Page 1 of Knuckles & Knives
CHAPTER 1
The bass thrums through my chest like a second heartbeat as I stand outside the rusted steel doors of the Obsidian fight club. Five years. Five years since I last stepped foot in this underground hellhole that smells of sweat, blood, and broken dreams. Five years since my world imploded in a spray of gunfire and my father’s blood painted the concrete of our family estate.
I bite my lower lip—a nervous habit I’ve never been able to shake—and adjust the strap of my leather jacket. The weight of the switchblade in my boot is a familiar comfort, a reminder that I’m not the same naive eighteen-year-old girl who fled this city with nothing but rage and a thirst for vengeance.
Raven Blackwood is dead,I remind myself.Tonight, I’m just another fighter looking for a quick payday.
The bouncer at the door is new. He’s a mountain of muscle with gang tattoos creeping up his neck. He doesn’t seem to recognize me, which is exactly what I need. I slide him a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and he waves me through without even checking my fake ID.
The moment I step inside, the familiar chaos strikes me like a blow to my gut. The main floor is a writhing mass of bodies pressed against the chain-link cage where two fighters are currently trying to beat each other into unconsciousness. Money changes hands faster than punches, and the air is thick with cigarette smoke and the metallic tang of blood.
Nothing’s changed.
Everything’s changed.
I navigate through the crowd, keeping my head down but my eyes sharp. The Obsidian was always more than just a fight club. It was the beating heart of my father’s empire, the place where deals were made and enemies were buried.
Literally, in some cases.
A roar from the crowd draws my attention to the cage, where a lean fighter with intricate blackwork tattoos has just dropped his opponent with a vicious uppercut. The unconscious man hits the mat like a sack of concrete, and the winner doesn’t even look winded. He moves with a fluid grace that speaks of years of training, and when he turns toward the crowd, I catch a glimpse of striking features and hair with an unusual silver streak.
Interesting.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Ghost Rivera remains undefeated!” The announcer’s voice crackles through the speakers. “Who’s brave enough to step into the cage next?”
Ghost. Even his name is intriguing. I file away the information for later as I continue my reconnaissance. The VIP section overlooking the main floor is where the real power brokers conduct their business, and I need to?—
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
The deep voice stops me cold. Every muscle in my body tenses as recognition floods through me like ice water. I know that voice. I know it intimately from years of hearing it barkorders, offer protection, and murmur gentle reassurances when nightmares about my mother’s death kept me awake.
I turn slowly, praying I’m wrong. Praying the years have played tricks with my memory.
But no. Dominic Vega stands behind me in all his intimidating glory, six-foot-three of lethal muscle wrapped in a black henley that does nothing to hide the scars decorating his knuckles. His dark hair is shorter than I remember, and there are new lines around his brown eyes that look almost black in the dim lighting. His gaze rakes over me with the intensity of a man who’s seen too much violence and survived it all.
“Little Raven Blackwood,” he says, and my heart hammers against my ribs. “All grown up.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I bite my lower lip. “I think you have me confused with someone else,” I say, my voice as cool as can be despite the panic clawing at my chest.
Dom’s lips curve into something that might be a smile if it wasn’t so predatory. “Same amber eyes. Same way of biting your lip when you’re lying. Same scar above your right eyebrow from when you tried to break up that fight in the back alley when you were sixteen.”
His fingers twitch like he wants to reach out and trace that scar, and I take an instinctive step back. The movement makes his eyes narrow.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” he continues conversationally, as if we’re discussing the weather instead of my carefully constructed false identity. “Funny thing about dead girls. They usually don’t show up at underground fight clubs looking for trouble.”
“Maybe I’m a ghost,” I say, lifting my chin defiantly toward the cage. “This place seems to attract them.”
Something shifts in his expression at my reference to the fighter still celebrating. “What are you doing here, Raven?”
The way he says my name sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine. Dom was always my father’s most trusted enforcer, the one man Vincent Blackwood relied on completely. He was also the man who taught me how to throw a punch, how to read an opponent’s tells, and how to survive in a world that would kill me without hesitation.
He was supposed to protect me. Instead, he let my father die.
“I’m here to fight,” I say, nodding toward the cage where they’re already dragging out Ghost’s unconscious opponent. “Unless that’s a problem?”
Dom’s jaw tightens. “Everything about this is a problem.”
