PROLOGUE - ELIANO
How do you make a fight look like you are trying hard to win while still losing? Well, I have had years to practice that, and I have that part down pretty well by now.
A feint, a strike, a low kick.
Gabriel slips off the line. I try a flying knee. It does not land, I make sure of it. He counters and misses. The blow slides from my jaw down to my shoulder, but not enough to rattle me. I back up against the cage wall, reassessing the situation.
Again. A flurry of punches, and I leave myself open. It could pass as getting carried away in the heat of the fight. But that is not what it is. Gabriel takes advantage and throws another punch.
Except it is weak. Too weak. Maybe he did not expect my textbook mistake?
Ugh, I hate all this pretending!
It is not that I fake losing one-hundred percent.
I know very well that if I lose completely, my uncle, Anzo, will catch on to the plan Ennio worked out for me. A game of appearances.
Another feint, a pretend dodge. I bait him and leave myself open again.
Damn it. Gabriel still does not take it!
Come on, man. One of these moments you have to hit me properly so I can finally go down.
Anzo has to see it with his own eyes, has to believe that I am not talented enough, that I need more training, more sparring, and the gaps between my fights get longer. That plan has worked for years. The sixth year of this charade has already started for me.
My opponent tonight is a title contender in my weight class, Gabriel Nolan, my age.
Gabriel is doing great in the rankings. He is insanely fast, and his ability to avoid punches borders on the supernatural. Strangely enough, his legendary speed does not show up tonight.
I sway lightly from side to side and fake a spinning kick, but I make it slow on purpose. Gabriel should not be able to ignore an opening like that, and yet I cannot believe it. He does not take it! He does not catch my leg.
What is going on with him tonight?
Why is he so off? I am handing him every possible opportunity to beat me on a silver platter.
Then I play again, throwing a combination, jab, cross, finishing with a sloppy low kick. I do not kick at full power. I have no desire to smash bone against bone. That takes forever to heal.
To my surprise, my shin sinks into his thigh. What the hell? That kick was visible from a mile away. A fighter like Gabriel should have blocked it without effort.
I catch a brief grimace of pain on his face.
He counters with a wide haymaker, the kind of technique you’d see in a redneck bar brawl.
It is so bizarre for someone of his level!
Fine, I will gladly eat that punch. Bring it on.
He hits my cheek, but so weakly that if I went down from it, everyone would know the fight was thrown. Anzo most of all.
I glance toward the VIP box.
Rocco and Anzo are watching from there, but between the sweat and the glare of the lights around the cage, I can barely make them out.
The pattern always looks the same. I lose, then I train for a few months. Then I get another fight. Usually I have to win the first one, sometimes even the second, but then I drop two or three in a row.
And Anzo loses interest, disappointed in me.
Sometimes I even get half a year of peace! That is how Ennio designed it for me, and I am grateful. It is simply a lesser evil.
And right now I am in one of the fights I am supposed to lose, because I won the previous two.
But Gabriel refuses to let me lose.
The bastard won’t take advantage of my distraction.
What is this supposed to be? Are we both trying to tank this? I have seen Gabriel fight. I know what he is capable of.
Screw it! I go all in. I start windmilling and rush him with a combination, like a total amateur. Shoulders low, chin high, an easy target. Let it look like his punch enraged me. I have done that plenty of times in my lost fights, so it will not hurt my reputation.
My punches have almost no power. My arms swing on momentum alone. There’s no snap, no intent. If I go down from a punch now, no one will question it. I’ll have just run into it, and my own overt enthusiasm will do the rest.
And yet, somehow, my pathetic charge pushes Gabriel back into the cage fence. He covers up with a double guard, but poorly. My punches thud into his forearms until one finally slips through near his jaw.
I clip him with my thumb, weakening the blow even further. And suddenly… the bastard goes down, not without obvious theatrics!
What the fuck?
The show is for the crowd, not for me. He slides down the fence in slow motion and collapses, limp.
I stare, gaping in disbelief, as he hits the mat.
That punch was barely a committed hook, more of a feint, yet Gabriel dropped like a sack of potatoes. I curse under my breath, but I cannot show disappointment. So I raise my fists, putting on a confident face.
Sweat runs down my forehead, stinging my eyes with its salt.
I can barely make out the blurred shape of my trainer, Gurco, waving a towel.
Of course, he’s celebrating. He doesn’t know the plan; he trains all my brothers, and not all of them can be trusted.
Only Ennio, Mauro, and my sparring partner know about it.
My older brothers, Rocco and Luka, have no idea I am doing everything I can to get out of this cursed cage fighter life.
I circle Gabriel’s motionless body as the referee leans over him, spreading his hands in a gesture that says the fight is over. Then he grabs my arm and raises it. My last name flashes on the board as the winner.
Looking at it, I feel something inside me crack. I just beat a title contender, which instantly boosts my standing and pushes me up the rankings and into the grinder of future fights.
And the fight for the championship belt in my weight class is now just around the corner.
To hell with all of it.
What went wrong? Why did Gabriel go down?
To the roar of an overheated crowd, I step out of the cage, fists still raised like I am ecstatic about it. I wave at the rows of screaming faces, but I barely see them. Anger and disappointment drown everything else out.
I push through the crowd backstage, leaving Gurco behind, moving past dozens of hands reaching out to me. I give high fives and exchange handshakes, my smile as false as a mask, teeth dry and bared, and inside there is nothing but anger.
Finally, I reach our locker room. I am hoping Ennio will be there. I really need to talk to him about what went wrong and adjust the plan.
To my shock, the one waiting for me is my oldest brother and Anzo’s right hand.
Rocco.
The moment he sees me walking in, he strides over and slams me into the door with a hard shove.
"What the fuck?" I growl, trying to push him off, but Rocco is a champion in a heavier weight class than mine, and he has no intention of moving.
"You think you can just dodge a title fight by faking it like that, you little shit?" he hisses in my face, his sour breath making me recoil. "The Ferros are not soft bitches who settle for fifth or sixth place. You get the championship belt, or Anzo will light you up with high voltage."
I clench my teeth in fury. Electric shock is how we are all punished for our failures. Each of us has metal rods embedded in our bodies, delivering jolts whenever Anzo decides we are not good enough, loyal enough, or obedient enough members of the Ferro family.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about. I won, didn’t I? Isn’t that what you wanted? I’m on the damn road to the championship," I shoot back in the tone of an innocent kid wounded in his pride.
I cannot trust Rocco. He is like a rabid dog, loyal to Anzo, and on top of that he’s a sadist, a psycho, the worst of all my brothers. There is something feral in him, and the only way to make him pull his fangs back in is to show obedience.
He tilts his head.
"Surprised that pathetic little fake fight you put on actually worked, huh?" He slaps my cheeks with both hands until my ears ring and I curse. "I paid Gabriel a nice chunk of money to give up on winning this year. The timing was perfect. He has some trouble with the law. Who knows if he’ll even come back to fighting. And maybe that’s for the best, because the bastard is damn good." Another sharp smack to my cheek. "And you? Thanks to this, you’re getting a title fight at the end of September. You’d better get ready. You’re going to win it.
Because Mike Tartona can’t be bought. Not a chance. "
I clench my jaw so hard I feel the muscles throb. Finally I shove Rocco away, this time successfully.
"Get off my case, Rocco," I hiss, storming out of the locker room and spitting on the floor.
Of course, two of our soldati are already waiting outside. Right. I never go anywhere alone. Those bastards are always glued to me, a constant tail making sure I never get the idea to bolt from this cursed family.
Well, I did it in the past a few times, but they always caught me, and I was left with my back covered in whip scars.
I walk down the corridor, passing a few members of the staff, drifting toward the other fighters’ locker rooms, when I catch sight of Ennio in a side hallway, talking to Gabriel in a low voice.
He looks like he’s explaining something, pressing his point. I walk over.
Ennio turns, raises his eyebrows, then flicks his fingers, sending my two guards back far enough that they can’t hear us.
Perfect. It’s good I ran into them. I’ve got someone to unleash my adrenaline on, and it’s pumping!
I look at Gabriel, and it makes my blood boil, because his greed means nothing but trouble for me.
"You threw the fight, you bastard! You were supposed to win it, not me."
Gabriel’s red face twists into a crooked smile.
"Sorry, but I desperately need cash. A lot of it. I got myself into trouble. The cops are going to knock on my door any day now. I’m going to need a good lawyer. The best."
I lean in, hissing right into his face. "I don’t give a damn about your problems!" And I shove him lightly.
Ennio grabs my arm.
"Calm down, Eliano. Rocco got to him this morning and pushed hard. Anzo and Rocco won’t let this go anyway. One of these years, you are going for the middleweight championship. If you take it even once, maybe then they’ll agree to let you retire."
"I don’t want a title fight! Don’t want the belt," I groan through clenched teeth.
Gabriel, leaning against the wall, watches me with a grim expression.
"Relax. You only have Mike Tartona left to beat. I’m disappearing. I’ll probably get a few years for what I got mixed up in. So things will be easier for you," he adds cynically.
That sounds too good to be true.
"What did you do?" I ask.
Gabriel shrugs. "A group of us set fire to a Malden Pharmaceuticals lab. Turned out there were a few cleaning crew guys inside. We ran, but there’s camera footage. They’ll find us, if not today then tomorrow."
"That’s what happens when you get involved with fucked-up people," I mutter.
Gabriel had a choice, so I don’t feel sorry for him. I didn’t have a choice. I was born into a group of fucked-up people.
Gabriel’s expression darkens even more. He lowers his head.
Then, suddenly, he holds out his hand.
"Well, anyway. Take care, Eliano. And thanks for all the fights we had. You’ve got real talent for this, even if you hate it. I’m the poser here. The fake."
I snort. "What, you? A poser? That false modesty doesn’t suit you. You’re the fastest and the best in the entire middleweight division."
Gabriel shakes his head sadly, but doesn’t explain what he means. He just pats my shoulder and says, "Good luck, Eliano. I’ll be rooting for you from afar. Probably from behind bars," he adds with a sour smile, then turns and walks away with his head bowed.
I’m left alone in the hallway with Ennio, and let out a long breath.
"I’m fucked up. Completely screwed."
He places his hands on my shoulders and says, "This could really be your chance, Eliano. Try to see it as a blessing. In September, you’ll take only one title fight with Mike.
After that, we’ll fake an injury, but Rocco and Anzo will have their fix.
Every Ferro has to win a championship at least once.
You know they see it as part of the family’s strength. "
"At least once?" I sigh. "Do you seriously think that’ll be enough? You were champion for five years straight in the omega division. Mauro’s been champion three years in a row at light heavyweight. Rocco’s been champion for five in heavyweight.
And Luka’s in his fourth year at super heavyweight.
Do you really think they’ll let me go after one year? "
I shrug his hands off my shoulders and turn away. I don’t want to talk anymore.
"Thanks for the encouragement, but I can't see any way out of this shit," I say, throwing the words over my shoulder. "I’m going to be buried in it until I die."
Unhappy and furious, I walk off.
If I don’t find a way to escape this damn family, I’ll end up with a bullet in my head. One I put there myself.
I move down the corridor, and the two damn soldati immediately fall in step behind me, shadowing my every move.
They escort me to the parking lot where the Ferro limousine waits.
Anzo and Rocco are already inside, and I pull a scrap of fabric from my pocket and clamp it between my teeth. I know what will happen once I get in the car. And it does.
The moment I sit in front of Anzo, my body jerks from an electric shock, my punishment for not being good enough. As I spasm and shiver, the cold, narrowed eyes of Rocco study me with a sadistic grin.
Finally, my body relaxes and slides down to the limousine floor. I wish I could escape, disappear, become nobody, be free.
Be normal!
But no one leaves this family without the capo’s permission. It would take a miracle, and I don’t believe in miracles.