9. Alex
ALEX
The underground fight club is packed tonight, which means money is flowing and deals are being made in the shadows between rounds. I stand on the private balcony overlooking the ring, watching the crowd more than the fighters.
Down below, two men are beating the shit out of each other while wealthy businessmen in expensive suits shout encouragement and wave fistfuls of cash.
Local politicians stand shoulder to shoulder with known criminals, all of them united by their love of violence and their willingness to gamble on it.
This is why I opened the club ten years ago. Not for the money, though there's plenty of that.
Not even for the fights themselves, though I enjoy watching skilled fighters work. I opened it because places like this reveal people's true nature.
When men think they're anonymous in the dark, when they're drunk on adrenaline and the thrill of watching blood spill, they show you who they really are.
They make deals they wouldn't make in boardrooms.
They reveal weaknesses they'd never admit to in daylight. And they test loyalties and forge alliances based on shared appetites for violence.
I've learned more about the people in this city from watching them at my fight club than I ever could from surveillance or interrogation. A man who cheers when a fighter breaks his opponent's arm is a man who enjoys cruelty.
A man who turns away is a man with limits.
A man who bets everything on the underdog is either desperate or stupid, and both qualities are useful to know.
The current fight ends with a brutal knockout, and the crowd roars its approval.
Money changes hands rapidly as bets are settled and new ones are placed.
I watch a city councilman slip an envelope to one of my captains, payment for some favor or another.
I watch a rival family's lieutenant lose badly on a bet and immediately start negotiating with one of my men for a loan. Information, leverage, and opportunity. It's all here if you know how to look for it.
The truth is, I'm a very good fighter myself. I've trained in multiple disciplines over the years—boxing, Muay Thai, Brazilian jiu-jitsu, Krav Maga. I can handle myself in any situation, and I've proven it more times than I can count.
But I'm also a man who values control above almost everything else, and that means I can't afford to lose my temper or let my emotions dictate my actions.
The fight club gives me an outlet when I need one.
When the pressure builds and the violence inside me demands release, I can step into that ring and let it out in a controlled environment where the rules are clear and the consequences are manageable.
Tonight, though, I'm content to watch.
The fights are good, the crowd is engaged, and everything is running smoothly.
My security team moves through the warehouse keeping order without being obvious about it.
The bartenders keep the drinks flowing, and the bookies keep the bets organized. It's a well-oiled machine, and I'm proud of what I've built here.
Midway through the evening, one of the fighters loses badly.
He's a regular, a man in his thirties who thinks he's tougher than he actually is and bets more than he can afford to lose.
Tonight, he got his ass handed to him in under two minutes, and judging by the way he's staggering toward the bar, he's not taking it well.
I watch him order a drink, down it in one gulp, and order another. His face is already swelling from the beating he took, and there's blood crusted around his nose and mouth.
He's drunk, angry, and looking for someone to blame for his humiliation.
The bartender, a young guy who's worked for me for about six months, sets another drink in front of him and says something I can't hear from up here.
Whatever it is, it's the wrong thing to say. The fighter's face twists with rage and he lunges across the bar, grabbing the bartender by the front of his shirt.
I'm moving before I consciously decide to do so. I take the stairs down from the balcony two at a time, my focus narrowed to the situation unfolding at the bar.
The crowd parts for me automatically, sensing the shift in atmosphere. By the time I reach the bar, the fighter has the bartender halfway across the counter and is pulling back his fist for a punch.
I catch his wrist mid-swing and twist, applying just enough pressure to make him gasp and release the bartender.
Then I spin him around to face me, keeping his arm locked behind his back in a position that would be agonizing if I applied any more force.
"You're done here," I say quietly, my voice carrying despite the noise around us. "You lost your fight. You lost your money. Now you're going to lose your membership if you don't walk out of here right fucking now."
He tries to struggle, which is a mistake. I apply more pressure to his arm, and he cries out, his knees buckling.
The entire warehouse has gone silent now, everyone watching to see how this plays out.
This is the moment that matters.
This is when I remind everyone here that this is my club, my rules, and my consequences for breaking them.
"I said you're done," I repeat, my tone harder now. "You can walk out on your own, or my men can drag you out bleeding. Your choice."
He makes the wrong choice.
He tries to throw an elbow back at my face, which tells me he's too drunk and too stupid to understand the situation he's in.
I don't give him a second chance. I sweep his legs out from under him and drive him face-first into the floor, my knee in his back and his arm still locked in a position that would break if I applied just a little more force.
Blood spreads across the concrete from where his face hit, and he's making choking sounds that suggest I might have broken his nose. I lean down close to his ear, making sure my voice is loud enough for the people nearby to hear.
"You ever come back here, you ever threaten one of my people again, and I'll make sure you leave in pieces. Understand?"
He nods frantically, and I release him, standing up and gesturing to my security team. Two of them move in immediately, hauling the bleeding man to his feet and dragging him toward the exit. He doesn't resist this time, too dazed and hurt to do anything but stumble along between them.
The silence in the warehouse is absolute.
Everyone is watching me, waiting to see what I'll do next.
This is the part I don't particularly enjoy, the public display of dominance, but it's necessary.
Fear is a tool like any other, and sometimes you need to remind people why they should be afraid of you.
I turn to face the crowd, my expression calm and controlled despite the adrenaline still pumping through my system. "Anyone else want to test the rules tonight?" I ask, my voice carrying across the space. "No? Good. Then let's get back to the fights."
The tension breaks, and the noise level gradually returns to normal as people turn back to their conversations and their bets.
The next fight is announced, and the crowd's attention shifts to the ring.
I make my way back to the balcony, nodding to the bartender as I pass.
He looks shaken but grateful, and I make a mental note to check on him later.
By the time the evening winds down, I'm ready to leave. The fights have been good, the money has been counted, and order has been maintained.
I've done what I needed to do here.
Now I need to check on my other businesses, make sure everything is running smoothly across the board.
I head to the Ivory Wolf around eleven, expecting to find the usual Saturday night crowd and nothing out of the ordinary.
I make my way through the crowd, nodding to a few regulars who recognize me, and head toward the bar to check in with the manager.
And then I spot Russ up at the bar, talking to Sharon, the bartender and Marla's friend.
I stop, my instincts immediately on alert. Russ doesn't come to the Ivory Wolf often, and when he does, it's usually for business meetings in the back office. He certainly doesn't sit at the bar chatting with bartenders.
I watch them for a moment, staying back far enough that Russ won't immediately notice me.
Sharon looks nervous, her body language tense and defensive.
Russ looks intent, like he's asking questions and not getting the answers he wants.
After a few minutes, I see Sharon gesture vaguely and then move away to serve another customer, clearly uncomfortable with whatever conversation they were having.
I make my way over, sliding onto the barstool next to Russ with a casual ease that belies the curiosity burning in my mind. "Russ," I say, keeping my tone light. "Didn't expect to see you here tonight."
He turns to look at me, and I catch the flash of irritation in his eyes before he masks it with a neutral expression. "Could say the same about you," he replies, his voice carefully controlled.
Russ finishes his drink and stands up. "I should get going," he says, his tone making it clear he's done with this conversation. "I'll see you around." He leaves without another word, and I watch him go, my mind already working through the implications of what I just witnessed.
Russ was asking Sharon about something. Or someone. And given that Sharon was Marla's friend, it's not hard to figure out who Russ was asking about.
He's interested in her. More than interested, if he's willing to come here and question her friend in public.
That's a level of investment that goes beyond casual curiosity, beyond the kind of interest you'd have in a one-night stand you're trying to forget about.
This complicates things significantly.
Because I can't get Marla out of my mind either, and if Russ is feeling the same way...
I wait several minutes after Russ leaves, giving him time to get to his car and pull out of the parking lot.
Then I make my way outside, moving casually so as not to draw attention.
The night air is cool, a relief after the heat and noise of the club. I scan the parking lot and spot Russ's black SUV pulling out onto the street.
I watch which direction he turns, and my suspicion deepens. He's not heading toward the city center, where his penthouse is located.
He's not heading toward any of the warehouses or businesses we operate.
He's heading toward the highway that leads out of town, toward the woods and the scattered properties that dot the countryside beyond the city limits.
Why would Russ be heading out of town at this time of night? What's out there that would draw his attention?
The answer comes to me immediately, and I feel a cold certainty settle in my chest.
Marla's cottage. Sharon mentioned she lives outside of town, in the woods. And Russ is heading in that direction.
I get into my car, my mind already racing. If Russ is going to see Marla, that changes the dynamic between the three of us significantly.
It means he's not willing to let this go, not willing to treat her as a potential threat or a complication to be avoided.
It means he's pursuing her, and that makes her more than just a woman who happened to sleep with all three of us.
I start the engine and pull out of the parking lot, keeping my distance but maintaining visual contact with Russ's taillights ahead of me.