Sloane
I didn’t even bother drying my hair. I just tossed it up in a knot, swiped on a little lip gloss, and settled into the corner of my bed with my laptop, wearing a soft, comfortable hoodie and a slightly evil gleam in my eyes. At least I imagined that’s what I looked like.
I wasn’t going to say that I was plotting, but I was absolutely plotting.
It wasn’t like I planned to get involved with underground fight night logistics, but there I was. I blamed Nikolai Morozov and his stupid perfect face and stupid perfect punches and the fact that I could still feel his gaze on my skin like it had left a mark.
And yeah, okay, maybe I’d Googled his last name three different ways. Maybe I skimmed some Russian mafia conspiracy threads, and maybe I spent an uncomfortable amount of time staring at a leaked fight video that caught about three seconds of him taping his hands with a methodical, predatory grace that definitely made my pussy clench.
Don’t judge me.
I wasn’t in love with him or anything. I was just… curious.
Anyway.
Focus.
Money.
I opened a new tab and started poking around a betting site I’d jacked access to through one of Ghost’s burner login drops. It wasn’t public-facing—it was dark web adjacent. Members only. There was a live fight card list for the week, names, odds, everything.
And buried in Saturday night’s lineup?
A name: Moretti.
Odds in his favor. Heavyweight champion. Unbeaten streak. Trained with the Morozovs’ crew.
Perfect.
I opened a text thread and sent a message to Ghost.
Me: I want to tank someone’s reputation. Quietly. Nothing permanent. Just enough to shift confidence. Can you make Moretti look injured?
Ghost: Old photo? Fake tweet? Limping on the way to a car? How nasty we talking?
Me: Subtle. Like… sports gossip subtle. “Did you see that wrap on his knee?” energy.
Ghost: You’re getting good at this.
Me: I’m bored and rich. Bad combination.
Ghost: Gimme twenty. I’ll seed some fake forum posts. Maybe a blurry photo outside the gym.
Me: You’re the best criminal I know.
Ghost: You need better friends.
I smirked and tossed the phone onto the bed.
This was the kind of thing I was good at. Not punching, not running rackets or shaking people down for money, but bending perception, flipping narratives. I’d spent my entire life manipulating reality with a smile and a camera flash. This was the same thing, just with a darker lens.
And if it made me a few thousand dollars by betting against the house, well…
That was just smart investing.
I sank deeper into my pillows, pulling my knees up, fingers hovering over my keyboard as I flipped back to the page with Nikolai’s name on it. There was no photo, no bio, just a codename: The Hammer.
Figures.
Even his alias sounded like a threat.
My chest tightened for a second, but I ignored it. I didn’t have time for crushes on bloodstained mob gods. I had a scam to run. A bankroll to build. And maybe—maybe—a Russian to ruin.
Or maybe I just wanted to watch him fight again and try not to imagine how it would feel to taste him.
Either way, tomorrow was going to be fun.
