Page 80 of The Madman and his broken Princess
I stopped chewing, my eyes widening.
Nestore ate his T-bone and nodded. Wasn’t he worried at all? What if Remo wanted Nestore to die? I couldn’t imagine that he was happy about the way Nestore had saved Luciano.
“Your wife looks concerned,” Remo said with a hint of amusement. “Don’t you believe in your husband’s abilities?”
“I do, but nobody is invincible.”
Nestore shifted beside me and squeezed my leg again. In warning? In support?
Remo leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his muscled chest. “Our soldiers seem to think the Madman from LA is superhuman, and we want to keep up that belief.”
Nestore swallowed his meat, then bared his teeth. “We will. I’ll kill my opponent tomorrow as I’ve killed everyone before him.”
“It’s not a death fight,” Nino said, but he sounded almost bored. His gray eyes were focused on a sheet with numbers on his phone, probably incoming bets.
“It is if I’m in the cage,” Nestore said.
I slanted a look at my reflection, insecurity turning my stomach over. The dress for today was backless, which meant my scars were exposed.
Nestore entered the bedroom. Today, he was shirtless, with only his fur coat covering his upper body. He showed his scars proudly. I had never mastered that feat.
“Are you sure this is okay?”
Nestore tilted his head, his brows pulling together. “You look anything but okay. You look spectacular, like someone most men only dream about.”
“I mean, my scars. I usually hide them.”
Nestore came in and brushed his palm over my back. Goose bumps rippled across my skin from the gentle touch. “These remind me of how you helped me, how you risked your safety for me. They are proof of your kindness and only highlight your inner and outer beauty.”
Tears filled my eyes, but I blinked them back, not trusting my waterproof mascara to do its job.
“When you say things like that, it gives me hope that you’ll forgive me for running one day.”
He pressed a soft kiss to the scar below my left shoulder blade but didn’t say anything.
Despite Remo’s offer that someone would take me to Roger’s Arena, the new fighting spot in Las Vegas, I was glad Nestore had insisted we travel together.
He was quiet and focused during the ride to the arena, and when we arrived, he extended his hand for me to take without a word. I gripped him firmly to assure him I was strong enough for this. I didn’t want him to worry about me while he fought for his life. Roger’s Arena was located in an unspectacular gray concrete building with a small red neon sign above the steel entrance door. The overcrowded parking lot had everything from tiny electronic cars to pickup trucks to luxury limousines. Nestore’s fight seemed to draw lots of attention.
The bouncers stepped back with looks of shock and admiration when Nestore walked up to them, as if they had never seen him up close. He pulled me along, past the cloakroom and into a vast bar area. Smaller, round tables were arranged around a massive fighting cage in the center of the room. More comfortable-looking red leather booths were positioned against the walls. The floor and walls were bare concrete, a triste gray. The only dash of color on the walls was letters made from neon tubing, attached to mesh wire, that read honor, pain, blood, victory, and strength.
The bar, with its colorful bottles and a red background light, softened the harsh interior design.
The air was ripe with nervous energy and smelled of smoke, beer, and sweat. Nestore’s fingers around mine tightened as he pulled me through the narrow gaps between the tables toward a booth where Nino and Remo sat with Fabiano and an unfamiliar teenage boy. The men at the table respectfully leaned back as Nestore and I walked by, making sure they didn’t touch Nestore or me.
At least, that was what everyone did until we reached the second-to-last table before we’d reach the VIP booth. Threemiddle-aged men sat around the table. Several empty beer bottles and shot glasses covered the table top. The stench of alcohol was more potent here. One of the men with steel-gray hair and a scar on his cheek was groping a woman who looked to be around my age and was probably a professional, considering her very skimpy outfit and the disdainful look she gave her groper when he wasn’t paying attention.
They were guffawing, and one of them gave me a leering smile as he scanned me from head to toe. Before I could react, he grabbed my hand. “Babe, ditch the lad and take a real man’s dick.” His hand moved toward my ass. Nestore jerked me behind him, gripped the man’s throat, and catapulted him on top of the table. Beer bottles and glasses tumbled to the floor and splintered. Nestore pulled a dagger from the holster at his waist and slammed it down on the man’s throat. He panted, his face alight with rage. The man’s eyes were wide, his mouth parted as he gulped for breath with the knife sticking out of his throat. His friends jumped back from the table.
“Call the police!” the steel-gray guy roared.
The woman rolled her eyes and walked away from him, but not before she stole his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans.
“Nobody touches my wife. Nobody looks at her with anything but the utmost respect and deference, and nobody talks to her like that unless they want to enjoy my wrath.” He ripped the knife out of the man’s throat, and blood spurted out of the hole in a curved fountain. Shrieks and gasps sounded around us, followed by someone throwing up.
“If that makes you vomit, you’d better leave before our Madman from Los Angeles enters the cages,” said Remo with a twisted smile as he stalked toward us.
The two friends of the dying man stood around the scene with varying looks of shock.
