12. Something Real #3
I stilled the bag with one gloved hand and looked over my shoulder.
Two men stood inside the private gym entrance, both young, both built like they spent more time posing shirtless than learning how not to get knocked out.
One had bleached hair and tape already wrapped around his wrists.
The other wore a compression shirt with a gym logo I recognized from Jax's circle.
A third man lingered near the dumbbell racks, phone held chest-high, angling it like he was filming himself in the mirror.
The door behind them required a keycard.
Mine tightened in my fist.
"Gym's closed," I said.
Bleach Hair grinned. "Didn't look closed."
"It is to you."
Compression Shirt drifted closer, rolling his shoulders. "Relax. We're just fans."
The man with the phone shifted two steps left, catching my reflection and theirs in the mirror.
Fans didn't move like that.
I pulled one glove loose with my teeth. "Leave."
Bleach Hair laughed. "Jax said you were intense. Didn't say you were scared."
There it was. Jax.
The obvious arrow. Too obvious, maybe, but my temper didn't care about maybe at five in the morning. I turned back to the bag and stripped off my other glove. "Tell Jax to send better errand boys."
"Ouch." Compression Shirt slapped a hand over his chest. "Hear that? He's still got jokes."
The phone followed me as I moved to the bench. I ignored it. Ignored them. Unwrapped my right hand, slow and deliberate, because control had to start somewhere.
"You don't want a little round?" Bleach Hair asked. "Or is that what happens when legends get domesticated?"
I kept unwinding tape.
Compression Shirt came closer. "Big bad Luca Santoro. Resort daddy now. Private chef. Nanny. Little family routine." His smile sharpened. "Must be nice being caged in luxury."
My fingers stopped for half a second. Then kept moving.
"Last warning," I said. "Walk out."
"Warning?" Bleach Hair glanced at the phone like he wanted to make sure it caught the word. "Sounds serious."
The guy filming had stopped pretending to record himself. The phone was trained fully on me now, low enough for a brutal angle, high enough to catch my face.
I stood and tossed the wrap onto the bench.
"You have ten seconds before security removes you."
I reached for the wall panel beside the door. Compression Shirt stepped between me and the alarm button.
I shifted right. He shifted with me.
That was when irritation hardened into certainty. They didn't want a round. They wanted footage of me forcing my way through them.
Bleach Hair's voice dropped, smooth and ugly. "Guess there's nobody left to keep the Wolf on his leash." He spread his arms, grin widening. "Come on, legend. Come out and play."
The gym went silent. No chain. No air-conditioning hum. No ocean beyond the glass.
He hadn't said Zoe's name. He hadn't needed to. He'd dragged her into the room anyway and put his filthy hands all over her memory.
I turned slowly.
My body remembered ten thousand violent answers. My hands remembered bone and leverage and the clean math of ending a threat. For one second, all of it rose hot behind my eyes.
But I didn't move toward him. I only pointed at the door.
"Get out," I said, low enough that even I barely recognized my voice.
Bleach Hair's smile flickered, not with fear, but with satisfaction.
Compression Shirt shoved two fingers into my chest. "Make us."
I looked down at his hand.
"Don't touch me."
He shoved me again, harder this time, palm cracking against my sternum. "Or what? You gonna cry for your dead wi?—"
My body moved before the last word landed.
I caught his wrist, stepped across his body, and folded the arm behind him. His own momentum carried him off balance. One turn of my hips, one controlled sweep, and he hit the mat facedown with the breath knocked out of him.
I followed him down, trapping his wrist against his spine and planting one knee beside his shoulder. Fast. Clean. Over.
He cursed, cheek pressed to vinyl. I held him there, knee between his shoulder blades, breathing hard enough to feel animal.
"Say one more fucking word about my wife," I warned, "and you'll learn exactly how much damage I'm choosing not to do."
The phone hovered inches from my face. Raised. Recording every breath.
Bleach Hair had backed away. Not surprised. Not rushing to help his friend. Watching the screen.
I released the pin and stood at once, hands open, chest heaving. The guy with the phone was already moving for the door, thumb flying over the screen.
"Hey," I snapped.
His eyes flicked up. Too late, I understood. Not random. Not fans. Not even Jax running his mouth for fun. They had known where I'd be. Known the gym would be empty. Known exactly which wound to press and where to stand when I bled.
The door swung open behind them.
Donny stepped in and stopped cold. His gaze swept over the fighter groaning on the mat, the second man backing toward the exit, the phone still raised, and me standing over all of it exactly as they had wanted me to look.
His face hardened.
"Nobody leaves," he snapped. Then his eyes locked on the phone. "And you'd better pray that isn't live."
The man holding it smiled.
"Too late."
Something in Donny's expression changed. Not surprise. Recognition.
"Luca," he said, already reaching for his own phone. "This wasn't a fight. It was a setup."