“Cage?” he echoes on a deadly soft chuckle. “Dante, I run theKennel.” He turns and jerks his head for me to follow.
I step forward. I know that my expression reveals nothing when I stoop on one knee and toss the woman over my shoulder first. It’s an action that goes unmissed by no one, but with as light as she is, I can almost forget.
Almost. Her scent floods my skin, equally as potent as the drug seeping through hers. It’s not out of any kindness that I intervene in Mack’s plans for her. It is simple retribution. A man owned by no one had to keep his fucking promises, after all.
Regardless, the simple act of shouldering her body makes her a target. A pretty little bone caught in the jaws of a rival dog. No man can ignore her scent. Mack won’t ignore my claim.
I should have stayed in fucking prison. At least the invisible lines we bastards drew in the figurative sand were somewhat clear. In this domain, anything goes. It’s a familiar, if hostile, territory as I follow Mack across the barroom and through a door that opens onto a fenced-in yard. A few paces ahead is a small, level building that appears to be a shack at first glance. A man is guarding a metal door, chained with a padlock, for show of course. The real security comes in the form of at least twenty pit bulls all herded into individual pens just on the inside of the building. They bark and snarl, gnawing at the chain-link pinning them in.
Mack expanded cage-fighting todogfighting, it seems. He doesn’t comment on the animals as he leads the way past the kennels and into an open space with concrete walls and two other men posted on either side of a pair of heavy metal doors.
“Welcome to the Playhouse,” he says, flashing his teeth. “Ladies first.”
Ignoring the insult, I stalk forward with one hand pinning the girl in place. The other I brace against one of the doors and push it open. For a second, I’m almost glad I took the challenge and went first just so the bastard wouldn’t be able to see my face.
He’s emulated Dino down to the very last detail. It’s a setup almost comparable to the dog kennels in the other room but larger. A giant chain-link cage, shaped like an octagon, is in the center of the room. The floor is cement, coated with gray sand in the pit, making it easier to clean the gore and bloodstains after each fight. Around the cage is a rectangular placement of bleachers, at least twenty deep in every direction. On second thought, this isn’t like one of the old gambling dens Dino used to run out of a garage with maybe a few hundred spectators a fight at fifty bucks a head. The bastard’s built himself an arena.
“It’s nice, right?” he wonders, appearing at my left side. “Reminds you of the old days.”
I certainly don’t need a reminder of the “old days.” I still wear the scars. On the nights I feel like it, I still have the nightmares. More often than not...I still wish I could live them again.
“When?” I ask, my voice hard. Being here brings back the old, steady pulse I used to feel in my core right before a fight. Only then would the buzzing die off, like a wild animal that knew it would be sated soon. “When do we get this over with?”
“When?” Mack steps forward, raising his hands toward the gray ceiling—a gladiator in his colosseum. It’s only when he looks back at me that I see the true beast lurking underneath the human exterior. This man isn’t a gladiator. He’s the fucking lion sent in to crush the hopes of a mere mortal slave. “We do thisnow.”
He snaps his fingers and one of the men guarding the door appears, his posture erect like a soldier called to war in jeans and leather.
“Well, go rile up the masses,” Mack commands with a wave of his hand and a wink. He’s cocky again, the swagger returning in full force.
It’s not bravado that swells him this time though. It’s confidence. While I’ve been in prison, he’s been sharpening his claws and honing his skills. I have no doubt who the star attraction of this cage is.
If there is one thing Mack loves more than money, it’s the spotlight.
Within minutes, people start to trickle in, men and women, their expressions wary. At first, I assume that they must have followed us from the bar, but it seems there are more than that. They fill the seats, streaming past Mack and me; I can already sense bets being laid and stakes being raised. Whether he gets Stacatto’s woman or not, Mack will make a tidy profit from this event.
I intend to make him work for every goddamn penny.
After nearly ten minutes of waiting, I glance around at the corners of the room, anxious. Doors lead off at random intervals throughout the main arena—most likely to rooms where each fighter can warm up in private. My muscles tense, aching to do just that. I almost start to approach one, eager to find out for myself where they lead, when a voice rings out. Soft. Honeyed. A woman’s.
“Dan...Dante?”
I turn and don’t have time to catch the figure who throws her arms around what little of me she can.
“Oh my God! I thought you were in prison!” She pulls back, beaming. Five years did little to the petite blonde, who’s still sporting the same fiery smile that’s equal parts seductive and charming.
I wonder if she’s still “working” her old profession. The shit she’s wearing now supports that theory: tiny black shorts and a tight red top.
“Darcy.”
She looks good. Almost like the girl I left behind. Almost. But there’s a maturity in her gaze that wasn’t there before. She holds her head high, with a confidence that comes only with a position of power. Then I catch Mack staring at her ass and realize why.
“You’re with him,” I say. There’s no emotion in the observation. It’s just fact.
Darcy doesn’t answer. Her gray eyes flit up to the woman slung over my shoulder instead. Whatever questions she has, she knows better than to ask.
She sighs instead and forces her smile wider. “So, when did you get out?”
I shrug and trail my gaze from her over to Arno, who’s watching me with an expression even I can’t decipher. “About a week ago.”
