I give him a hard look and he shrugs, nonchalantly. “The Jackal is a fucking dickhead and I wouldn’t piss on him if he were on fire, but you're a good man, Illium. Can't have you going down with him, can I?"
"If you think I'm a good man you need your fucking head checked, dude. What exactly do you need? If you're just here about the Jackal then you can walk your asses back out. My circle is small but tight." I grunt out, pissed they'd even fucking try to talk me into betraying D'Ardo.
Some things are a given and my loyalty is one of them.
I'd met little Matteo D'Ardo in the shittiest group home in all of the Bay, right in the middle of the fucking slums, and the kid had a strong stomach, pain tolerance like no other, and a nihilistic view on life that rivalled my own. True, I wish he was a little less ambitious and would stop recruiting dickheads to his little fucking gang, but that's his own business.
I'm not going to tell him how to own his shit.
Roxas stops beside me and leans his hip on my workbench. I quirk an eyebrow at him until he rolls his eyes and straightens up. "Look, we owe you for saving our asses in that shootout last month and cleaning it up with the pigs. I can't let this go on, not with all the shit I'm hearing, without saying something to you. He's fucking crazy man. He's building a fucking bomb! That's like homeland security, feds, national crisis levels of fucked up. Is being the Kingpin of drugs and firearms not enough for him?"
Clearly not. "He's obsessed with being the biggest player on the board, just pretend it's not happening because he'll never actually get the bomb built and even if he does, and that's a big fucking if, he's not going to fuck his business up by blowing us all up. He's not really suicidal, just a bit fucking unhinged."
Roxas stares me down, the silver-rimmed charcoal eyes of his are serious for once, all the sarcasm and shit-stirring gone. "Johnny, I'm saying this as your friend. Get the fuck out before he takes you down too."
They just don't get it.
All or nothing.
Ride or die.
With the Unseen's warning still ringing in my head I get the body shipped off to its watery tomb and then get my shit together for tonight's big fight. I haven't been in the cage for over a week and the frenetic energy buzzing under my skin tells me I've left it too fucking long.
I need to kill someone with my bare fists. I need to end them with brute force and grim determination.
And I need to do it now.
I flick a text to D'Ardo to meet me there for a drink after I'm done with the fight. If the Unseen are getting worried about what the hell is going on with him then I need to look into it myself. Last thing we fucking need is the Boar sniffing around in our shit.
He doesn't need to find out we took out the Hawk.
I shove my fight bag into my '69 Mustang Boss 429, a true classic and better than all the flashy suped-up bullshit overrunning the streets, and then pile in, letting the engine roar to life and the thrill of the horsepower under my control giving me the first taste of adrenaline for the night. That's the only real drug I need, the high of controlling something so fucking powerful it could kill me in an instant but owning it instead.
I'm almost pissed off that I make it to the Dive so quickly and I consider doing a lap of the entire block just to keep driving but the call of the fight lures me in. I know I'll be put against some cocky, ex-marine or some hardened ex-con and they'll think they'll be the first to take me down. Fuck, that sort of shit almost gets me hard thinking about taking them out. What can I say, I'm a complicated sort of guy.
I park behind the building, right next to the Viper where I know there's security cams watching my car, and then I head in, clapping the guard on the shoulder as I pass. He's the type that will survive this place, sees nothing and can move a body without breaking a sweat.
The place is overcrowded, clearly word has gotten out I'm fighting here tonight and I'm up against someone running their fucking mouth. I move to the bar, the private one, only to find a little lost girl sipping away at a glass of whiskey like a fucking pro.
"What are you doing here, kid? Way past your bedtime."
The bartender slides a glass over to me with a tip of his head and I eye him like I'm planning where I'm going to stab him, you know, just for shits and giggles. I might. I hate this fucking place enough to risk never coming here again. If the Viper cared about his bartenders enough to ban me from coming back that is, I truly fucking doubt he gives a shit.
Fucker doesn't care about anything except his fights and his money.
"I'm on a job." She says, her eyes never once leaving the crowd though the corner of her mouth lifts into a half smile, something she gives me like it's a peace offering. Fuck knows why she wants to be my friend but no matter what I say to her she's always so fucking nice to me in return.
The worst type of nice too, the genuine type. Like she actually believes I'm worth the respect she gives me, not just that my reputation demands it.
"Oh yeah? You getting cash for that or still hoarding those diamonds like some rich bitch housewife?" I say, sipping at my own drink.
She shrugs. "I've got my own plans for them. Nothing like a safety net to get you through to retirement."
A snort bursts out of me, she's a funny little fucking thing. "Kid, if you make it to retirement you'll be the first fucking miracle to occur in the Bay. Is our friend here tonight or are you flying solo?"
It's a dumb question, even if D'Ardo isn't here tonight then one of his shitty flunkies will be keeping an eye on her for him.
She shrugs again. "He's doing business with the Viper over in the backrooms. Drugs and new girls for the strip joint, I think. I didn't bother with the details."
Bullshit. I don't think this kid misses a goddamn thing that happens around her. "Well, enjoy your night. Make sure you put money on me, the other guy hasn't got a chance."
That half-smile reappears. "They never fucking do."
I throw my bag down in the corner and unzip it, taping my hands securely. No need in busting them up so bad I can't work, not for a run-of-the-mill sort of fight like tonight. The jeering and shouting around me lets me know what my opponent thinks of this.
"Pussies strap up! Afraid of a little pain, Butcher?" The sarcasm drips from the dickhead's voice and I smirk back.
"No fucking point breaking my hands on your death, I have others to rack up this week." I glance up to take the cocky cunt in, the smirk never falling away from his ugly mug.
He's definitely an ex-con. Perfect, the rough and unrefined brawling on someone who's fought in lockup is exactly what I'm craving. I strip off my shirt and roll my shoulders back, pushing the tension out of my muscles until I'm loose and light on my feet again. It's like my body loses the tether it has on the Earth and I'm made of fucking air, quick and impossible to land a real hit on.
The doors at the end of the room open and D'Ardo steps through, with the Viper and a handful of their men following behind him. I jerk my head at him and he smirks back, stalking up to the little girl of his obsession and joining her for a drink as they get ready to watch me fight.
I stride into the cage like it's my second home, because it fucking is. This is where I grew up, learned how to become the man I am, killed for the first time, and made enough money to eat. This is where Johnny Illium became the Butcher, and there isn't a man in the Bay who could best me here.