Shattered (19 page)

No one spared a glance for me, and it seemed
like the underground royalty accepted me as one of their own. I
refused to breathe a sigh of relief. I would only believe that we
had made it out of this madness alive when we were safely on a
plane headed to nowhere. Until then, I expected the worst and hoped
for the best.

I made my way over to the closest bar and
settled onto one of the stools. I waved a bartender over my way and
leaned seductively over the counter.

“A martini, please,” I said, in a light
Italian accent. I’d gotten quite good at it after several hours of
practice.

“Coming right up,” the bartender said.

“Put it on my tab,” said a voice from behind
me.

I spun around and saw a handsome gentleman
with a flawless smile at my elbow. I smiled at his graciously and
patted the bar stool next to mine. “You’re too kind,” I told
him.

“It’s my pleasure,” he said, holding a glass
of fine scotch in his hand. “I haven’t seen you around here before.
Are you new?”

“Just discreet,” I told him, watching as the
bartender splashed a drop of vermouth into my cocktail.

“I’m sure I would have noticed a beautiful
face like yours, had I seen it before,” he pressed. “Your haircut
is wonderful.”

“Thank you,” I said, running my fingers
through my short little crop, “It’s new.”

“Not just anyone could pull that off,” he
told me, “You must be a very special woman.”

“I know some men who might say so,” I told
him, coquettishly. “What’s your name?” I asked.

“Edward,” he told me, offering his hand,
“Edward Mason.”

“Emilia Bellantoni,” I said, taking his hand
in mind.

“Emilia,” he said, kissing my hand, “A
beautiful name. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Are you a regular spectator here?” I asked
Edward.

“I’m here every week,” Edward said, “I never
miss a fight.”

“What do you think of tonight’s matchup?” I
asked him.

“It’s going to be a tough one,” he said,
“Marco and Anderson are pretty evenly matched.”

“I’m sure it will be interesting, whatever
the outcome,” I said.

“Certainly,” Edward said. “Would you like to
watch with me?”

“Sure,” I told him, hopping down off the
stool. If it came to it, it would be good to have a body to throw
in between myself and Robert’s henchmen. Edward offered me his arm
and led me toward the ring. We pressed through the crowd of people,
and I pretended to know everyone that I passed. Everyone was polite
enough to assume that we had met before. Despite the dire nature of
my situation, I was actually having a bit of fun with this charade.
I made my way to the gold railing and rested my fingers upon its
cool length. Edward stood beside me and rested his hand against the
small of my back, scanning the crowd. He leaned toward me and
pointed across the ring.

“Imagine being over there in the box seats,”
he said over the din, “Must be some life, huh?”

I let my eyes flick toward the box and
swallowed hard as I spotted Robert taking his seat. His henchmen
were scanning the crowd, looking for me, no doubt. A bilious bubble
of rage and fear burst inside me as I took in the sight of Robert,
presiding over the arena like a king. Nobody knew that he was
playing the whole crowd, collecting everyone’s bets and investments
and building himself an empire at their expense. They were fools,
the lot of them, playing right into Robert’s hands.

“Huh,” Edward said beside me, “That girl of
Anderson’s didn’t show. Something must have happened to them.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Everyone’s been talking about them,” Edward
said, “Even underground fighting rings have their gossip, it seems.
I wonder what happened to her?”

“Like what?” I said suspiciously.

“Who knows,” Edward said, “People who get too
close to Anderson just seem to have bad luck, as far as staying in
one piece is concerned.”

I glared across the ring at Robert. He was
the man to fear, not Anderson. But I held my tongue and simply
shrugged at Edward’s speculation. Best not to stir the pot. My
nerves were buzzing as the minutes passed. And as the lights above
finally swung toward the ring, lighting up the fighting pit like a
beacon, I thought I might pass out from the anticipation and
anxiety. It was the most exciting, terrifying, electrifying moment
of my entire life. The assembled crowd raged all around me—there
seemed to be twice as many people packed into the underground arena
as there had been just two fights ago. Grown men were screeching
like little boys with sheer, unadulterated glee.

“Gentlemen, welcome!” cried a voice overhead.
“This is the final match of the season between our two most
talented fighters. The winner of this fight will reign as the
champion, and be permitted to return next year. The loser will join
the dozens of fighters who have already been thrown out of our
prestigious league. Everything hangs in the balance for these two
men on this, the most important night of their lives!”

He was right about that, I thought, as the
crowd rallied around me. Tonight, Anderson would determine the
course of his fate. He had the chance to avenge his fallen family,
to right a series of tragic wrongs. This was the single most
important night of his entire career, his entire life. And I was
going to be right there with him, through it all. I had no idea
what was coming next. He’d given me almost no indication of what he
was going to do once he got in the ring. All I could do was blindly
trust that he was going to do what was best for us, whatever that
turned out to be. I put my faith in him completely. What else could
I possibly have done?

“First up,” the announcer went on, milking
the dramatic scene for all it was worth, “Welcome back our
champion, the man who cannot be defeated, The Brooklyn Barbarian,
The Harbinger of Sorrows, Anderson 'The Shatter Man' Cole!”

A riotous roar went up around the arena as
Anderson stalked into the pit. I gasped as I caught sight of his
scantily-clad form. His every muscle seemed right to strike at any
moment. At the start of the last fight, he’d seemed disorganized,
unfocused, lazy, even. I could tell that he was ready to give it
his all tonight, whatever that meant. He was going go for the
kill.

“And challenging Anderson Cole for his
championship title,” the announcer said, “Welcome to the ring, all
the way from Las Vegas, 'The Maniac' Marco Steele!”

Anderson’s opponent strode into the ring,
bouncing on the balls of his feet. He was grinning magnetically up
into the area. He was just about the same size as Anderson, and had
amazing movie star good looks. Marco was a pretty boy, with coiffed
hair and a dazzling white smile. His handsomeness seemed
cultivated, manicured. Anderson’s sex appeal, on the other hand,
was inherent. He didn’t have to do a thing to be sexy; it was
simply his natural state.

“Again, gentlemen, this is the most important
fight of the season, the biggest event of these young men’s lives,”
the announcer reiterated. “Let’s get to it! Fighters, take your
stances...ready...FIGHT!”

A collective gasp tore from the audience as
the horn blew and both fighters launched themselves at each other,
wasting no time. I clutched the golden railing and leaned
perilously over the side of the ring. Anderson and Marco slammed
into each other in midair, rolling across the sand as one. They
moved ferociously, like two lions battling in the Savannah. With
each attempted blow and kick, a deflecting move was made. They were
expert fighters, each in his own right. I watched as they leveled
attack after attack at each other. I could see that they were
feeling each other out, even as they fought. They were memorizing
the other’s movements, patterns, potential weaknesses. There was a
dangerous beauty to the way they fought, a vicious mastery. No
wonder people went wild for this kind of thing. I’d been the least
violent person in the world before I’d seen what Anderson could do
in the ring. Now, I was cheering right along with the rest of the
crowd, urging Anderson to bring Marco down.

The fighters retreated a pace or two,
assessing each other. They turned in tight circles around each
other, gauging the other’s stamina and speed. Suddenly, Marco broke
away towards Anderson and tried to kick his legs out from beneath
him. Anderson leapt away and swung back with a round house kick
that caught Marco in the chest. The pretty fighter fell hard on his
ass, and rolled back to standing. He dusted himself off and
pretended like nothing had happened. Steele was truly living up to
his name, it would seem. Still, I knew that Anderson could
take him.

Anderson was leading Marco around in circles
again, luring him deeper into his own rhythm. When Anderson broke
away and tore at Marco, the other fighter wasn’t expecting it.
Anderson slammed his fist into the man’s ribs, grabbed him by the
arm, and flipped him onto the sand. Marco landed with a loud thud
that resonated through the arena. My hands flew to my mouth.
Surely, a normal person’s spine would have snapped after a takedown
like that. But Marco simply rolled over and picked himself back up
on his feet. Anderson let him get up—it was like he was playing
with the other man.
Don’t get cocky
, I thought to him,
Whatever you do, don’t get cocky
...

Marco realigned himself and held very still,
not wanting to become susceptible to Anderson’s own momentum again.
Anderson shuffled back and forth on his feet, anticipating the next
strike. For a very long moment, neither man seemed willing to move.
Then, as if they’d planned it all along, they flew at each other
once more. Marco seemed intent on tackling Anderson to the ground,
but Anderson was having none of it. He slid under the man and
thrust his legs up into his core, sending him flinging in a violent
tumble over Anderson's head and slamming into the sand face
first.

The pretty fighter’s head snapped back, and
for a second I thought it would twist straight off his neck. He
went down heavily, crumpling onto the sand. He tried to pick
himself up, but his arms kept giving out from under him. The crowd
was raging all around me, cheering and stomping as it seemed that
the fight was reaching its final moments. Anderson watched as Marco
struggled in the sand, not offering a hand, but not finishing him
off either.
What was he doing?
I wondered, gripping the
golden rail until my fingers turned white.

I chanced a look across the circle at Robert.
The man was on his feet, grinning down at the fight like a hyena
waiting to pick scraps off the corpse of a lion’s kill. He was a
filthy scavenger, Robert Hunt. Lower than low. He fed off other
people, better people, and grew fat and happy off others’ despair.
He was the worst kind of villain, and all I wanted to do in that
moment was fly across the ring and gouge his eyes out myself. As if
he’d been able to read my thoughts, Robert’s eyes flicked up to
mine. There was no ambiguity in who he was looking at. He squinted
at me across the circle, puzzled. But then, deadly comprehension
seemed to dawn on his face. His lips curled into a satisfied little
smile as he saw straight through my disguise.

You’re dead,
he mouthed at me across
the ring. He raised a finger and slid it over his throat.

Marco tried once more to raise himself from
the sand. Anderson’s opponent fell once more to the ground, this
time with a loud groan that signaled finality to those in the
crowd. I edged away from the ring, trying to hide myself from
Robert’s view. Whatever plan Anderson had in mind, he needed to act
on it right away. There was no doubting that Robert knew I was
there now. When I glanced up again, I saw that his henchmen had
disappeared from his side. I could see them stalking around the
ring, each from a different direction. They were going to box me
in. I was trapped. I looked beseechingly at Anderson, hoping he
could hear my desperate, silent pleas for help.

Anderson turned away from Marco and looked up
into the arena. He did not raise his arms in victory. Instead, he
reached into the concealed back pocket of his shorts and withdrew
something. I gasped—it was a small white towel. Before anyone could
process what was happening, Anderson tossed the scrap of fabric
onto the sandy floor at his feet. A solid, shocked hush crashed
down upon the arena. Not a single person dared make a sound. I
watched as Robert’s jaw fell toward the floor, his eyes shining
with rage. Anderson threw his head back and opened his palms to the
audience.

“I forfeit!” he shouted from the fighting
pit, “I forfeit the match, and my title as champion.”

“Anderson!” roared Robert from above. Every
eye in the arena swerved his way. Robert was on his feet, leaning
over the railing as if he was going to pounce down and tackle
Anderson himself. “What is the meaning of this?” he yelled, “Are
you trying to be funny? Is this some kind of ridiculous joke?”

“This is no joke,” Anderson said, glaring up
at Robert. He stalked over to the towel and ground it into the sand
with his heel. “I'm through with the league, with fighting, and
with you—you cowardly, backstabbing son of a bitch!”

A low murmur rippled through the arena as
people looked back and forth between the men, trying to comprehend
what was going on. Robert looked down at Anderson, his body frozen
in place. “What are you talking about, Anderson?” the man said in a
cloyingly kind tone, “I’ve been nothing but supportive of you since
the day you were born. I’ve—”

But his words were cut off as Anderson hocked
and spat straight up into Robert’s smiling face. The crowd gasped
as the wad of spit splattered against Robert’s cheek and ran down
his pronounced jaw line. I nearly expected smoke to start pouring
out of the man’s ears. He wiped away the saliva with his hand and
took a deep, steadying breath. “That was a mistake, Anderson,” he
said. His voice was deadly low, menacing and sure.