Chapter 1
The Killer
At first it was a sound almost imperceptible, like a hum. It felt as though the walls vibrated. They were whispering, calling my name.
I ignored the hum and kept fastening the bandages meticulously around my hands, never looking away from my reflection in the mirror.
Ready, I was ready. Another fight – fight number ten- since I had arrived in Rome and I had never lost a single match up to then.
Keep your head down, I reminded myself every time I felt a smug smile spread across my face. I wasn’t invincible, even though everyone told me I was. But I knew better.
I was a man, made of flesh and bones. I was a man of the streets, brought up and bred in the gutter. I was anything but invincible but I was a fighter. And I was ready, ready to do what I did best. Fight, destroy, bend at my will.
The hum kept rising. It crept up, through the walls from downstairs, where the club was- the small room I was living in, was just above the battlefield. I hadn’t had time to look for an apartment, I had only been in the city a month.
Thirty days and already I knew how things worked over there. Same as Naples, back home. A ghetto is a ghetto, when you’ve lived all your life in the street, you recognize one when you see it.
The crowd was getting rowdier, I could hear them stomping their feet on the floor. It was almost time.
“Hey. You are on,” Joe walked into my room then. He was all smiles as usual, rocking back and forth, unable to stand still.
Too much cocaine, it made him a little crazy. I told him once, but he had just shrugged it off and offered me some.
“I don’t take that shit,” I had said to him, waving it off.
I didn’t need drugs to feel high. I got high on other things, like freedom and the scent of a beautiful woman.
Joe was different. He loved money, he loved women but he needed that shit to feel good, to feel important. He wanted to feel part of the crowd. I didn’t. I didn’t give a damn.
“Coming,” I told him, securing the last strap around my hand.
No gloves during fights, that was the rule of the club. We could punch, kick, hit in any way we thought was best but no gloves.
It needed to be as entertaining as possible, as rough as possible. They wanted to see us fight like animals. And what was the difference anyway, between animals and men?
Honour, pride, instincts- we all strived for power.
I was a man and I was a fighter. And I was ready to take anyone down, no matter how.
The heat hit my face as soon as we walked down the stairs, into the club. The place smelled like cheap whiskey and money. Money everywhere, I could see people betting in one of the corners near the ring. Everyone was betting on me, the Killer.
Joe smiled at everyone, getting the crowd to clap hands while I walked up to my side of the ring.
He had elected himself my manager the first night I had taken down the winning champion. I had let him, even though I was a loner, because I didn’t know many people in Rome and Joe seemed to know his way around.
The air was sticky and heavy, too many people that night in the club, it had been filled to the maximum.
“Killer! Killer! Killer!” they shouted.
It wasn’t a hum anymore, it was a loud chorus. Everyone called out for me but I kept my face straight, lifting my hand up as a sign of respect, my stride confident and impetuous.
My rival was already in the ring, staring down at me, cursing and spitting on the floor.
I suppressed a smile, wanting to preserve my name, my reputation.
I was “The Killer.” I was the man with no heart, the man as cold as ice. A predator so deadly, I never let my opponents walk away on their own two feet.
One month in Rome and already I had earned a brand, new nickname.
I had been called so many things in my life- Shithead from the other kids living in the streets of Naples; Velvet Touch, when I had learned to pick pocket on buses; Iron Fist, when I had started fighting in the clubs over there.
Now I was gone, I had left Naples behind me, never wanting to go back, never wanting to stay in one place. I had to move, change cities with the same rapidity as I changed girls. The last thing I wanted was to stick around and get too involved in the crime business again. I had done my time, paid the price of stealing and living on the streets.
Nobody knew my story. I was going to be a different person in every city I stayed.
I was The Killer now.
“Kill him! Kill him!” some were shouting.
My eyes stayed on the other fighter. I took in the sight of him, how is body rocked back and forth, his hand trying to reach for the rope, but he kept losing his balance at every attempt.
“Killer, Killer,” the crowd invoked all around us then.
People wanted to see what they had paid for. They wanted to see the ‘Killer’ in action.
They want blood- I thought.
With a swift move, I grabbed him by the shoulders and held him tight in front of me. He was doomed and he knew it, too.
Panic flickered in the man’s eyes, as he blinked and tried to hit me, to push me away, but his fist came searching for my face with sloppy, slow moves. He was finished. He had no strength left in him.
That was when I made my final move. I pushed my leg up fast, hard in his stomach and I watched him crash on his knees, as I rolled my hand into a fist and slammed it hard on his face.
With a loud thud, the man landed on the floor coughing out blood. Both hands went to his face, to cover up the bruised, swollen eyes and then a ferocious roar erupted all around us.
The crowd was going wild, I could hardly hear the ding of the bell.
While the ref lifted my arm up as a sign of victory, I looked around the club and nodded, my face serious, unreadable, cold.
Ten fights, ten victories.
I felt unstoppable, I felt invincible but I knew better than to smile and show it off.
I kept my eyes on the target, my head on my shoulders and the words I’ve learned from the streets as a kid, always in my head. Those words were sacred to me. They were my Bible.
Never show anyone emotions or happiness. They can’t take away, what they don’t know what is yours. That is the first rule you learn, living and getting beaten up on the streets. You learn to be invisible and modest.
“Our Champion, Sebastian the Killer!” the speaker announced, as I got out of the ring and made my way upstairs again to clean up.
It was my own personal rule, to never turn to look at my rival after the match. I needed to feel nothing. It was just for the money. It was just a way to survive.