Nikolai
Something was off.
I didn’t know what, but it was there, slinking through the undercurrent like rot beneath polished wood.
I was in the office above the gym, leaning back in my chair, feet up on the desk, scrolling through the latest fight card odds on the private books we monitored. We had eyes on four different betting channels—three legit, and one buried behind layers of encryption that screamed backdoor Bratva.
Moretti’s odds were dropping.
Too fast. Too quietly. Too fucking off.
He was still the favorite, but the confidence was slipping.
At first, I thought it was just nerves. Pre-fight chatter. A few big bets shifting things. But this? This was directed. Someone was fucking with the narrative. Someone with just enough reach to make it look organic.
That wasn’t random.
It was calculated.
I sat forward, elbows on my knees, eyes locked on the screen.
There was a forum link embedded in one of the lines of code—Ghost code. Posts seeded into conversation threads that hadn’t existed yesterday. Fake injuries. Photos from angles that suggested weakness. I called bullshit.
“Sergei,” I called, already knowing he was standing just outside the office door.
He stepped in, expression unreadable. “What?”
I jerked my chin toward the monitor. “You been watching Moretti’s numbers?”
He nodded. “Thought they were weird. Didn’t say anything yet.”
“They’re not weird,” I grumbled. “They’re fake.”
Sergei narrowed his eyes and stepped closer. He leaned in to look. “That forum’s locked. Encrypted posting. Bot-run engagement.”
“Someone seeded doubt,” I said, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “Quietly. Not to tank him completely, just enough to sway public perception. Make him look beatable. Get the money to swing the other way.”
Sergei frowned. “Inside job?”
“Maybe.” I leaned back again. “Or someone with a friend who knows just enough about how this world works to fuck with it.”
He crossed his arms. “Any idea who?”
I didn’t answer right away.
Because a part of me did.
Her.
Sloane.
It was a long shot, a wild guess at best. She hadn’t done anything last night but stand there like pure fucking temptation, but the timing… it made my skin itch.
She didn’t just look like a girl who played games.
She looked like a girl who won them.
She had the money, the access, and more than anything, the boredom. The kind of girl who could pay someone to shake the odds just to see if the world would move.
For her.
“Keep an eye on Moretti,” I said. “If he’s actually hurt, I want to know. If not, I want to know who’s trying to make it look like he is.”
Sergei nodded and headed out without another word.
I stared at the monitor for another long second, watching the odds tick down again. Small shifts. Barely noticeable to the average gambler.
But I wasn’t average.
Whoever did this was about to find out I didn’t like being played.
