Especially not some mouthy fucking dickhead who was definitely someone’s bitch in prison. You can always tell, it's the mouthy ones over fucking compensating. I keep that little fucking smirk on my face as the guy walks in after me, laughing and joking with his little buddies like this is a game.
The referee, someone who's just there to call the fights really, steps onto a small platform and shouts, "Last call for your bets. The Butcher verses Diablo, first blood or knockout."
Not fucking likely.
"I'm going to enjoy making you my bitch, Butcher." the guy calls out, blowing me a kiss and yeah, I fucking called it. Some guy wifed this guy up good.
"You won't be breathing in about three minutes dickhead, mark my words."
The bell rings and he pounces at me, all punches and elbows with zero finesse. He doesn't land a single one, his fists barely graze my biceps as I duck and weave. I just need a little opening, just that moment he's off balance and he's fucking mine. Mine to kill and add to the ever-growing tally of men who met the Butcher and become nothing but a leaking corpse in a back alleyway.
The shouts and jeering of the crowd melts away as I watch him, throwing a few punches of my own that land perfectly, and then finally he stumbles, my ankle hooking his and planting him on his ass.
Gotcha.
I throw my mass at him, straddling him and knocking him senseless with a single hit to the temple. I snap a few of his ribs between my knees as I position myself on him, my thighs stronger than his feeble attempts to dislodge me. I can see the whites of his eyes as his spits out onto the mat, wheezing up at me.
"Blood. Th-that's fucking b-blood!"
I grin down at him, my forearm presses over his windpipe, pressing down slowly until I feel the muscles and cartilage give way under me. "Only pussies tap out. I don't fight for anything less than death. Who's the bitch now, Diablo?"
I push up and stand over him as he gasps out, his arms pinwheeling and his fingers scratching at the mat uselessly. Goodnight, motherfucker, I stomp on his chest, over and over again, until I'm sure every damn one of his ribs have snapped and all his internal organs are skewered with bone shards.
Nothing fucking better than listening to the man wheeze and scream, the gurgling sound of him choking on his own blood is like a balm over my fractured and fucked-up soul. Maybe someday this will feel less fucking soothing but when that day comes I'll have to put a bullet in my brain because there isn't much left living for as it is. I can't fucking lose that too.
I look up to find D'Ardo grinning at me as I step out of the cage, motioning me over to the door to get a little peace from the shouting and betting of the crowd. The noise is fucking hell to my ears, even with the high of the kill still thrumming through my veins and I swoop down to grab my shit, pulling a jacket over my shoulders as I follow D'Ardo out into the warm, summer night.
His flunkies all spread out and keep watch over us as if we're about to be jumped by some street punks and I roll my eyes at them as I grab my cigarettes, lighting up and taking a lungful deep into my chest and holding it there for a second.
I feel fucking empty.
Way too soon after a fight to feel like this, fuck, maybe I am losing my edge. If I'm not the Butcher, riding the highs of the hunt and the cage, then who the fuck am I? D'Ardo watches me, quiet for once in his fucking life until the unease I'm feeling spills out.
"You ever get sick of all of this?" The blood on my hands soaks through the paper of my cigarette and gives off a fucked up smell. Even that doesn't make a difference.
D'Ardo shakes his head. "Nope. My man, you need a side project. Something just for you, something to keep your mind busy when everything else is sending you up the fucking wall."
Side project.
He's talking about the little girl he's stalking, the one still sitting up at that bar as if she's not afraid of what goes down in this place. Something dark settles in my gut about it but I brush it off. Doesn't fucking matter, nothing in this city does.
"And what do you think I should do, eh? Find myself some pussy to keep? What the fuck sort of side project does The Butcher take up, anyway?"
D'Ardo chuckles under his breath and shrugs, taking my cigarette and puffing away at it like he doesn't have his own pack in his back pocket. "Once I own my Starbright, I'll have her chained to my bed. Only place to keep pussy is on a leash."
I blow out a breath. Whatever the fuck his mother did to him, it was bad. I've never seen a woman climb out of his bed with her mind intact. I should care more about this, I should give a fuck about what he's doing, but I just can't find my fucking conscience.
"You'll get bored of her like you get bored of all the rest." I steal back the cigarette.
He shakes his head. "Nah, there's something about this one. I'm going to take my time in breaking her open because no one else will ever fucking compare."
I take one last deep inhale and flick the butt into a puddle to join the rest of the trash in the alleyway. "You're a sick man, D'Ardo."
He grins back at me. "So are you, Johnny-boy."
Chapter Three
Odie
The only thing worse than finding out my father is a spineless drug addict who has no sense of honor is being stuck in a private jet with him for thirteen hours.
I lock myself in the small bedroom and refuse to come out for the entire flight. I don't get any sleep, instead I stare up at the ceiling and try to convince myself that everything is going to be okay but my mind just keeps skipping back to my mother.
How could she do this?
My father had always treated me poorly but my mother... I truly thought she loved me. At least enough to keep me safe. How many times had she thrown herself in front of me when my father had beaten me? To take that pain for me, only to stand by when my father and his men had shoved me into the car.
After she started drinking too much, right around the time my father began taking her jewelry to sell to pay for his habit, I was so angry about his abuse that I blamed her for staying with him. For being with him in the first place. She is a beautiful woman, even with the alcohol she's more beautiful than me. She could have had any man in the world and yet she chose him, a criminal who profits on the addictions of others. But my anger was never something I spoke to her about and it has long since burned out. I even felt guilty about how much of the hatred I have for my father had been diverted into being upset with her. But she can't have ever really loved me, not if she's let me go like this, without a single word! The grief climbs up my throat and bursts out as sobs that I can't contain.
It's a terrible feeling.
I have no one, nothing, what even is the point of being here? Why should I even continue breathing when every tether I have to this life has just snapped? If I had a knife I would carve my own heart out, just to stop the pain in my chest at this betrayal. The sobbing gets worse, the tears streaming down my face until I'm a wet mess.
I cannot think about my buyer, this man who will be my husband.
I've only ever slept with Louis, something that had come about from years of friendship. He had done his best to protect me from my father's rage, chaperoning me to the beach whenever there were large parties and gatherings at the cottages my father would hide us in. It was always after one of these that he would become violent, the alcohol and drugs mixing into a cocktail of rage in his blood.