hold that protective warmth I remember from childhood, the look that made me feel safe even in the middle of my father’s dangerous world.

He’s only six years older than I am, twenty-nine compared to twenty-three.

I can’t afford to feel safe. Safe girls don’t get revenge.

“We need to talk,” Dom says finally.

“No, we don’t.” I turn to walk away, but his hand shoots out and wraps around my wrist. His touch burns like a brand, and I have to fight not to jerk away. “Let go of me.”

“Not until you tell me what you’re really doing here.” His thumb brushes over my pulse point, and I know he can feel how fast my heart is racing. “And don’t say fighting. We both know you’re here for something else.”

I meet his gaze steadily, letting him see the determination that’s sustained me through five years of planning and preparation. “I’m here to reclaim what was stolen from me.”

“Your father’s empire is gone, Raven. The territories have been carved up between the Sterlings and the Kowalskis. There’s nothing left to reclaim.”

“There’s always something left,” I say softly. “You just have to know where to look.”

His grip tightens fractionally. “This isn’t some game. The people who killed your father… they’re still out there. They’ll kill you too if they discover you’re alive.”

“Let them try.”

The words hang between us like a challenge, and I watch something dark and hungry flicker in Dom’s eyes. He’s always been drawn to dangerous things, and apparently five years haven’t changed that.

“You’ve gotten reckless,” he murmurs, and there’s something almost admiring in his tone.

“I’ve gotten focused.”

The announcer’s voice cuts through our staring contest. “We need a challenger for Ghost Rivera! Come on, folks! Who wants to try their luck against our reigning champion?”

I pull my wrist from Dom’s grasp and start walking toward the cage registration table. “That would be me.”

“Raven, don’t—”

But I’m already moving, weaving through the crowd with purpose. I can feel Dom’s eyes boring into my back, can sense his internal struggle between stopping me and letting me walk into what he probably sees as certain destruction.

Good. Let him underestimate me. Let them all underestimate me.

The registration clerk looks me up and down skeptically when I approach. “You sure about this, sweetheart? Ghost hasn’t lost a fight in two years.”

“I’m sure.” I slide my fake ID across the table along with the entry fee. “Put me down for the next match.”

As I fill out the paperwork, I’m hyperaware of the attention I’m drawing. Conversations quiet as word spreads that some unknown girl wants to challenge the undefeated champion. Money starts changing hands as odds are calculated and bets are placed. Like I said, let them all underestimate me.

I glance back toward where I left Dom and find him still watching me, his expression unreadable.

He’s not the only one, though. In the VIP section above, I spot a figure in an expensive suit observing the proceedings with sharp interest. Even from this distance, I can make out platinum blonde hair and ice-blue eyes that seem to cut through the crowd like laser beams.

Kieran Frost. The heir to the Sterling Syndicate, and the son of the man who ordered my father’s death.

My hand automatically goes to the dagger tattoo on my forearm, and I force myself to breathe deeply. Patience. I need to be smart about this. I cannot let emotion drive my decisions.

But seeing him here, in my father’s old territory, wearing a ten-thousand-dollar suit bought with blood money… It takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to march up there and put a blade between his ribs.

“All right, you’re all set,” the clerk says, handing me back my ID. “Match starts in ten minutes. You sure you don’t want to reconsider?”

I flash him a smile that’s all teeth and no warmth. “I’ve been waiting five years for this moment. I’m not backing down now.”

As I walk toward the fighters’ prep area, I catch sight of another familiar face in the crowd.

A man in an impeccably tailored suit stands near the bar, designer glasses reflecting the cage lights as he watches me with calculating dark eyes.

Marcus Quintana. I remember him from the old days—always in the background, always watching, always three steps ahead of everyone else.

If he’s here… I have to imagine that he knows exactly who I am, just like Dom, which means I’m walking into this fight with more than just Ghost Rivera to worry about.

Perfect.