28. The Last Fight #2
My fingers flexed.
Riley's thumb moved against my palm. Once. A reminder, not a restraint.
Ava watching me in the kitchen flashed through my mind. Her small voice asking whether angry meant leaving. Riley telling me I was allowed to choose what happened next.
I drew air in through my nose. Held it. Let it out slowly.
Mercer's smile twitched. "What happened, champ? Afraid she'll see what you really are?"
"No." My voice came out steady. "I'm done letting men like you decide that for me."
His expression hardened.
I released Riley's hand and stepped around the bar, stopping close enough that he had to tip his head back.
"You built your career on people believing fear made them controllable," I said. "You found my worst memories, my daughter's vulnerability, Riley's reputation, and you mistook all of it for leverage."
Mercer's eyes dropped to my hands. They were open at my sides.
"You wanted violence because violence would bury the paper trail," I continued. "You wanted me arrested, Riley discredited, and every headline focused on the monster you could sell."
Riley came to stand beside me. Not behind me. Beside me.
"So here's what happens instead," I said. "You don't get my fists. You get my name, my voice, and every receipt attached to yours."
Mercer laughed, but there was no ease left in it. "You'll destroy the resort before breakfast."
"Maybe."
The word cost me more than hitting him would have.
I looked at Riley. She met my gaze without flinching.
"But if it survives," I said, turning back to Mercer, "it survives without me becoming you."
For the first time, his smile disappeared completely.
Riley rotated the laptop toward me.
"The investigator built a secure page," she said. "Documents, payment logs, audio clips. Everything is time-stamped and mirrored."
Mercer stared at the screen. "Publishing stolen financial records is a felony."
"Good thing they were obtained legally," Riley said. "Extortion, on the other hand, is still extortion."
I pulled out my phone and opened the resort's social account. My thumb hovered over the live button.
For years, cameras had meant performance: bright lights, walkout music, a crowd waiting for me to become the hardest version of myself.
This time, there was no cage to hide inside.
"You're really going to gamble your daughter's future on public sympathy?" Mercer asked.
"No." I propped the phone against Riley's laptop. "I'm gambling it on the truth."
Riley moved into frame beside me. Our shoulders touched.
I started the livestream.
The viewer count climbed before I spoke.
"My name is Luca Santoro. Tonight, I was given a deadline: sign a contract to return to professional fighting, or private photographs of my family would be released along with fabricated stories intended to damage the resort."
Mercer stepped toward us. "Turn that off."
I kept my eyes on the camera.
"The man behind the threat is Mercer Vale. The campaign included paid paparazzi surveillance, coordinated media leaks, and financial pressure funded through companies tied to Victor Raines' investment network."
Riley uploaded the first file. A link appeared beneath the stream.
"We're releasing the evidence now," she said. "Bank records, invoices, metadata, and recorded calls. Personal information involving a minor has been redacted."
Comments raced too fast to read. Mercer grabbed for the phone.
I caught his wrist. My grip was firm, nothing more. He looked down at my hand, then up at me, waiting for the moment he could use.
I let him go.
"Don't touch it again," I said.
A notification flashed across Riley's screen. Then another.
Jax had joined the livestream.
His face appeared in a split window, hair damp, gym behind him.
"I've seen enough," he said. "I was never contracted to fight Luca, and I'm not lending my name to a promotion built on blackmail."
Mercer swore under his breath.
Jax continued. "I will headline the opening fundraiser for the Santoro Youth Clinic instead. No pay-per-view. No manufactured feud. Every dollar goes to trauma-informed training and family support."
The comments exploded.
Riley looked at me, eyes bright with something stronger than relief. Mercer backed toward the bar as sirens rose faintly from the street below.
I faced the camera again.
"I spent too long believing strength meant hitting back," I said. "Tonight, it meant refusing to become useful to the people trying to hurt us."
Behind the phone, Mercer's face went gray.
For the next several minutes, Riley kept uploading files while I answered questions from reporters, resort employees, and people who had once paid to watch me bleed. Mercer said nothing. He only watched the viewer count climb.
Then the first knock landed hard enough to silence the room.
"Miami-Dade Police," a voice called. "Open the door."
Mercer looked at the service hallway. I moved between him and it.
"Don't," I said.
His laugh came thin. "You think this ends with handcuffs? By morning, your lenders will be gone, your contractors will walk, and every investor tied to Victor will freeze you out."
Riley closed the laptop but kept the livestream running on my phone. The viewer count had climbed into six figures.
Another knock.
Mercer's gaze flicked toward the contract, then the photographs scattered across the bar. For the first time, he looked less like a promoter and more like a man watching exits disappear.
I opened the door.
Two uniformed officers entered with a plainclothes detective behind them. Riley's investigator had forwarded the evidence before she arrived. The detective confirmed my name, then Mercer's, while one officer photographed the documents.
Mercer started talking fast.
"This is a contractual dispute. Santoro assaulted me. That woman accessed private accounts."
"That woman has a name," I said.
"And excellent records," Riley added.
The officer asked Mercer to turn around.
His eyes locked on me as the cuffs closed. "Victor will bury you."
Maybe he would. That was the part no livestream could solve.
Mercer was escorted past us, his cream jacket wrinkled, his threats reduced to echoes in the hallway. The detective stayed behind to collect our statements and secure the files.
On Riley's screen, the story had already outrun us.
PROTECTOR, NOT FIGHTER.
SANTORO EXPOSES BLACKMAIL LIVE.
JAX HALE BACKS YOUTH CLINIC.
The word hero appeared often enough to make my stomach turn.
Riley noticed.
"You don't have to believe them tonight," she said quietly.
"I'm not a hero."
"No." She squeezed my hand. "You're a man who had every reason to hit him and chose not to."
That felt harder to carry.
I ended the livestream and called Donny.
He answered before the first ring finished. "Ava's asleep. She didn't see anything. You two okay?"
I looked at Riley.
"Yeah," I said. "We're coming home."
After the call, the suite settled into an uneasy quiet. Police radios crackled near the door. Miami glittered beyond the glass as if nothing beneath it had changed.
Riley refreshed the page one more time. Mercer's name was everywhere. Victor's was beginning to appear beside it. But my phone stayed silent.
No calls from Victor. No threats. No last attempt to bargain his way out.
He had spent weeks making noise while he dismantled my life. Now that the truth was out, he had nothing to say, and that should have felt like winning.
Instead, I looked at Riley and wondered how much of the damage would still be waiting for us in the morning.