Clarissa
Blood. Is. Everywhere.
Fight after fight a parade of unconscious men have been carried out of the ring. Inside it, anything goes—punches, knees to groins, head butting, biting fingers, arms, ears,weapons.
One fighter brought a six-inch blade to the match. His opponent didn’t appreciate it. Sweeping the legs out from beneath the man, he claimed the knife then cut him behind both knees. Advancing along in the fights but ending the other man’s ability to walk.
It’s barbaric.
And the crowd loves it.
Each participant fights three times. Every night, the two older men whom we met earlier declare the night’s big winner. These winners advance to something called Complete Domination. The best of the best, who, at the end of the month, fight for the championship. Finn is thirty-three percent of the way to winning tonight’s fights.
He won his first bout by forfeit. In a freak accident, his opponent fell victim to a punching bag. They loaded the semi-conscious man into the back of a truck with the others to be taken to the hospital.
That’s not to say I’m not worried. Finn could be injured, and seriously. This is insane yet he’s all-in, with not a care in the world. It’s a gamble. With his person and with finding out more about the reason we’re here—O’Brien.
I struggle to ignore the chaos and focus on the women around me.
“You can drink for a Yank,” Lucy, a girlfriend of one of the fighters, teases.
“Of course she can. She’s a Kennedy,” Shelley reminds them. Shelley reminds me of the floral-fond innkeeper. In between stories about their other friend, Fiona, and Fiona’s miserable, two-timing arse of a boyfriend, Johnny, I learned of his shady dealings with the mob. Fiona and boyfriend will be here for the next night’s fights, news I can’t wait to share with Finn.
Lucy nudges me in the side. “Yerwanis fine.”
“But we got to ask,” Shelley says, “Did yer fella watch a fight on the tele and run down here thinking he’d give it a go?”
I shrug, then offer a very Finn-like answer. “Something like that.” Call it pride, call it a sudden sense of loyalty to Finn, but their underestimating my fake-boyfriend’s ability rubs me the wrong way. And I feel the sudden need to defend him. I raise my Guinness. “A round of drinks on me if my wan wins.”
“Sounds like we better finish these drinks,” someone comments.
“Why don’t we find a place closer to the cage?” I wave them forward and push in closer just as Finn’s opponent is entering the cage.
He’s shorter than Finn but ten times stockier, with massive muscles and a hard jawline like a pit bull.
“A newbie, too. He hit me cousin Seamus with a punch to the kidney. Came close to killing him.” Shelley nudges me. “Best take out yer rosary now.”
“What’s that in his hand?” Lucy exclaims.
I swing my attention to the brass object looped around his fingers.
“Total gobshite,” Shirley grinds out beside me. “So that’s how he hurt Seamus.”
Brass knuckles. That’s how, I think.
“I hope yer wan notices.”
“Won’t someone stop him?” I demand, already knowing the answer. The better question to ask is “Is Finn aware?”
It’s too late to warn him as he’s already climbing the steps to the cage. Smiling. Waving. Acting like a naive fool, completely oblivious to the violence about to reign down on him.
I wave wildly but he doesn’t notice me.
They approach each other.
Finn offers him his hand.
His opponent glowers at him.
