Sloane
I stood in front of my mirror, lining my lips in a matte burgundy red so deep it almost looked black in the shadows. My cat eye was as sharp as a knife, and I cocked my head to admire it. Then I tilted my head to the side and smudged my shadow just a little more—smoky, messy, like I hadn’t spent thirty minutes perfecting it.
My favorite black leather jacket. Different from the one I wore the other night. Fishnets. Dark green slip dress trimmed with black lace, cut just short enough to make old men nervous and dangerous men curious.
I looked like a problem.
Good.
I’d always had a soft spot for being underestimated.
I pulled my hair into a messy high ponytail, then let two strands fall loose around my face. I tossed a switchblade into my bag, out of habit now. Ghost once called it ‘hot girl insurance.’
I didn’t think I’d need it tonight, but still.
I gave myself one last look in the mirror and grinned.
Not bad for a girl who just rigged a betting system, messed with a fighter’s odds, and was just about to slip out of a heavily surveilled house with three security guards who still thought I was asleep upstairs like a well-behaved little princess.
If my father only knew…
He’d yell. He’d lecture. He’d probably call in some favors and threaten people he shouldn’t, and I’d ignore him anyway.
The truth was he didn’t get it. He didn’t get me.
He wanted me to settle down, marry someone with a golf membership and a spreadsheet addiction, smile at galas, keep my legs crossed and my reputation clean.
That just wasn’t me.
I wanted to be where the blood hit the floor. I wanted to stand ringside and feel the impact vibrate up my legs. I wanted to look a man in the eyes and know he could break me—and trust that he wouldn’t unless I asked him to.
Tonight, I wanted to see him again. The man who could break me.
I didn’t say his name. Not even in my head. But both my head and my body knew who I was talking about.
I slid out the side gate of the estate—the same route as last time, bypassing the cameras with a shortcut through the garden and a little shimmy over the stone wall.
By 11:15, I was back in Southie, standing outside the blue steel door with the flickering light, heart racing like I hadn’t just done this a few nights ago.
I knocked twice.
Waited for the return.
Knock. Knock.
And then I whispered the words that felt more like a forbidden spell than a password now.
“Forged in fire.”
The door opened, and I stepped inside.
The energy was different tonight.
The other night, the crowd had been practically feral—loud and wild, but manageable. Tonight? It was on edge. Tense. Like someone was already bleeding and we just hadn’t found out who yet.
I stepped inside and immediately clocked two guys near the bar, chest to chest, voices raised, hands twitching toward fists. Security was already moving in, two massive guys in black grabbing each of them by the collar and dragging them apart like toddlers throwing tantrums in public.
I sidestepped the ridiculousness, slipping deeper into the crowd. The lighting was lower tonight. Redder. The air thicker. People pressed in tighter to the ring, half of them high on adrenaline, the other half high on something stronger.
It smelled like sweat, smoke, and tension.
I loved it.
I loved it even more because I knew what was about to happen—and what it meant for me.
I shoved through the crowd toward the pit, finding a spot three rows back. There was no VIP section, no bottle service. Just people who looked like they’d punch you if you breathed the wrong way, which made it even more thrilling when I caught someone eyeing me like I didn’t belong here.
Fuck them.
I didn’t.
And yet… here I was.
Moretti stepped into the ring a few minutes later, bouncing on the balls of his feet, taped hands flexing, sweat already glistening on his neck. He was huge. Solid. Not my type, not even a little, but I could appreciate the intimidation factor.
His opponent? No clue. Some guy I didn’t bother researching because, honestly, I didn’t care. He was just the name I bet against.
The fight started fast. No introductions, no bells, no bullshit.
Fists just flew.
The other guy was quick—lean, cunning, with good footwork—but Moretti was relentless. He ate two punches to the ribs like they were breakfast, then dropped the guy with a hook that made the floor shake.
The crowd exploded.
I found myself leaning forward, heart pounding even though I knew exactly how this ended. My bet was on Moretti. My whole plan hinged on him winning.
Moretti dragged the guy back up by the arm, only to slam a knee into his gut that knocked the air out of him completely. The ref didn’t even bother counting when he hit the floor the second time. Just called it.
Fight over.
Moretti stood there, chest heaving, jaw clenched, eyes wild.
Winner.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
He won!
I was about to get paid.
The crowd surged toward the payout tables as the next fighters started warming up. I drifted with them, keeping my head down, heart still racing. I wasn’t sure if it was from the fight or from the way the floor felt like it was shifting underneath me.
The payout line was longer tonight. More desperate. More aggressive. A guy behind me muttered something about how he should have bet more. Another guy two spots up was bleeding from his nose but clutching a betting slip like it was fucking holy water or something.
I kept mine folded in my jacket pocket, fingers grazing the edge like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing.
Every bet placed against Moretti, every seed of doubt I’d scattered across the web—it all came together exactly the way I wanted it to. They thought he was off his game, thought he might finally lose.
I knew better.
I made them believe the lie, and I was practically glowing.
Not because I needed the cash—I didn’t. I could spend twice this on a handbag and still have enough left over to bribe my way into half the parties in this city.
No. This was about something bigger.
This was about proving I belonged here—in this world full of blood and danger and power plays—and that I could thrive in it.
This was about knowing I could manipulate a room full of men who thought they ran the show. Who thought I was just some pretty little rich girl slumming it for the thrill.
This was about me taking control of them.
I reached into my jacket and pulled out the slip—just a thin piece of paper with a few numbers and a name printed across the top: Moretti.
I glanced at it, then slid it forward across the payout table like it wasn’t a big deal, but it was.
It was time to collect.
