Chapter 25
Samantha
I’m a wreck. I haven’t slept in three days.
I know I’ve freaked out Celia, and I have no idea how to keep her and Rona safe, except to stay away from them like I’ve been doing.
If I am being watched, I don’t think they’ll grab me until they know where Rona is, but what if I’m wrong?
What if they grab me to torture her location out of me?
I scoff. No, Michael knows I’d die before giving her up.
Plus, I know he’s enjoying this game of cat and mouse, terrorizing me.
I’m scrubbing the inside of my almost-empty fridge on Saturday afternoon like a crazy person because I have to keep busy. I could eat off my floor if I had any food. I have my earbuds in, listening to Sleep Token at a volume high enough to drown out my thoughts.
An incoming text pings.
Checking my phone, I groan.
Sandro: 5071 3rd Ave. 8 pm
I don’t recognize the address, so I look it up on Google Maps.
It’s in the downtown warehouse district, but not the one I usually go to.
If this is another torture session, I may lose my mind.
Too bad you can’t call in sick to work when you work for the mafia.
I pull off my rubber gloves and toss them in the trash can.
“Sorry, I can’t come patch up the dude you tortured today, I’m being hunted by a psychopath and may need to run,” I mock myself.
I’m not sure how long it’ll take me to get there with traffic, so I leave early, making sure to check my rearview mirror frequently for any sign I’m being followed.
On I-275 there’s a black sedan that has been behind me for a few miles and switches lanes when I do.
When the next exit comes up, I jerk the wheel right and take it. The sedan doesn’t follow.
Relief loosening my chest, I make a U-turn and get back on the highway.
The first thing I notice when I drive up to the large warehouse is the amount of luxury cars and limos in the parking lot.
What the hell? I glance down at my tank top and yoga pants.
Am I underdressed? But then I see a sign painted on the building, black with a green shamrock in the background: Sully’s Gym. I’m more confused than ever.
Grabbing my roller bag, I head to the door.
I recognize the two bulky men standing guard from Killian’s yacht. They must recognize me, too, because one of them opens the door and nods. “Good evening, Doc.”
I force a smile and step inside. Yep, it’s really a gym. Lots of equipment, smells like rubber and sweat. There’s a few guys working out, but… where are all the people from the cars in the parking lot?
And then in the far-right corner, a man in khakis and a black polo shirt disappears through a door beside a storage cabinet. There are two more soldiers standing guard there. Whatever’s going on must be in there. Why would they need a doctor?
I roll my bag through the gym and walk up to them. “Hi, um, I’m Dr. Samantha Dal. Sandro LaRocca asked me to come.”
The guard’s gaze sweeps over me then he opens the door and motions me inside.
I step in, my eyes widening at the different atmosphere. There’s a boxing cage in the middle of the warehouse space, at least a hundred people milling about, mingling with drinks in their hands. The air is thick with excitement and conversation.
Now I know what I’m doing here. Patching up fighters. Well, at least men aren’t being tortured. That’s an improvement.
I search the crowd, trying to find someone I know, recognizing some of Tampa’s politicians and high rollers. I finally spot Sandro, Rocco and Gunnar talking to two other men and head that way. I note the bar and the betting station table where four lines have formed.
Sandro’s dark blue eyes track me as I approach.
He’s dressed in a black button down and black pants, his expression tight and on guard, looking like the mafia don he is.
This is definitely business, not pleasure for him.
“Gentlemen, this is our resident doctor, Dr. Samantha Dal. Sam, this is Councilman Chuck Carson from District four and his associate Burton Ross.”
We exchange pleasantries, and then I greet Rocco and Gunnar.
Gunnar’s the only one without a drink in his hand. His six-five frame gives him an advantage as he scans the crowd. I wonder if they’re expecting trouble or if he’s just doing his normal mafia enforcer shit.
“Grab a drink, Doc,” Rocco says. His smile is warm and sexy nestled in heavy stubble, gray eyes glittering. “There’s a few warmup fights before the main event.”
My gaze drifts to the boxing ring and then back to Rocco. “Who’s the main event?”
He watches me closely as he says, “Killian and The Punisher.”
I freeze. Killian. Yep, definitely going to need a drink. I haven’t seen him since that day in the warehouse. I’m sure he’s not going to be happy to see me here. Will he even let me touch him? Doubtful. He’d probably rather go home bleeding than get help from me.
I straighten my shoulders. Well, the feeling’s mutual. I don’t want to see him either, not after witnessing him gutting a human being like a trout.
The way Rocco and Sandro are watching me, I know news has spread about the warehouse incident and my reaction. “Excuse me.”
I find the bar, order a gin and tonic, then grab a spot in the corner to people watch.
The men are dressed casually, but still in expensive clothes, shiny watches, and dripping with self-importance.
The women are sheathed in revealing, sleek or glittery dresses like a second skin.
Lots of cleavage and tanned, Pilates-toned legs on display.
This place reeks of sex, violence and money.
I’m halfway through my drink when the first fighters enter the caged ring to cheers and jeers.
The crowd presses in closer as the two men taunt each other.
The referee goes through a dramatic introduction as the fighters bounce around, giving the audience a show. Then he signals for the fight to begin.
I find myself drifting out of the corner, trying to get a better view. I’ve never seen a live fight before. It’s a brutal, animalistic display of human power and endurance and I’m fascinated. Probably because I’m seeing men bleed willingly for a change.
The man in the red trunks, Callahan, has about thirty pounds on the other fighter called Nunez, and it shows when they stand toe-to-toe in the seventh round, trading blows.
I sigh as the ref lets the beating go on longer than it should. Nunez flies backward from an uppercut. The crowd roars as the ref holds up Callahan’s arm in victory.
An unconscious Nunez is lifted beneath his armpits and dragged out of the ring to jeers.
I set down my empty glass and follow them. Time to go to work.
I follow the two burly men as they drag Nunez into a locker room and then into a smaller room to the right, where a cot has been set up beside storage boxes. They drop him onto the cot like a sack of potatoes.
“All yours, Doc.”
I nod and unzip my bag on the concrete floor. I check his breathing and his pulse then maneuver him onto his side in case there’s any vomiting.
Then I tap his shoulder and jaw. “Nunez, can you hear me?”
No response. I remove his boxing gloves then disinfect a large gash on his browbone and apply butterfly stitches. There’s not much else I can do here, except make sure he wakes up and doesn’t have any signs of serious head trauma that would need to be treated in the ER.
I shake his shoulder lightly. “Hey, Nunez, can you open your eyes for me?”
After a few minutes, the man stirs and groans. “What happened? Did I win?”
Shaking my head, I shine a penlight into his eyes to check his pupils. “Can you tell me what day it is.”
He groans as he shifts on the cot. His dark hair is slick with sweat. “Saturday.”
I palpitate his ribcage. He winces, but I don’t feel anything broken. “And your full name and birthday.”
He rattles it off, trying to sit up.
I push him gently back down. “Why don’t you just take it easy for a few minutes and let me monitor you. Make sure there’s no serious trauma.”
“Shit.” He rolls over and throws a thick, sweaty forearm over his eyes. “Can’t believe I dropped my hands like that. Idiot.”
“You made it seven rounds with a guy a lot bigger than you. It was a good fight.” I don’t know why I’m trying to comfort an underground fighter, but here we are. I don’t like to see anyone beat themselves up.
He chuckles but it’s dark and unamused. “Can’t patch up the hit my ego took on this one.”
Beyond the outside wall comes muffled cheering. The next fight must be starting.
I stay with Nunez until he’s stable enough to sit up and sip a bottled water. Then I head back out to watch the next fight, which is in its fourth round.
Both fighters have swollen eyes and blood trickling from gashes in their face. It’s a more even match and more brutal. The fight gets even dirtier after the ref turns a blind eye to thrown elbows and hits below the belt.
The atmosphere has changed. Along with the alcohol-fueled excitement there is now a darker emotion. Bloodlust. I feel it permeating the space like fog, hanging in the air along with the sharp, coppery scent of blood and sweat beneath expensive cologne.
A quick glance at the faces around me, at the shining, feral eyes locked on the two men beating each other to a pulp, the jeering voices demanding harder hits, and I back myself up against the wall. This feels like it could turn into chaos at any moment.
What’s going to happen when the main fighters step into the ring?