“Finish him!” screams a young man’s voice from beside the ring, “Kill him now!”
“Eyes on the prize,” another voice joins in, “Focus now, brother.”
“He’s weak in the knees,” howls an older, gruffer man, “Go for it, son!”
For a moment, the fighter lets his eyes flick toward the rollicking voices. His pounding heart swells in his chest as he sees his brothers lined up along the ring. They cling onto the ropes, their faces flushed with pride and vigor. No, they’re not the fighter’s flesh and blood, but they’re the only family he’s ever known.
Faces old and young, tanned and pale, brutish and bright—he knows them all. And at the very end of the line sits a handsome, silver-haired man. He doesn't cheer as he watches on, only looks calm, composed. The deep lines in his face are unmoved by chants or jeers. He simply meets the fighter’s eye and nods, once. It’s as much encouragement as the fighter needs.
They each wear their black leather cuts, patched and faded but symbols of power all the same. Across the back of each man, the words “Dante’s Nine” and "Las Vegas, NV" are emblazoned. It’s their family title, their club’s identity. One of the most feared and respected MC names in the United States. And they’re here on the fighter’s side.
Emboldened by his brothers’ ferocious loyalty, the fighter sails across the ring, fist cocked back. Time slows to a crawl as he meets his opponent's eyes. The defeated fighter watches the other man approach, he simply stands there accepting his fate, knowing that he’s about to die. It’s a phenomenon Dante’s Son has witnessed many times before. This year alone, two other boxers have given up their lives to him. This man will be the third. After he falls, one more fight stands between the fighter and his freedom. But he can’t think of that now.
His balled fist cracks against the challenger’s temple; he quickly grabs the dazed man's head between his own powerful hands, and with a skillful twist a sickening crack rings out in the turbulent air. The fighter raises his inked arms as his opponent's lifeless husk crumples onto the canvas, his soul has fled. The eight other men of Dante’s Nine vault into the ring, hoisting their victorious brother onto their broad shoulders. “Dante’s Son” is his ring name, and the crowd shouts it now. He drinks in their clamoring, cacophonous praise. He fights for his brothers, his club. And for them, he hasn't won just yet.
Back in the locker room, alone at last, the fighter shucks off his gear. He lifts the heavy golden belt off his tapered waist, setting it reverently down beside his street clothes. It’s a symbol of victory, but he knows he still has business to finish. He can’t stop thinking about the contract he signed just last year, locking him into four death matches; tonight’s was number three of four. He’s managed to come out on top of these first three, but who’s to say what the fourth will hold?
The fighter looks down at his inked, weary body. The thick panes of his chest rise and fall with each labored breath. Each of his abdominal muscles stands out in sharp relief as he winces with the aching pains shooting through him. How is he going to make it through another fight like this one alive? He shakes out his mane of dark curls, stepping into the hot spray of the shower. Warm water runs in rivulets over his broad shoulders, his biceps and sculpted thighs. He’s built his body into a fighting machine, but how much longer will it run?
He scrubs himself clean, watching the blood and sweat swirl away down the drain. By now, he’s used to being a killer. All his years in the military taught him how to tamp down his human guilt and disgust at taking another life. But all that repressed shame and sadness hasn’t evaporated; his humanity hasn't completely been killed. With each of these fights to the death, it comes just a bit closer to the surface.
Clean of body, if not of soul, the fighter wrenches the water off and grabs a towel. He wraps it around the muscular v of his waist, shoving a hand through his wet curls. He should be pleased with himself for coming out on top yet again, but the usual sense of achievement is nowhere to be found in him. The only reason he signed that contract was to funnel some extra cash to his club. If he had his druthers, he’d stick to regulation boxing. Civilized sports. But a deal is a deal, and he has one more match to go. If he's honest with himself, deep down, maybe this is the way he wants it to be—maybe he doesn't want to win that last fight.
Footsteps echo off the tile of the locker room, catching the fighter’s ear. His training sends him straight into action at the sound of an intruder. He reaches beneath his street clothes and snatches up his handgun. As he levels it at his unexpected company, a light laugh rings out from the shadows.
“No need for that, boy,” says a smooth voice, “I’m just here to talk.”
“It’s you,” the fighter grunts, lowering his firearm, “I almost put three bullets through your chest. Can’t sneak up on a guy after he’s just stepped out of the ring.”
“My apologies,” says his visitor, stepping out into the florescent glow of the locker room. He’s shorter than the average man, but handsome all the same. His black hair is slicked back, not a strand out of place. The smile he offers the fighter is blindingly white, even more so offset by his deeply tanned skin. His every finger sports a ring of gold or diamond, and his fine Italian suit is cut to perfection.
And for all this, he’s the least welcome sight the fighter could imagine.
“It’s not every man that can look intimidating in a towel,” the well dressed man smiles, “But I suppose you’re not every man, now are you?”
“You need something, boss?” the fighter asks roughly, crossing his thickly muscled arms.
“I wanted to congratulate you on a great fight,” the visitor says, tucking his hands into his pockets, “I knew you’d pull through. I doubt there’s any man who could beat you in this ring.”
“Here’s hoping,” the fighter says, “One more win and I’m out. The club will have its cut of the money you make off me, and we’ll all be square.”
“I hope you’re still comfortable with our little arrangement?” the man asks, raising his manicured eyebrows.
“Sure,” says the fighter, turning his back, “Even a sliver of what you’re raking in on my fights will save the club from welching on its debts. And I’ve already said that I’ll do whatever it takes to keep Dante’s Nine afloat.”