Dukes of Ruin: Chapter 3

The man driving the truck is familiar. His lip piercings glint as we pass the bodegas, the occasional streetlight casting an ugly glow over the warehouse district in the West End. Dimitri Rathbone, or Rath, is well known in Royal circles for being both a Lord and Killian Payne’s best friend. Now that Killian is a King, I don’t know what that makes Rath and the third Lord, Tristian Mercer. Powerful, I guess.

He’s not alone. A nameless soldier sits in the front seat next to him, pushing buttons on the radio, flipping from one station to the other. Rath’s hand snaps out. In a low tone, he warns, “Stop fucking with the music, Bruce.”

“Sorry,” the guy says, realizing he overstepped. He glances back at me, forehead creasing. “Seems like overkill—tying her up like that?”

My wrists are bound behind my back with an industrial strength zip-tie. Truthfully, it doesn’t bother me much. I’m very experienced in the art of having to contort. Give me three minutes alone back here, and I can wriggle through with my legs to bring my hands to my front. Ten more minutes and I could easily gnaw through them.

“Don’t underestimate her,” Rath says, flicking me a look in the rearview. “She’s lucky I didn’t hog-tie her. Bitch kicks like a mule.”

I give him a wolfish grin. “Good to see you again, Rath. We should hang out more often. It’s been a while since I got a good one in. How’s your collarbone?”

His eyes flash back at me in irritation. “Or gag her.”

The truck passes the front of a familiar building—the Dukes’ gym. I’ve been to a fight or two down here before, back in high school. I even snuck into a Screw Year’s Eve once. I lift my chin at the gym sign. “I’m not sure how this cheap pleather is going to perform in a Jell-O match, bud.”

He turns down the alley and slams on the brakes. “Good thing you’re not wrestling then.”

“Then what am I doing here?” I ask, as the other guy wrenches the truck door open and grabs my shoulder. I’d like to keep up the catty repartee I’ve got going on with this Rath fucker, but the truth is, I’m starting to get annoyed and uneasy. “What is this?”

No one answers.

Instead, they march me, a hand gripping each of my upper arms, through the backdoor. I catch a glimpse of a flyer taped to the wall—Friday Night Fury—and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I know what happens at Friday Night Fury. Two Royals get in the ring. One walks away with the prize.

To the Victor go the Spoils.

That’s the Duke’s motto.

The back hallway is long and bare, other than old flyers mounted to the wall, a timeline of past fights. It smells like cigars and old ball sweat. Rath opens a door and leads us up a flight of stairs until we get to the landing at the top. The pulsing beat of music and loud voices bear down on me. Above us is the riser to an empty loft, but the rainbow colored glow of lights draws my attention to the mass of bodies below. There’s another loft on the opposite side of the warehouse, and there are people up there. An announcer, I’m guessing. A judge or three. Probably some bookies. The West Side does love their gambling.

Apprehension builds in my stomach. I hate my family, but I can’t deny my programming. I was raised a Count, which means never going into something blind. These past two years haven’t beaten it out of me, and I doubt anything ever will.

I’m so busy surveying the empty loft above that I completely miss their grips changing, the shuffle of feet, and the snick of a box opening. I don’t miss the sudden pressure against the skin behind my ear, or the three seconds of piercing, stinging pain.

Rath grunts as I thrash away, clamping his arms around my middle. “Stay still!”

“What the fuck?!” I screech. I have this whole plan that involves lifting my knees, letting Rath hold my weight, and kicking back into his shins like the mule he thinks I am.

But then the other guy jabs me hard in the same spot—quick—and ducks away. “It’s done, she’s tagged.”

Rath flings me away before my heels can make contact, glaring down at me. “You’re going to go in there, sit quietly, and wait for the match to be over. By the end of the night, you won’t be my problem anymore.”

“How does your Lady feel about that?” I throw out, teeth clenched against the throb in my neck. As the other guy presses an adhesive-backed bandage to the wound, I coldly wonder, “She’s cool with you using a human being as chattel in some stupid dick measuring contest? Tagging them like cattle?”

The corner of his lips lift into a dark smirk. “My girl’s got the same tracker. She likes it.”

My mouth tightens. “Of course she does. All these bitches around here drink your Kool-Aid, don’t they?”

His eyes flicker with a threatening light. “Watch how you’re talking about our Lady. If it wasn’t for her, we would have paid the Barons to dispose of you months ago.” He shakes his head, teeth catching on a lip ring. “You know how this works. You’re a Lucia. As much as we hate your father, it’s obvious you hate him more. You can either use that to your advantage or piss someone off enough to end up dead in a ditch somewhere tomorrow. I couldn’t really care less which.”

Without thinking, I lunge forward, hurling a thick wad of spit into his face. “Go fuck yourself.”

There’s a moment where his eyes close, nostrils flaring, and then he lifts the hem of his shirt, wiping his cheek with a grimace. “See?” he says to the other guy, jaw clenched. “Try to be nice and offer a little advice and all you get is lip. Next time I’m bringing a gag.” After a beat, he hotly adds, “Actually, fuck this. There is no next time. You’re not a thorn in my side anymore. Thank Christ.”

He shoves me forward, except it’s less of a shove and more of a palm-punch, sending me stumbling over the steel lip. I brace myself for the fall, but it never comes. I crash into the metal railing instead, landing painfully against my sternum. Before I even have a chance to catch my breath, my hands are freed. I turn to react, but the gleam of light off Rath’s blade makes me pause. Faster than I can process, the other guy steps forward and cuffs one of my wrists to the railing.

Fuck.

“You’re seriously chaining me up here like a dog?”

If there had been any understanding in Rath’s eyes before, it’s gone now, replaced by a stony sneer. “What does Nick call you? Little Bird? You’re lucky it’s not a cage.”

A moment later, they’re gone, and I yank against the restraints. I can gnaw my way out of a zip-tie, but the cuff and chain are solid metal, clanking noisily against the railing as I tug. All I get for my efforts is a sore wrist.

Fucking motherfuckers.

The sound from below draws me away from my situation, and I peer through the plexiglass, pressing a palm to the burning ache on my neck. The crowd is huge—maybe even bigger than New Year’s Eve. But the Royal frats love their theatrics. Normal fraternities indulge in their keggers and football games, and sure, the Royal houses of Forsyth do that too, but that’s never been enough. These sons of bitches are more like cults, criminal enterprises, and sadistic circlejerks. The deeper you dig, the more trouble you find.

They’re all grand displays or ridiculous vendettas, each in line with their frat’s founding agenda. The Lords covet land and possession: women, vehicles, property, and territory. The Princes are obsessed with their golden fucking heir and maintaining a pure, untainted royal line. The Barons get off on being the shadow behind the machine, with their secrets, leverage, and centuries-old traditions. The Dukes make a big show of ruling Forsyth with their fists, but everyone knows they run the gun trade in this town, keeping places like the Avenue flush in firepower.

But my people, the Counts, are all about the flash and posturing. They’re drug dealers, car thieves, and sex traffickers. No, black market, backroom dealings are below my father. He has contacts all over the world, funneling narcotics into South Side, using the Counts to push the shitty stuff on the streets and the better, pricier dope on campus. The way I was moved from motel to motel before being settled at the Hideaway wasn’t a surprise. Kidnapping is in the Counts’ wheelhouse. Perez, the lead Count and my father’s number one fuckboy, learned his signature move from my father. You’d think the little prick wouldn’t want me, considering the mess I’ve put him in, but power is power. He needs a Lucia daughter to become King of the Counts.

And my sister is gone.

Which is why, when I see the ring below, everything starts to click into place. Bruno Perez is taking a few warm-up swings in one corner, shirtless and tall, his hair slicked back out of his face. Even from all the way up here, there’s no missing him. He’s not the most attractive man in the Royal sphere by any stretch, but from the way he holds himself, he probably thinks so. The line of his nose is arrogant, and when he turns to say something to one of his fellow Counts, I can easily make out a scar someone’s given him, slashed across his jaw.

The Counts have their own hierarchy—how to ascend from one level to the next. My father has held his position as King for a long time, and he’s in no rush to hand it over. He sired no males to continue the line, so the best way for him to keep control is by marrying off his daughter to the most trusted and high-ranking soldier; Bruno Perez. This breaks from tradition, since Leticia wasn’t a Countess—god forbid. Lionel would never allow that. No, he’d just arrange for her to marry a disgusting drug-running sex-trafficker to hold onto his power just a little bit longer.

Unfortunately, with my sister missing, that has thrown a big fucking wrinkle into the system.

On the other side of the ring is an unmistakably imposing, ink-covered body. Whereas Perez is warming up, this one seems content to lounge back against the corner, his arm and shoulder muscles flexing as he casually wraps one of his fists. Behind him, a massive guy is on the other side of the rope, brows crouched low as he speaks into his ear. But the fighter isn’t looking at him.

He’s looking straight at me.

Pretty Nick.

Being under the heat of his gaze is enough to make bile rise into the back of my throat. The half-lidded, cocky grin that’s plastered on his face doesn’t even twitch when I flinch back, expression twisting in disgust.

Suddenly, I know exactly what this is.

Winner-takes-all.

Nick has spent the last two years running with the Lords—not his royal family, The Dukes. Not until that night he broke into the Hideaway and staked his claim. The Royals all have discrete ways of earning their titles. The video must have been enough to get him in the door, but Saul, their King, will want more. Blood—be it Nick’s or Perez’s. He has to win this fight—win me—just like he and Killian planned. That’s how the Dukes work. Nothing won, nothing gained.

I try to look away from Nick’s demented gaze, but then there’s Perez, staring back at me with a vicious smirk. He bends his neck to meet my eyes, holding up two fingers and flicking his tongue between the V suggestively. My grip tightens around the railing, strangling it, wishing it were his throat. Apparently Nick wouldn’t mind strangling him a bit, too. He’s glaring daggers into the side of Perez’s head, fist curling as he bites off the strand of tape from the roll.

The bell rings below and a loud voice blasts through the speakers, “Welcome to Friday Night Fury!” The crowd roars, and I can tell they’ve had time to publicize the fight, because the room is visibly split between vipers and bears. “Will there be a Bruin in the belfry for the first time in twenty years? Tonight is the unexpected return of a Duke legacy—the prodigal son—stepping into the ring to claim his title! Pretty Nick Bruuuuiiiinnn!”

I used to have this idea of Nick. Once, I thought of him as a barely sapient trigger finger. Daniel’s little lapdog. A pair of fists in search of someone to guide them.

I know the second our eyes meet that I was wrong.

Nick sends me a smirk before looking out over the crowd, and the flex of his jacked-up biceps and well-cut abdomen probably isn’t even meant to be showboaty. He just moves like that, stalking and fierce, the perfect Duke visage. The pretty features of his face are accentuated by the tattoo inked beside his eye—237, the Forsyth penal code for mayhem—but beneath that chiseled veneer is the silent, festering wrath of a Bruin. His stare out over the crowd is a twisted, arrogant thing, as if this whole event is his symphony and he’s the conductor.

It makes me want to vomit.

“Tell me how it feels to know this pussy belongs to me now.”

“But the Duke heir can’t claim his throne without winning this fight. He’s not the only one with a score to settle!” The sound of boos and cheers mingle as Perez’s name is announced. Sutton, the Countess, gives him a dramatic kiss, but he shrugs her off. His ugly, scarred face lifts up, proud and boastful. There was a time I used to think he and Leticia were made for each other. They were never actually together, but everyone knew who the eldest Lucia daughter was sworn to marry, and the thing is, they fit. Both vain and snotty, obsessed with pleasing my father, cold and too proud. I used to be so amused at the thought of it. Never before have two people been so deserving of one another.

The thought of Perez winning me makes my stomach turn, but I can face the truth. The only way I win here is if he and Nick kill one another in the ring.

“Let the fury begin!”

The bell rings and the two men approach one another, bumping fists in a comical display of sportsmanship. Duke fights are notoriously no holds barred. Having a judge at all is basically a joke, and from the loose bounce of Nick’s shoulders—a sharp laugh—he knows it. I lean over the edge of the railing, getting a long look at the VIP area just underneath where I’m linked to the rail. It’s a small boxed-off section with a primo view of the upcoming carnage, and my blood turns to ice at the sight of the attendees.

The Kings.

I recognize them all. Why wouldn’t I? They’re each like some gnarled version of family, a collection of creepy uncles you try to avoid at a holiday dinner. It’s how I know Nick Bruin is far more conniving than I gave him credit for. This is a show. He’s making a spectacle of being initiated, because what better prize is there than taking a rival King’s daughter as their Duchess? It’s ridiculous, a little incestuous, and infuriatingly orchestrated. In short, perfectly Royal.

In the middle of the pack is Saul Cartwright, King of the Dukes. Even from a distance, I can see the strain around his eyes as he claps. This match is more important than most here would even realize. Any new round of Dukes means a potential threat to his title, but when one of those Dukes is a Bruin, it’s basically playing the King equivalent of Russian roulette. Out of every guy in this school, only one of them is guaranteed a spot in the Dukes’ belfry, and he’s right there, circling Perez in the ring.

Beside Saul is the King of the Barons. He’s dressed in a black, well-fitting suit, face veiled by his ominous, bronze horned mask. It’s a bit of a farce. Anyone who’s anyone knows Clive Kayes is King of the Barons, they’ve just never seen him unmasked in that specific capacity. But nothing gets a Baron’s dick harder than the thought of becoming invisible.

This might be the most official meeting of the Kings I’ve ever had the displeasure of attending. Ashby, King of the Princes, is there, dressed in his fine, white suit. Killian Payne sits beside him, looking less like a frat boy and more like the slick, sleazy businessman his father had raised him to be. He’s obviously not playing dress up anymore, but he sits on the edge, like he’s trying to separate himself from the group of men who are decades older. Tristian and Rath flank him, and it gives off a strange vibe. How many more of the current Kings will be toppled, I wonder, as their children come of age?

But even as I assess them, there’s one man I keep coming back to.

My father.

He sits with his back straight, and his eyes focused on the match. He looks stoic as ever—artfully disaffected. But no one knows Lionel Lucia like I do. There’s a fire raging in his eyes, and it’s hot enough to scorch. It’s present in the tension around his jaw. The way his hand clutches the arm of his chair. The brief, deceptively casual glances he keeps shooting to Killian. There’s a face I’ve had to wear for years now—one that never shows fear. But I won’t deny that the thought of Perez winning—of being under my father’s thumb again—makes something inside of me turn to ash.

In the ring, Perez and Nick circle one another, waiting for the first punch. Perez, notoriously impatient, takes the swing, giving Nick the chance to hop out of the way and land his own blow.

I straighten my back nervously.

Right into a hard wall of body.

Two arms trap me in, hands clamping over mine on the railing. “Don’t worry, little snake,” a familiar voice whispers in my ear. “Nick is going to win. He’s good at that—doing whatever it takes. He’s a fucking animal when he wants to be, but when he needs to be?” The guy lets out a gentle whistle. “Oh, he’ll rip off Perez’s arms. He can keep them as trophies and hang them over his bed. That’s our Pretty Nick, armed and dangerous.”

I twist my neck at the sound of his sinister laugh, catching a glimpse of shocking blonde hair and a thin, angular jaw. I don’t recognize his face, but I know him.

I know his voice. I’ve heard it whisper dark, dirty things in my ear.

I know his eyes. I still see them in my dreams, piercing and feral.

I know his scent, that expensive cologne that still bitters the back of my throat.

Maniac.

Hot, panicked anger courses through me, and even with the loud jeers and chants below, the fight is forgotten.

My body, clenched tight, recoils. “You’ve got some balls showing your face to me, you son of a bitch.”

He tilts his head, getting a better look at me. “I didn’t even know it was you at first. You used to be Lavinia Lucia, but now you’re something else. Your hair…” He lifts a hand to touch it, green eyes zeroed in on the pale lock of blue. “You changed your colors.” I lash out with my free hand to strike, but even if the chain weren’t holding me back, he reacts lightning fast, catching my wrist with a tisk. “Come on, now. You’re a guest in my house tonight.”

That’s when I see the letters tattooed across his knuckles.

D-U-K-E

Fuck, I’m an idiot.

Three attackers.

Three Dukes.

“You never cared about fucking over the Kings with that video,” I realize, images of that night flashing through my head. “That was your initiation. Your real initiation.” Jesus Christ, as if holding that night inside me like a creeping sickness wasn’t bad enough, knowing that it was just some stupid ploy to further the Royal status quo makes my knees feel like they want to give out.

He hums, sounding bored. “Our King chose the objective, and we pulled it off without a hitch. Our boy wants the ring, though. It might be his by rights, but he has to win a fight to get it.” Maniac pushes aside the strap of my top, rubbing a thumb over a patch of skin on my shoulder. “Healed nicely,” he mutters, voice rough and distracted. “Your skin is fucking amazing. Soft. Smooth. So evenly toned.” It occurs to me he’s inspecting the mark he left. The ink. The tattoo.

The Brass Bruin.

I swallow over the hard lump in my throat. “What do you want?”

His hips brush against my ass. There’s no mistaking the hard press of his cock as he seems to shake himself out of it. “Just surprised to see you out of your cage, is all. Once again you’ve been left unattended.” He pushes the hair off my neck, fingering the bandage. “These Royals don’t keep an eye on you like they should, Vinny. It’s almost like they don’t think you’re worth protecting.”

His touch makes my skin crawl just as much as the nickname—Vinny. My sister used to call me that. I try to shrug him off, muscles clenched. “Or maybe they think I’m a little too good at protecting myself. Ever think of that?”

“You know what I’m thinking of?” he asks, those fingertips playing with the skin at the base of my neck. “Cause and effect. Like maybe we fucked you good, took away their golden ticket, and now they’re finally ready to start using you.” I feel his mouth hover over my neck, a damp exhalation. “I’m thinking you’re here because those dusty old fucks down there are going to pass you around like a Frisbee tonight.”

There’s a thread of something in his voice, some awkward marriage of amusement and awe, almost like he’s speaking more to himself than me. But I can’t really untangle it, because I’m too busy being massively fucking confused.

This motherfucker has no clue that I’m the prize.

My shocked stupor is quickly shattered when he drops his hand, plucking at the waist of my leggings with an unmistakable intent.

I thrash forward, hissing, “What the fuck?!”

He surges against my back, pinning me. “Nice pussy like yours getting all used up on geriatric King dick? Such a waste. They’ll fill you up with five flavors of rot.” He pauses, head tilting. “Well, four, assuming your daddy doesn’t want a taste, but he is a Count. I don’t think anyone would be surprised. Three, if Payne is faithful to his Lady—six, if he isn’t.” He wrestles me against the railing, nodding at the VIP area below us. “This is basic arithmetic here. You’ll be full of numbers and stink by morning. If I want to get mine—maybe I do, maybe I don’t—then I should take it here. Fuck you right now while everyone’s watching the fight.”

Ignoring my ineffectual attempt at twisting away, his hand slides between the fabric and my skin. When he forces my cheeks apart, body trapping mine against the rail, his finger doesn’t stop until he gets to the puckered hole.

I freeze, chest heaving. “Don’t.” It’s as much a plea as it is a warning.

“Let me in—like you let him in.” There’s a shift of his shoulder and then he’s curving his finger inward, toying with the tight ring of my asshole. “Relax, Vinny,” he breathes, pushing, invading, making it sting. My body reacts by clamping up tight, the violation painful and humiliating. “Don’t tell anyone, but it’s sort of been fucking with me.” He speaks low and casual, as if he’s not restraining me with one arm and fingering my ass with the other. “I don’t normally like putting ink on girls. It’s different with guys. Just a job, right? But tagging a girl is so fucking heavy. Knowing she’s going to carry around a piece of me for the rest of her life?” His exhale bounces against my skin with a shudder. “Makes me want to rip her skin off just as much as it makes my dick hard. Too confusing. You’re a Count. You understand.” His whisper is full of unshed laughter. “Don’t tell the Lords, though. They wouldn’t.”

The crowd cheers and stomps below, and I let it take me, shifting every possible bit of my consciousness. It’s the only way I can run.

For now.

I look down and see Perez swaying on his feet, but he’s gaining his wits, feet crossing as he circles his opponent. Nick’s so unconcerned that he actually looks away, his eyes darting up to me. They freeze on Maniac, whose arm is still curled around my middle, but Nick’s not stupid. He looks right back at Perez, muscles coiling as he throws another punch.

Maniac forces his finger deeper, unconcerned by Nick’s brief stare. “Your pussy looked so pretty covered in my cum and blood, though. Maybe I do want it.” He takes on a pensive tone, ignoring the sharp, pained sound I make. “It’s all translucent, Vinny. You wouldn’t… you wouldn’t even fucking believe. Like, the universe, it’s just wax paper sometimes. Like the light gets through, but everything’s all fucking… indefinable. Do you know what I mean, Vinny? I can’t find your edges. Which is weird, right? Because last time… last time, you were so sharp.”

Astonished, I realize, “You’re a fucking lunatic.”

He stills and I can feel the muscles in his torso coil. That’s all the warning I get before his free hand grabs my neck, squeezing tight. “I’m not crazy!” It’s delivered in a hiss of spittle against the curve of my cheek, making me flinch.

But he is. I can see it in the way his eyes spark dangerously. Feel it in the energy rolling off him. Taste it in the heat of his panted breaths.

Just like that, he’s shown me his weakness.

“You can chill the fuck out and watch your buddy fight,” I say, my voice a wheeze under the pressure of his grip, “or you can distract him enough for Perez to get the upper hand. All the same to me.”

Both of us look down just in time to see two things.

Nick is staring right at us.

Perez slams his fist into his temple.

Jaw ticking, Maniac pulls his hand out of my pants, backing off. He shows his palms to Nick, but his friend isn’t looking anymore, busy shaking off the blow.

Checkmate, psycho.

“Fine.” Even though he curls his hands into fists, Maniac settles against the railing beside me, his green eyes fixed on the fight. “Take the Kings and all their rot.”

Struggling to calm my pulse, I watch Nick as he gets his footing back, spitting a wad of blood on the mat. He holds his fists loose and a touch limp as he circles, looking thrown off. A few weeks ago, I might have bought the act, but now I see it for what it is. He’s making the punch he took work for him, instilling Perez with a false sense of confidence, giving Nick the opportunity to toy with him a bit.

Perez takes a swipe that misses Nick’s kidney by mere centimeters, sending Perez stumbling forward with the momentum. Nick deflects to the side so fast that Perez is still hunched when Nick buries a knee into his side. Perez tries to grapple his legs, but Nick isn’t thrown off at all. He hops back, waits for Perez to straighten, and then slams his fist so powerfully into his jaw, it’s practically a visible wave through the crowd’s reaction.

Perez stumbles and then falls to a knee, fist pressed to the ground to keep him upright. Nick circles around him like a lion—no, like a Bruin—as if he’s trying to decide the best way to finish him off. He glistens with sweat, the muscular line of his forearms chiseled perfection. He’s a finely tuned machine here, moving with efficient purpose. The crowd holds their breath as he grabs a thick fistful of Perez’s hair, yanking his head back in a move that looks just as jarring as it probably feels.

But Perez’s dazed eyes aren’t looking at Nick.

They roll toward my father.

Lionel Lucia always wanted a son. I’ve heard it so often that it’s almost as much a part of me as the color of my hair or the birthmark on my ankle. It’s why my father could never love me. I’ve always been an ‘except’. I’m a Lucia, except I’m not good enough. I’m his daughter, except I’m not compliant enough. I’m a woman, except I’m not pretty enough.

Perez is everything my father ever wanted in a second child. Calculating and ruthless, just like Leticia. I think there was a time it galled me to know it, as if some part of me still ached to feel accepted and wanted.

That’s long gone now.

I can tell, because when my father meets Perez’s gaze and gives him a single, definitive nod, an understanding passes between them. A connection I could never form.

And all I feel is alarmed.

There’s a flash of silver from Perez’s ankle, and my reaction is to belt out a loud, instinctive, “Look out!” It echoes across the arena, but the only person I watch my voice carry to is Nick.

Somehow, he doesn’t even need to glance at me. His eyes go instantly to Perez’s hand, and when his foot comes down on it, crushing his fingers under the sole of his shoe, the resulting scream is loud enough to drown out the sound of my rushing heartbeat. Slowly, Nick bends to pry the metal from his grip, giving the blade a skilled spin through the air.

He reaches down to grab Perez’s fingers—the same two he’d raised to his mouth before—and settles his icy gaze on my father. I can only just make out the words he speaks through a toothy, blood-stained grin. “Killer was right. This is fun.”

Then he cuts off his forefinger.

The gasp that falls over the crowd is louder than Perez’s shriek as Nick saws deftly through his bone, muscled shoulder jerking as he rips it away. The shockwave hits me even from all the way up here, sending me jerking back in shock.

My father is halfway out of his seat, but it’s the Baron King who reaches out, placing a calm hand on his shoulder. He gives a single, slow shake of his masked head, and my father falls back into his seat, jaw tight.

Nick only gives the severed finger a brief look, but it’s demented. You’d think he was inspecting a flower he just plucked from a garden. I half expect him to smell it.

Instead, Nick drops Perez much like he drops the knife, tossed to the ground like discarded trash as they announce his win from the opposite loft. Nick lifts his chin, but where a Duke would usually do a boastful, proud lap around the ring, Nick doesn’t bother.

He glances up, catching my eyes, and raises the finger into the air.

Smirking, he bends it into a little mocking wave as the announcer closes the fight.

“To the Victor go the Spoils.”