Chapter 8 #3
The crowd is clearly not in his favor.
Chico is an outsider, after all. Not from Italy, not even from this continent. Most of the men have nothing to lose, they fight like they’re not afraid to die, but Chico… He fights like he is.
He shoves the other man off with his feet and does a flip to land on top of him, punching him repeatedly and scratching at his eyes.
My interest is piqued.
Chico has something to lose. He doesn’t want to die. I can see that in the way he keeps going even when his body should’ve given out.
As he brutally kills the other man with his bare hands and teeth, leaving him a bloody pulp on the ground, I can’t look away. My heart is pounding slow but hard in my chest.
I imagine Carmine out there. I know he’d never make it. He doesn’t care if he lives or dies. He doesn’t need the money.
Chico does.
The audience boos and huffs and puffs at Chico’s win. I hear several people complain about betting against him, that they can’t believe he’s still going.
Chico is yelling victoriously in Spanish.
I small smile spreads on my face.
Eivor is going to want to know about him.
The fights aren’t over. Three more pairs are up, the final four will have to fight against each other to the death. More lives to be taken out.
It’s not the death that bothers me. No, the blood, the sweat…the heat that rolls of each of their bodies—man and woman alike—ignites a needy desperation inside me. One that urges me to step closer to Carmine, but I ignore it.
The way the audience comes back, week after week, betting on the winner, forgetting their faces the second they leave… it’s sickening.
But even I can’t stop myself from coming back time after time.
I’m distracted watching two more fighters enter the arena, when I feel a pull on the back of my shirt.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” a familiar voice says behind me.
I don’t so much turn around as I’m pulled around in the process.
Immediately my defenses raise. I don’t care who touched me; they get my fist to their face.
Yvon Lyonesse, tall and blonde, is the one who grabbed my shirt. Just another cog in the machine of our domains. Another rival, another problem to be handled.
“Get your fuckin’ hands off me,” I hiss and swing. It’s a miss. I’m not at my best tonight.
“You’re supposed to be on our side, against the Dresvanni. But they got your ass here protecting his pansy ass,” Yvon waves a hand at Carmine.
Carmine steps forward and grips Yvon’s shoulder, “Don’t put your hands on him,” he growls.
The sound makes me nearly shiver right here and then, but knowing the danger of getting into a fight here, I immediately reach for Carmine’s arm.
“Carm, don’t,” I try, but he’s already pulling Yvon to the side with a hard yank.
“Are you fucking serious?” Yvon laughs. “I know we all hate each other, but you can’t really be taking his side?”
I’m not even sure who he’s talking to at this point. Me or Carmine. He seems to change his mind on who he’s for and against every second with every word that comes out of his mouth.
Carmine is itching for a fight, I know it. So I try to step between them.
“Let’s take this outside,” I insist. “Not here.”
It’s too late. Yvon and Carmine are at each other’s throat the second Carmine says, “Coward.”
The crowd around us starts to back up, making a small circle of room.
“Fight!” someone yells, it starts to catch on. People shouting all around us.
“For fucks fake,” I huff, tossing myself into the scuffle. Fists flying, I grab Carmine by the back of his shirt. He grabs Yvon by the front of his, until we all stumble back against the chain link wall.
“I’ll fucking kill you!” Yvon shouts, eyes crazy.
I’m too busy trying to pull Carmine away from him to notice as he reaches behind his back under his shirt.
“Fight, fight!”
The audience has no idea what they’re urging on. Or maybe they do.
Maybe they can see Yvon pull his gun out.
A hard metal connects with the side of my head as I’m pistol whipped and everything goes fuzzy for a moment. My fists cling to Carmine even in this moment, and I try to gather myself. I’m dizzy, but I see the blurry outline of a black pistol in front of my face.
“Let him go and face me like man or I shoot your fucking head off,” Yvon threatens.
I’m staring down the barrel of a gun, with my own gun no where to be found. They aren’t allowed here. How Yvon managed to get one in without the detector at the door going off is beyond me.
His finger is on the trigger. The barrel is inches from my head.
Carmine is frozen, sandwiched between the both of us.
Half the crowd is screaming in fear, while the other is watching with bated breath. Making even more room around us.
“Kill him!” someone blurts out.
I want to turn, see who it is, so I can beat the shit out of them later.
I don’t.
I keep my eyes on Yvon’s.
“There’s no need to have a problem here, Yvon,” I insist. “We can all leave here unscathed.”
“There’s always a problem with you faggots,” he sneers.
Before I can get a word out, before Carmine can lurch forward and do something even more stupid, Yvon folds backwards like a lawn chair. His arm is grabbed and the gun quickly taken from his hand as he’s shoved to the floor by three armed guards.
He swears at them, fighting them, but they hold his arms behind his back and then shove his face to the hard floor.
I exhale the breath I feel like I’ve been holding for hours.
Carmine’s body relaxes, his back against my chest.
I whisper into his ear, breathless and deep. “I’m going to kill you for that.”