PROLOGUE
KINSLEY
I’ve always been drawnto recklessness. Tonight is no different.
Faceless, restless men surround me. Masks hide their manic expressions and salivating mouths. It’s like being in a fucked-up funhouse. Clowns and ghastly faces are everywhere I look. The energy in the air is a cocktail of rabid savagery and unrelenting greed. On the brink of climax, their desperate need to fall into its grasp escalates as they scream at the two fighters in the octagon cage.
My father is one of those fighters. He has no idea I followed him here and snuck into the illegal underground fight, as I do every time he fights.
Every few weeks, you can find me here.
Every few weeks, thousands of dollars slide through greedy hands.
Every few weeks, a fighter is dragged away, bloodied and bruised.
I was five when I started training to fight. Since then, my father has repeatedly said, “Never put yourself in a position where you have to fight for your life.”
The exact moment I know his words are the absolute truth is the second his opponent sends a hard strike to his temple, and my dad’s body crumples to the mat.My hands fly to my covered mouth as his words echo like a bass drum in my head. The constant thrumming of syllables reverberates with a fierce warning as the masked figure descends over his unmoving form. He lies on his back with his arms limp at his sides. As I stare at his body, willing him to get up, I’m terrified as hell that my dad didn’t take his own advice.
Blood splatters the dragon tattoo on his forearm. Unnecessarily, the fighter, who calls himself Python, pins my father’s wilted body to the ground. He looks up into the crowd, scanning the masked faces of the audience. His eyes are wild and unsettled, like a rabid dog as he searches for someone specific. It’s all too easy to lose your sense of surroundings in the octagon. His amped-up fans are too hyped with the scent of blood and sweat in the rancid air to notice. They roar for him to finish off his prey as I silently beg him to have mercy.
I scan the crowd to see who or what he’s searching for. The fighter’s gaze finally settles on a group of men in the far corner. Venom.
Tonight’s illegal event is being hosted in an abandoned warehouse. Anyone invited or involved in the festivities is required to hide their identity behind a mask. The suited men in the corner are no different. What makes them stand out is that they all wear the same mask, featuring a green striking viper.
I drop back into the shadows. My attention ping-pongs from the fighter in the ring to my dad to Venom. The man heading the group, with his arms crossed over his chest, nods slightly to Python. The nod is all for show, a way to hype the fans, increasethe bets, up the odds, and raise the stakes. It’s only a savage game, after all. May the best man win. Fighters get the shit beaten out of them, their faces swollen beyond recognition, and some even end up unconscious. That’s the risk they take as soon as theystep insidethe cage. But no one has ever been killed—at least that I know of.
Tonight feels different. There’s an intensity building that leaves chills snaking across my heated skin. I rub my arms through the sleeves of my hoodie. Nothing in that cage is staged or an accident. Nor would my father act as if he were unconscious just to put on a show. It’s clear Python has already won, so why not announce him as the winner? Something’s off, and it isn’t good. The air becomes heavier with each breath I drag into my lungs.
The fighter in the cage returns the simple gesture to the suited man with a slight nod. That one silent command is anything but good for my dad. The tattooed snake slinks down the side of the man’s torso, its open mouth revealing large fangs and a forked tongue—very similar to the ones on Venom’s masks. The fierceness in its inked eyes echoes that of the fighter.
I stifle the scream on the verge of freeing itself, threatening to expose my presence. Furious tears spill over the rims of my eyes, soaking the edges of my black mask.
The eyes of the six men of Venom flash with determination and dollar signs. Even the hosts of the event know it’s safer to remain anonymous behind their masks—especially when the ringleaders are playing dirty games and making indecent deals. It’s as if they decided to use my father as a pawn in their sick game tonight.
As stupid and dangerous as it is, I can’t stand back for another second. I push my way through the crowd. All of them scream for blood, for my father’s life tobe snuffed outfor sportand extra cash in their pockets. The fighter raises his arm and pumps his fist into the air, giving his fans their money’s worth.
The onlookers chant his name. “Python! Python! Python! Python!” The long, drawn-out pause between the Y and the Tmakes the single word sound like two separate words.
Streams of sweat run down the fighter’s face through splatters of blood, turning it pink. Python takes one last look around, soaking up the energy of the uproar in the overcrowded, stuffy room. Any second, his fist will come down onto my father like a sledgehammer.
Body odor and blood fill my nostrils. Ignoring the nauseating scent, I grasp the chain-link cage and call out to my dad by his stage name. “Slayer! Get up! Slayer! Slayer!”
The metal bites into my palms, but I hardly feel the rough edges slicing into my skin. The only hurt is the aching in my chest, the heaviness of guilt and helplessness weighing me down like a massive anchor.
Nothing. There’s no response from my dad. I’m shoved to my left, then into the wall of the cage. The side of my face smashes against the fence. The jarring pushes my mask out of place. Pain bursts along my cheek. The corner of my lip snags along the rough edges of the metal. I lick away the wetness along the scratch. Holding on to the fence for my life, I refuse to move as a fight breaks out behind me in the crowd. Their hollering saturates my own as I continue to call out to my dad.
Finally, his eyes flutter open as though he’s waking from a deep sleep. Blood from the gash along his brow seeps into his unfocused gaze.
“Stay with me!” I scream. “Slayer!”
He doesn’t—or can’t—hear me. I can barely hear myself. Over and over, I call out to him. My throat feels like it’s on fire, but I don’t stop. His head lolls to the side, facing me. I can save him if I can get him out now. His right eye is swollen shut. His splitlips slowly part as he finds the strength to open his one good eye. God only knows how badly he’s bleeding on the inside.
With no other option, I raise my leg, bracing the toe of my boot through the fence, and pull myself up. I begin to climb up the side of the octagon cage. I’m only a few feet from the top when someone grabs my ankle and yanks me down. I try to kick the asshole loose, but his grip only tightens.
“Where the fuck are you going? Get down. Let Python finish the loser!”
The second he jerks me away from the cage, my feet hit the ground, and I stumble. Catching myself before I fall, I round on the guy who pulled me away from getting to my father. He’s already disappeared within the messy brawl, leaving a hundred other crazed fans who look just like him, their faces hidden behind a mask and their eyes possessing the same heated hunger and rage.