Page 21 of Broken Blood Ties

I avert my eyes, veering over to my locker. “Put a towel on, Katsuro. No one wants to see that.”

“This spectacular masterpiece?” he says, pulling on his black boxing shorts. He looks up to grin at me, the dark of his eyes twinkling with mischief, then he runs a hand through his jet-black hair that hangs shoulder length. With a smack, he slaps the lightning bolt tattoo running over his biceps. “Going to be a good night?”

“Aye,” I answer pulling out my boxing shorts. The dark green stands out with the white shoes I wear, but there’s never been another color. Not for me.

The locker room door bangs open once again, and the murmured chants of a crowd gathering slithers through. Ace strides in sporting gray sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt with his hood thrown up over his head. He ignores Katsuro and me, making a beeline straight for his locker.

Ace is from the streets of Boston. Rumors say the young kid got involved with drugs at seventeen. He went from a well-cared-for middle-class family situation to a high school dropout on the streets real fast. From what I understand, boxing saved him. Seems to be a common theme in this circle.

Cormac suggested I bring him in. Allow him to earn a position within the family. But for some reason it doesn’t feel right. He’s off the drugs and working a nine-to-five at a nearby gas station. The kid doesn’t need mob business riding him. He’s only twenty. Maybe twenty-two.

He looks a lot closer to Summer’s age than mine.

Shite. This woman is a menace to my thoughts.

Several other fighters roll in. A mix of Yakuza, druggies looking to make a buck, and a few of my mob men. Nix, Fisher, and Max all mess around and roll out their shoulders. Soon we’ll have some Cosa Nostra to add to the lineup.

There are two long benches bolted to the floor, and I plant my ass on one as I slide up my headphones to block out the sounds. Bass punctures the controlled intensity swirling around me, and the boss I am is stripped away with each head roll I do.

I zone out, focusing on the resolve that floods my veins. I think of Aoife, and the lengths I would go to protect her. To avoid exposing her to anything or anyone involved in this life. As long as I’m alive, I’ll do more than fight in this ring … I’ll fight for her.

With my nerves steeped in liquid fire, I wrap my hands, carefully molding the mesh around the back of my hand and across the top of my palm before moving it around my knuckles.

Joe, our master of ceremonies—although technically he’s an everything guy—comes into the locker room. While in his sixties, he’s full of charisma with a distinctive voice that carries, powerful and precise. Employed by me solely to handle the fights, I joke with him about leaving to work as a legitimate ring announcer. He’d never go, though. He lives for the underground world. It’s less performative. Grittier and raw.

He nods at me, while posting the fight lineup for tonight. While several of the men hurl themselves toward the sheet of paper on the wall, I hang back. Resting my elbows on my thighs, I lower my head to my hands and close my eyes, breathing in and out methodically. I visualize the fight, regardless of who it’s with. My thoughts move through evading attacks and picture landing successful punches. I dig deep to compose myself, then stand to find Katsuro smirking in front of me.

“It’s you and me tonight, Kieran,” he says. “I’d say I’ll go easy on you, old man, but you know me. I’m not wired that way.”

I pretend to snore and shake out my arms to loosen them up. “Ye’re a bleeding eejit if ye think ye’ve got this in the bag.”

He chuckles. “I’ll see you out there.”

Nodding, I grab my hoodie and gloves from my locker, then toss the generic black sweatshirt over my head. Headphones around my neck, I pull the hood up and over my head and saunter out of the locker room.

Spectators, backers, and made men chant and yell, the noise reverberating off the walls. I follow the other fighters to the staging area. Three bags hang for warm-up and a few jump ropes keep the blood warm and moving while we wait for our individual fights.

I scan the diverse crowd of people. Some dressed to the nines in $40,000 suits and others in leather jackets and jeans. Doesn’t matter where you come from, or what you have, the ring makes you honest.

My gaze lands on the ring. It’s not the spotless kind you’d find on a televised fight with pristine ring ropes and undefiled turnbuckles. Our ring is worn, with layers of splattered blood and grimy sweat from the weeks before. It’s improvised, but better than most underground rings outlined with chalk.

The crowd’s energy is palpable, and as the night moves forward, the rowdier they get.

The first fights are pretty uneventful. But Joe whispers in my ear that the pot for Max and Ace is one of the highest for the night. That right there is good news.

Katsuro has moved away from me now. As we warm-up separately, we pause the friendly banter from the locker room until a tap or knockout.

Smoke rises from the cigars in the room, blurring the harsh lighting over the ring.

My thoughts drift to Aoife for a moment before my memory recallsher—the woman I see during my fights. I sway back and forth, my stomach roiling with the anticipation of seeing her again. Unattainable and alluring, this silhouetted woman has me chasing her mirage like an addict.

A ding that sounds like it’s underwater lures me back into focus, and before I realize it, I’ve walked to the ring while Joe introduces both Katsuro and me.

Cormac grimaces when he sees me and offers a smack to my bare shoulder. I toss my sweatshirt at him, and he curses me up and down under his breath.

I smile when I step into the ring, suck in the stale air, and swallow the body odor clinging to it.

Joe stands in the center, gesturing for Katsuro and me to meet in the middle.

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