Chapter Twenty-Four #2
Sledge tries to grab my arm, but I twist out of it and slam him back into the chain-link.
The crowd explodes. My pulse roars in my ears, every hit landing heavier, until he drops to one knee.
Yet red is all I see. Red for him. Red for me.
And it’s fucking blinding. I swing until arms close around me. The ref steps in and the bell rings.
All the noise fades into static.
I don’t look toward the balcony, only charge out of the cage with sweat dripping off me, chest heaving, and anger that eats me alive.
The crowd parts for me. The walk to the locker room reeks of disinfectant and old blood.
My heart continues to hammer away inside my chest, and the tightness around my throat returns.
“Fuck,” I bite out, using my teeth to rip at the bandages that adorn my hand.
I fucked up… and I’m sure I will pay the price one way or another.
I push through the locker room door, moving toward my usual spot at the warehouse, and pull open the thin metal door.
Sitting right on top of my gym bag is a box.
With trembling fingers, I reach for it and open it.
Inside, there’s an old phone and, of course, I turn it on.
The screen flickers, then lights up with a single message.
Kill the queen.
The words burn through me, hotter than boiling temperature.
There’s only one person who would want Shiloh dead.
And that’s the same person who has me lying to my best friend and tugging at my hair.
I let out a sigh, and the phone shakes within my hands.
Before I can process any of it, I hear footsteps approaching, so I toss the phone back into my bag and slam the locker door shut, bracing myself for what's to come.
“Orozco,” Wesley says with a crooked grin as he smacks the top of the bat against his palm. “Just the man I wanted to see, alone and vulnerable.”
“Yeah, it’s usually like bitches do,” I retort.
My shoulders square, my jaw set tight, and my fists clenched at my side. If he wants to fight, I have no problem showing him true violence. I’ve disliked the fucker since before everything came out about Brad killing June. He’s a creep, and I know exactly how to deal with guys like this.
He whistles, the sound slicing through the room. “Unlike you… I’m not alone, you see. I need answers, and I’m sure my friends and I can persuade you to talk.”
Of course, the pussy would resort to jumping me.
I crack my neck and roll my shoulders. Not bothering to say anything, I only use my fingers to motion him forward. A silent bring it on. Three of his goons come into view, masked and holding different kinds of weapons.
“We all know Bradley didn’t kill himself, so talk…” the guy with the chain asks before he swings it around my wrist when I swing. Wesley uses that to his advantage, moving forward and taking a swing with the bat straight into my gut.
“Who ordered the hit? Brad was too much of a pussy and self-absorbed to kill himself.”
I laugh, he wasn’t wrong about that… and that has me laughing even harder, the sound bouncing off the walls, furthering the blood that pools inside my mouth.
I wait until the asshole is close enough and spit.
Blood drips down my lip and the asshole’s cheek.
Wesley chuckles, wiping the spit from his skin, bat still in his hand.
“You’ve got fight in you,” he sneers. “Allow me to snuff it out.”
Before I can react, cold bites into my flesh, a chain cutting off my airway. My fingers curl around the metal as I fight for air. The links dig deeper, causing my throat to burn.
Wesley's laughter echoes. “Not so tough now, huh?” he taunts before backhanding me. “Let’s see how long that fight lasts.”
The room spins.
My vision tunnels as I thrash with the guy holding the chain.
My knees buckle, but I refuse to fall. I twist and yank, and when I feel the chain slip just enough to drag a breath in, I use my back to lift the asshole behind me and slam him into the wall nearby.
My ears ring loudly as the burn in my lungs seizes me from inside.
A loud BANG catches my attention, and Wesley falls to the ground, bat rolling away from him as he brings his knee to his chest. The pressure around my neck disappears.
The chain clattered against the tile. I gasp, dragging air into my lungs, the burn spreading through my chest. My knees hit the floor, palms slick with blood and sweat.
But I can finally breathe. There's commotion around me, and I blink, trying to adjust my vision.
The sound around me is muffled. Then I see him.
Thiago.
Who stands in the doorway, eyes dark and wild.
“FUCK SAFRA!” one of the guys shouts, raising his arms into the air. “It was Wesley’s idea,” he adds. Thiago's lips are drawn into a thin line. There’s no denying he’s angry, but he’s also in pain and hiding it well… But I see him. And he’s here holding a gun… Why?
Wesley is screaming at the top of his lungs, blood pooling beneath him.
“You shot me,” he whines. “You fucking shot me.”
Thiago closes the distance in three strides, pressing the barrel of the gun to the back of Wesley's head. “Keep screaming, and I might shoot the other one. He’s mine,” Thiago snarls, baring his teeth, each word deliberate and carved in fury. “You don’t get to break what belongs to me.”
Wesley nods, spit flying from his lips as he begs for forgiveness. Thiago tilts his head, almost curious, his voice calm and low. “Apologize to him, not me.”
Using the bench, I drag my body up to stand.
“I don’t need his apology,” I cut in, making Safra look my way, relief replacing every trace of anger when our eyes collided.
“Good thing I wasn’t asking, Ruas.”
The gun presses deeper into Wesley, making him wet his pants.
I look away, disgusted with the sight. Small whimpers escape from his lips as he continues to beg Thiago for mercy and help for his knee.
I guess going pro isn’t in the future for him, not after Thiago put a bullet through it.
That’s gonna take time to heal, and even if it does, it will never be the same.
Knowing he did that for me has me glancing over my shoulder and meeting Safra’s watchful gaze.
It’s dark and burning straight into my soul, and the room feels too small to hold the weight of it.
Thiago doesn’t move.
“Touch him again,” he murmurs through gritted teeth, “and I’ll make sure no one ever finds what’s left of you.” Wesley swallows hard, sweat sliding down his temple. “Now get the fuck out of my sight.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. Wesley nods, trembling as his masked goons help him up and out the room. Thiago lowers the gun, his eyes roaming over the length of me.
I hold up my hand. “I’m fine.”
“The fuck you are.”
I snort. “I am.”
“Sit.”
And I do.
He crouches in front of me, the gun still dangling loosely in his hand. Using his free hand, Safra reaches out, thumb brushing the blood at my jaw. The touch is soft like a lover's caress. “They got you good,” he says in a low and dangerous tone. “I should fucking kill him.”
I meet his gaze and narrow my eyes. “A bit dramatic. You don’t own me,” I murmur, the memories of Ezra’s words haunting me, now more than ever.
His lips twitch, but not into a smile.
“You keep saying that,” he murmurs, leaning until his breath ghosts my skin. “But every time I’m near… I prove you wrong.” With that, he straightens, holsters the gun behind his blazer, and looks toward the door. “I gotta go do something, wait for me, yeah?”
I nod, because knowing Safra, he won’t drop it, and who am I kidding, I want to.
Safra smiles before walking out without another word, leaving the air heavy with adrenaline and something that feels too close to possession.
While I sit here, pulse still racing and throat raw, staring at the door he just closed—wondering if I should be grateful, he showed up or terrified that he always does.
Is this what love is?
Am I in love with Thiago Safra?