Chapter 23 Sandro
SANDRO
The crowd roars, the sound a living thing—raw, guttural, vibrating through the concrete walls of the underground pit.
I taste iron in my mouth, blood or adrenaline, probably both.
The man across from me spits red onto the mat and wipes his lips with the back of his hand.
I can see in his eyes he’s done, even before the next bell rings.
I roll my shoulders, waiting for the ref to bark his count, and when he doesn’t, I end it myself. One right hook to the jaw, clean and final. The man hits the ground like a bag of cement.
The crowd erupts.
Money changes hands. Someone calls my name. “Chiaroscuro! That’s how it’s done!”
I don’t hear the rest. I’m already ducking out through the side door, sweat slicking my back, knuckles raw beneath the wraps.
The Irish have been watching tonight. They always do when Raf tells me to make an impression.
And after the past few weeks, I’ve gotten good at gauging which of them might be willing to talk.
“Conroy was there again,” Raf says when I meet him outside by the alleyway. He’s leaning against the hood of the car, collar turned up against the cool night air that whispers of coming fall. “You see him?”
I nod, rubbing the towel over my face. “Front row. Didn’t blink through the whole fight.”
“He’s one of Murray’s men,” Raf mutters, voice hard. “Last I heard, he’s not happy with how the alliance with the Tanakas is going.”
“Rumors,” I say, tossing the towel into the back seat. “The Irish talk a lot when they’re drunk. Doesn’t mean they’ll make a move.”
Raf gives me a look. “Maybe not. But it’s the first crack we’ve seen since Miko’s wedding. I’m not letting it go.”
We drive in silence for a while, the hum of the city outside mixing with the quiet churn of my thoughts. My knuckles throb, a dull pulse that matches the rhythm of the streetlights flashing across the windshield.
Raf breaks the quiet. “I need you to fight again tomorrow night. Word is, O’Shea’s crew might show. They’ve agreed to talk to me, and I need an excuse to be there.”
Dark satisfaction curves my lips. “I always love a good reason to fight.”
He smirks, the first ghost of humor I’ve seen from him in days. “Since when did you need an excuse? I think that wife of yours might be starting to get under your skin.”
You have no idea. But I don’t say as much, because I’m trying my absolute damnedest not to let my feelings for Evi get in the way of what needs to be done.
When I get home, the house is dark except for the lights that guide me to our room.
Evi’s still awake, curled over some blueprints with her thick chestnut waves falling loose around her face, light flickering off her wedding band.
She looks up when I walk in, her expression shifting instantly from concentration to relief, then chagrin.
“You’re hurt again.”
“It’s nothing,” I mutter, dropping onto the bed beside her. “Guy caught me in the ribs, that’s all.”
She rises, fetching the first aid kit like she’s been expecting this. Maybe she has. Lately, it’s become our routine—me getting bruised, her staying up to fix what’s left of me.
“Sit still,” she murmurs, crouching in front of me. The antiseptic stings as she dabs it over a cut along my brow I didn’t even know I had, and I flinch despite myself.
She smiles faintly. “You always pretend you don’t feel it, but you do.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Her touch is gentle, precise. There’s something about the way she focuses on every cut and bruise that makes me forget where I am for a second.
She’s taken charge of this house like she was born to—contractors coming in and out, staff running on her schedule, even Raf’s starting to defer to her when it comes to logistics.
And through it all, she smiles. Warm. Unshakable. Like the decay of this mansion doesn’t bother her. Like she can’t see the rot and the ruin that haunts this family.
“You’ve got paint on your arm,” I say, brushing my thumb along the cream-colored smudge just below her elbow.
She glances down, sheepish. “We started in the dining room today. The east wing’s still too damaged to touch, but I thought we could at least make a few intact rooms look decent.”
I grunt approvingly. “Good.”
Her brows lift. “That’s it? Just good?”
I can’t help a smirk. “Fine. It’s great. You’re doing great.”
That earns me a smile—the real kind, soft and bright enough to make my chest ache.
When she finishes patching me up, she brushes her fingers across my knuckles, bandaged and raw. “You don’t have to keep doing this, you know.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“For Raf?”
“For all of us.”
She studies me for a long moment, like she wants to say something else but decides against it. Instead, she leans in to press a kiss to my cheek. “Then at least let me keep you in one piece while you do.”
The pit smells like sweat and cheap whiskey as soon as I step into the ring once again. And the din of the crowd’s voices reverberating against the cement walls makes my ears ring.
Raf’s already talking with a few of the Irish in the corner.
They watch me like hawks, faces sharp under the dim lights.
I recognize a couple of them—O’Shea’s men, just like Raf said.
Their family is loyal to the Murrays, but they’ve been known to branch out and do some mercenary work on occasion—with the Murrays’ blessing.
Dragging my attention away from Raf’s negotiations, I focus on the fight ahead.
My opponent’s bigger tonight, slower too.
The kind that tries to make up for lack of skill with brute force.
The bell rings, and we come together, circling each other at the pit’s center.
I let him swing wide, let the crowd get restless as I hesitate, dancing back.
Then I move in.
When I do, it’s with precision—fists landing with the kind of rhythm I’ve learned to trust.
Every punch burns, but it’s a clean fire. Controlled. Necessary.
My opponent doesn’t stand a chance. And while he puts up a good fight, landing a few stunning blows that knock the air from my lungs, he’s just too big and hulking. I take him out in record time, his body like a tree as it meets the sand, making the ground beneath me shake.
And as the ref steps forward to raise my hand, the crowd chants my name.
Without a word, I wipe the blood from my lip and glance toward the back wall. O’Shea’s man gives me a nod. That’s something. Maybe not loyalty, but acknowledgment. Respect.
Raf catches up with me after, as I wipe sweat from my face and shrug into a sweatshirt.
“We got their attention tonight,” he says. “And I think Conroy’s starting to come around.”
“They’ll follow the Murrays,” I say. “Always have.”
“Maybe not for long,” Raf mutters. “Word from our contact is that the Murrays and Tanakas are having it out behind closed doors. Apparently, they’re still squabbling over the territory they think they were owed.
If we play this right, we might be able to pull the Irish in once that fracture splits. ”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then we keep trying,” he says grimly. “Because if we don’t get allies soon, we’ll never rebuild the empire Father left us.”
He’s right. We can’t back down now. Not until the job is done. Not until our command goes without question and I can be sure my family is safe—Evi’s safe.
“We’ll need to move fast if Conroy really is turning. If the Murrays crack, I want him ready to rally whoever he can. But until then…” He glances toward me. “I need you to keep showing up. Keep fighting. The Irish respect blood more than words.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I’ve noticed.”
When we finally make it back to the mansion, it’s well past midnight. And still, she’s waiting for me. Always waiting.
Her expression softens when she sees us both. “You’re back late.”
Raf pours himself a drink and sinks into the nearest chair in the freshly renovated sitting room. “Good reason for it too. We might have a lead on Conroy. He’s getting restless.”
“That’s good, right?” she asks.
“It’s a start.”
She nods, clearly trying to stay upbeat even as her eyes flick toward me, scanning for injuries. “You look worse than last night.”
I give her a faint grin. “You should see the other guy.”
That earns me a tiny glare before she sighs and disappears to get the first aid kit.
Raf chuckles, the sound rough and low. “She’s definitely gotten underneath your skin.”
I scoff, but the noise is unconvincing, even to my ears. And when Evi steps back into the room a moment later, my eyes find and follow her like a homing device.
“Well.” Raf says, tossing back the rest of his drink. “I’ll leave my brother in your capable hands, Evi. Try not to let him off the hook too easy tonight.”
Her cheeks pinken, but she doesn’t reply as Raf stalks from the room. She just tends to me again—dabbing antiseptic across my split knuckles, wrapping my hands, muttering something about how I’m going to ruin my joints before I’m thirty-five.
The house grows quiet as Evi finishes the last of my bandaging, and her eyes linger on my bruised knuckles before lifting to my face. “I hate that you have to fight.”
There’s something in her voice that makes me pause. The concern. The softness. Nobody’s looked at me that way before. Like it hurts her to see me damaged. And it makes my heart clench.
“It’s what I’m good at,” I tell her finally.
She shakes her head. “You’re good at so much more than this, Sandro. You just don’t see it.”
I huff out a laugh. “And you do?”
Her smile is small, but certain. “I do.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t.
I just watch her as she leans forward to press a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth.
It’s meant to be gentle, comforting, but something in me shifts at the touch, at the way she carefully avoids my split lip so she won’t cause unnecessary pain—even if I want it.
She pulls back, eyes searching mine. “You should rest.”
“You’ll come with me,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her lips curve in the faintest smile. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”