Chapter 1 Guillotine Choke
Mila
There's no one in Foster's corner. No one. He's bleeding from a cut above his eye, and there's nobody there to take care of it.
Seriously. Why doesn't he have someone to help him?
Foster presses a towel to the gash over his right eye and leans his head back.
Before the fight started, he bounded into the ring and the crowd cheered for the undefeated, unstoppable Foster Dunham. An intimidating sea serpent tattoo shined on his meticulously sculpted back. Silky white boxing shorts showed off his eight-pack abs, and his piercing light eyes drew everyone to his side.
After two rounds, he's covered in blood and taking a brutal beating. The crowd has turned on him and they're rooting for his opponent, Cicero, who is a concrete block wrapped in skin. I don't even know Foster, but I hate that he's losing.
Cicero has two guys over in his corner. Foster has no one.
He takes a quick sip of water and inserts his mouthpiece, stretching his beautiful lips into a grimace. The referee checks on him and he nods.
The ring girl walks around with the "3" card and the bell sounds. The fighters meet in the middle, and I inhale a deep breath. They circle each other for four minutes, the anticipation increasing as the seconds tick by. The cut over Foster's eye bleeds onto the mat at the makeshift fighting ring in an abandoned firehouse in the Bronx. Grumbles and disgruntled calls erupt from the crowded room. Fans want more blood, not circling and dancing.
With only one minute left in the round, the announcer's voice amps up ten notches with the flurry of action in the ring. "Cicero lands a right hook to the temple."
Foster wobbles as he tries to recover and circle again. Oh shoot.
"Cicero with… Oh, finger to the eye."
The ref separates them as Foster rubs his left eye. Foster blinks through it. Now he has blood in his right eye, and he's been poked in his left. He's essentially blind. He recovers and comes back in, but his eye is closed and he's still unstable on his feet.
"Cicero charges and he's down!"
Foster lands on his back, his opponent crashing on top of him with a crunch and a thud. My heart jumps into my throat. Oh no. They're locked together like two wrestling crabs. It's not looking good for Foster at all. This enormous guy is dominating him, and has his whole concrete body over him while he punches Foster's face. Foster's legs twine around Cicero's back, and Cicero goes after him ruthlessly.
"Hammerfist!" The announcer is way too excited that Foster is getting pummeled, and he's encouraging the crowd too. "Foster struggles to get a hold."
This sucks. I hate this. I want to run up there and kick his opponent in the face.
The crowd noise rises to an oppressive din. Elbows and cheering bodies knock me into my brother, who steadies me with an impatient hand on my shoulder. He's watching the fight with eager anticipation. The crowd smells blood in the water, and it looks like Cicero will win.
"Cicero gets a naked-choke on Foster." The ref sounds shocked and thoroughly entertained by Foster's misfortune.
Foster is unyielding. He's clearly losing but maintains his composure. He seems calculating and cautious. After what feels like hours of battle on the floor, the crowd emits a dismayed "oh" as Foster's foot strikes like lightning and pushes the guy up and over.
"Foster flips Cicero!" The announcer laughs. Foster pounces on Cicero and forces him to keep the top of his head to the mat. He wraps an arm around his neck and wrenches it hard. Cicero can't do anything to counter it. He's completely immobilized.
"Deep guillotine choke!" The announcer goes ballistic. Foster's brow scrunches, and he grunts with the force of strangling Cicero. Somebody did not appreciate the eye poke earlier and he's exacting his payback. "There it is. There it is. Cicero taps out! And the Unstoppable Foster Dunham wins. Greatest comeback ever!"
I'm screaming as loud as I can along with the crowd. That was spectacular!
Foster releases his hold on Cicero. His opponent rises slowly, first to one knee, then uncurls his back to his full-height. Foster leaps up and raises his gloved fists, taking a nearly blind victory lap around the ring as his defeated opponent returns to his corner.
He spits out his mouthpiece and shouts, "Yeah!" Smeared blood covers most of his face and neck, and he's still bleeding, but he's relishing his big come-from-behind win.
And… there's no one in his corner anyway for him to go to! He can stay bloody as long as he likes.
His eyes scan the crowd. He doesn't know who I am, but his bleeding gaze stops on me. I clap and yell to show him I'm cheering for him too. Everyone here loves him.
He points at me and crinkles one bruised and swollen eye.
A wink? With blood on his face, in a packed crowd of people, he points at me and winks?
My stomach flips.
There must be another girl around me he's pointing to because there's no way he noticed me and singled me out.
He laughs and makes one more celebration lap around the ring. He grabs his bloody towel before hopping over the wooden railings of the octagon and disappearing into another room.
Chapter 2 The Jacket
The cheering dies down but the air still buzzes with the energy Foster created.
"Fuck!" My brother next to me quickly tucks his phone in his pocket and stares at me with his mouth locked in a deep frown.
"He won!" I say.
"He wasn't supposed to win."
"He did. He's amazing." Why the heck would Donnie care who won a secret underground fight?
"Let's go." His hand on my upper arm hurts a little, but I don't say anything and follow behind him as he works his way to the entrance.
Outside the firehouse, the smell of the Bronx hits me with the warm summer heat. It's not a pleasant smell but it's unique and earthy and tells you where you are. The smell says, you're in the Bronx on a hot summer night.
Donnie lets go of my arm and walks briskly toward the subway station.
"Yo! Donnie. Hold up!" A guy with a thick New York accent paces behind us.
Donnie picks up speed, leaving me behind in the street.
The guy dodges cars to run after him but comes back alone and winded. He's tall and scary looking with a square face and thick black eyebrows. His angry eyes focus on me. "Your brother's an asshole."
"Hey." How does this guy know me? He looks familiar.
"Tell him he owes Rocco Maretti twenty large."
Ah, yes. Rocco Maretti is the son of a New York real estate mogul. My father runs in the same circles with his father. "What?"
"Twenty thousand dollars." He speaks slowly like I'm stupid. I know what it means. "He said Foster would lose. He scammed me."
Donnie did that? I'd heard he was betting on football, but he wouldn't take bets on an underground fight. Who would bet twenty grand against the Unstoppable Foster Dunham?
"I'm sure you're mistaken. My brother is not a bookie."
His head tilts and his eyes look me up and down. I'm a little overdressed in a ruffled blouse and bootleg jeans, but nothing too revealing.
"You working with him?" He squints at me like I'm a bug pinned to a board.
"No," I reply, shocked by his question.