Page 9 of Killaney Blood
A smile spreads across Keira's face. "Yes. We ran them out of town," she says, taking a sip of her wine. "So let that girl live her life."
I don't respond.
"Dec, I'm not defending her, but just be careful, because if she's back, it means someone let her be."
I shrug and grab my beer. "She's working fights now," I say. "Frank's gym. Patch jobs, mostly."
Keira groans. "Of course she is. Why do women like that always come crawling back to our world?"
"I have no fucking idea."
"Either way, Dec. I'm serious," Keira presses. "Let it go. Promise me you'll leave that nurse alone. We don't need any more complications right now."
I nod, not meeting her eyes. "Fine."
But even as I say it, I know it's a lie.
Because staying away? That's never been my strong suit.
And now that I've seen her again, I don't think I'm capable of staying away.
Not until I figure out whether I want to forgive her or finish what I started.
4
DECLAN
Ilean against the ropes, watching the first fight play out. Two bare-knuckle fighters trade blows like they've got nothing left to live for. My fighter lands an uppercut that makes his opponent's head snap back like a broken toy.
The crowd roars, half in delight, half in horror. People who don't fight don't understand how beautiful destruction can be. The perfect arc of a fist, the spray of sweat and blood, the way a body falls. It's art, if you know how to look at it.
My stitches itch. A week out from the fight that gave me this pretty new scar above my eye, and I'm benched.
She told me not to fight, whoever the hell she is, and I almost did just to spite her. But Keira told me not to fight. So did my father. Even Callum gave me that look when I told him about tonight's tournament.
Instead, I've got three guys fighting under my name tonight. All of them are expected to win. Especially the new one, some hotshot from Jersey with hands like sledgehammers and amouth that barely stops moving. I guaranteed him cash even if he loses.
There's only one problem. He hasn't shown up yet, and he fights next.
"Where the fuck is Knox?" I yell to one of my men over the crowd, already pissed off.
My man shrugs. "He ain't answering. You want me to try his phone again?"
"Yeah, and tell him either he shows or I'm putting him in a fucking coffin."
The cut above my eyebrow throbs as I say those words, the damn stitches a constant reminder of the woman who put them there.
"Straight to voicemail."
I run my tongue over my teeth, irritation taking over. "He knows what's at stake tonight, right? Twenty-five grand guaranteed, plus his cut of the bets?"
"He knew."
"Then I guess he didn't want it as bad as he said." I shrug, hiding my annoyance. "Plenty of fighters would kill for that spot. Let's bump Martinez up. He's been itching for the spotlight."
I turn just in time to see my fighter throw a right hook that sends the other guy tumbling to the ground. The referee starts the count, but I can tell it's just a formality. That man isn't getting up anytime soon.
They call it, and the gamblers surround us, a mix of wealthy men in suits to petty street criminals. They cheer. I don't give a hell who they are or where they come from. All are here for the thrilland are willing to pay good money to see men beat each other half to death.
