The roar of the crowd was all but lost on Ansel as he locked gazes with his opponent. It was their third fight, and the odds were in Ansel’s favor, though that didn’t stop his partner from giving a good effort.

After all, Ansel had never lost a fight in his career. How could he?

It’s almost becoming tedious, Ansel thought as the announcer introduced the fighters. Unless they wrangle one of my brothers into the ring, I will continue to win these fights.

“And now, for the part of the show you have come to observe!” the master of ceremonies chortled into his hanging microphone. The man was barely five feet tall, but his booming voice more than made up for his lack of size. “Our feature fight of the night, here at the glorious MGM Grand, Las Vegas!”

Screaming ensued, and the small man’s smile widened as he waited for effect. When he was certain he had everyone’s attention, he continued his spiel.

“In the blue trunks, at five-feet-eleven, weighing one hundred ninety-four pounds from Dayton, Ohio, Harley “The Torch” Calverson!”

The crowd booed and cheered, but the emcee’s voice droned on as his trainer, Louis, quickly rubbed Ansel’s shoulders.

“You’ve got this,” Louis whispered in his ear. “He’s going down!”

“And in the red trunks, from London, England, our returning champion: six-feet-two and weighing in at two hundred four pounds, Ansel “The Dragon” Williams!”

If the mob was excited before, the mere sound of Ansel’s name sent them into a frenzy.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the emcee, “let’s hear it for the fight of the year!”

The din was unbearable, but Ansel had long since learned to block out the noise.

Once upon a time, the women and businessmen sitting mere feet away would have made him dizzy with confusion. Those days had now long since passed.

Tedious, Ansel thought again, but he refocussed his attention on Calverson.

“You know what to do,” Louis called after him, and Ansel had to hold himself back from rolling his gray eyes as he bounced toward the other boxer. Of course, he knew what to do.

They touched gloves and waited for the bell.

When the round commenced, Harley did his traditional opening jab, but Ansel was used to it, stepping back to counter with a bolo punch, followed by an uppercut. The lumbering giant slipped to the side, trying to regain his stance. Ansel didn’t give him the chance—he was relentless, plowing Calverson with a spray of blows to his kidneys and head.

The Torch fell against the ropes, his gloves trying to protect his face and body in unison, but he was no match for the rain of punches. In seconds, Harley was on the ground, and Ansel was being pulled back to avoid doing any further damage.

The referee declared a knock out, and the spectators exploded. The fight had lasted less than a minute.

“Holy shit!” Louis screamed. “That was a record! That was a record!”

Ansel barely heard any of it. His eyes had fallen to the front row, where a line of stoic faces stared back up at him: particularly Tony Valducci’s, who slowly shook his head. He was the only one who wasn’t cheering for Ansel, and he felt a stab of apprehension in his gut.

Not my problem, Ansel thought, turning back toward the emcee and the referee. He picked the wrong bird.

His gloved hand was raised into the air, and even standing beside the announcer, Ansel could barely hear what was being said. It was the usual blather, he was sure. His accomplishments and titles were being listed, and as his entourage surrounded him, Ansel allowed the circus to continue.

Once that was done, he nodded at Harley, and the two boxers hugged in a show of good sportsmanship. Ansel’s mind, however, was still on the row of displeased men sitting ringside.

I guess I’m going to hear about this when I get back to the staging area, he thought, grunting to himself. It wasn’t his first tango with the mob, but it was his first encounter with the mob from Las Vegas.

“I’m heading back,” he told Louis, and his trainer nodded, still beaming.

He acts as if every win is the first one, Ansel thought, shaking his head. He enjoys this freak show more than anyone.

He wondered what the former heavyweight was going to do when Ansel retired—probably find another lost cause like him no doubt.

Ansel fought his way up the aisle, touching the hands of adoring fans as he moved toward the quietness of his dressing room.

Suddenly, the shine of a dark eye caught his attention and he froze in his tracks, pausing to look up at the sultry brunette in the black sequined dress leaning back against the wall.

Their gazes met, and Ansel blinked for a minute, his breath in his throat. The woman’s beautiful face broke into an alluring smile, and she licked her lips.

“Hi,” she mouthed.

Ansel’s brow furrowed, and he continued his way to his dressing room, scowling slightly to himself. In the hall, some fans caught up to him, their voices all around him.

“You were incredible!”

“Amazing fight!”

“I knew you had this!”

“Can I get your autograph, Dragon? I love you so much!”

The praises and platitudes were almost as deafening as the insanity in the arena, but Ansel barely acknowledged anyone anymore. He fell into his dressing room and forcefully slammed the door closed before sinking onto his sofa and spitting out his mouth guard.

It was customary for him to have spoken to the emcee after the fight. Unfortunately, Ansel was starting to run out of victory phrases he could use without sounding repetitive.

They can just cut and paste some statement together like a collage. What the hell else can I possibly say? I’m a fighter, for Christ’s sake, not a writer.

Louis threw open the door and rushed inside, wearing a broad smile on his face.

“There are a dozen reporters out there waiting on you!” his trainer told him happily. “Get dressed so you can meet them, and then we’ll go celebrate!”

“Celebrate?” Ansel repeated. The word was almost bitter on his tongue. What was there to celebrate?

“Yes, celebrate!” Louis chirped in his usual high energy form. “You were—”

“Amazing, incredible, top drawer,” Ansel interjected, his British accent only accentuating the sarcasm in his tone. “Right. Can we go home now? I’m not in the mood to sign autographs and have my arse kissed, if you don’t mind.”

Louis’ smile faltered.

“Why are you always so miserable after a fight?” he demanded. “Do you know how many men would cut off their own balls to be in your position right now?”

“Then maybe you should go collect someone else’s testicles,” Ansel retorted. “I’m sick of all this fussing.”

“You’re becoming overconfident,” Louis muttered. “Most people in your shoes would consider themselves lucky.”

“Do I seem ungrateful?” Ansel asked dryly, throwing his feet onto the sofa. “Forgive me.”

Louis’ dark eyes narrowed. “You’re becoming embittered,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the sofa. “What’s going on with you these days?”

Ansel closed his eyes, considering the question. What could he say? Where could he start? He wasn’t even sure of the answer, of how to put it into words.

There was a knock at the door, saving him from having to answer.

“Go away!” Louis yelled, but then the door swung inward, and Ansel opened his eyes to see who dared cross his mentor.

He slowly sat up.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” Louis said curtly, not recognizing the two men who now stood in the doorway. “Ansel is not taking visitors right now.”

“Surely, he can make an exception for us,” Tony Valducci said with his hands behind his back, strolling inside the room, his gorilla bodyguard close at his heels. “Ain’t that right, Ansel?”

“Have them bring the car around, Louis,” Ansel said flatly. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Louis glowered.

“No!” he snapped. “We are in the middle of a discussion!”

“One we can continue over dinner,” Ansel sighed. “We’ll do that celebrating thing you mentioned.”

Louis eyed the well-dressed stranger and then glanced back at his protégé. “Ansel, I don’t think—”

“Oh, for the love of God, man!” Ansel snapped. “Just leave us alone for five bloody minutes! Can’t you wait to give me a tongue lashing?”

He had not meant to sound as angry as he did, but it was the only way his trainer would leave him alone. Ansel didn’t want him to be there for whatever happened next. He watched as Louis’ lean face grew stony.

“I guess I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” he replied, storming out of the room.

Tony wore a bemused expression on his face as the door slammed in Louis’ wake.

“He’s emotional for someone who just had his man win the fight,” he commented, turning his attention to the boxer. “I’d say he’s in a worse mood than I am.”

Ansel shrugged.

“You know what they say,” he replied lightly. “Trainers are worse than mothers.”

Tony smiled coldly. “I ain’t never heard that one, but it does make sense. I guess he feels like he gave birth to ya.” He held Ansel’s gaze for a long moment before turning to his body guard. “Luca, leave us.”

The huge man did as he was told, leaving Ansel alone with the mobster.

“Something you want to say to me, kid?” Tony asked.

“About what?” Ansel asked innocently. “Oh! I forgot to ask. Did you enjoy the fight?”

The amusement fell from Tony’s expression in the blink of an eye, and without warning, he lashed out to slap Ansel across the face.

“You were not supposed to win that fight!” he yelled. “What part of that did I not make clear?”

Ansel shrugged indifferently, rubbing his face where the gangster’s handprint stained his cheek.

“You were perfectly clear,” he retorted. “But I also thought I was clear when I told you I wasn’t throwing a fight for anyone. No disrespect, Mr. Valducci.”

Tony narrowed his eyes at him.

His attempt to seem intimidating is failing miserably, Ansel thought, but he kept his comments to himself. No sense in adding fuel to the fire.

“You cost me four hundred thousand dollars,” Tony growled. “How you gonna pay that back?”

Ansel snorted before he could stop himself.

“With all due respect, Mr. Valducci, I would not think that four hundred grand would make or break you,” he replied calmly, rising to his feet and unwrapping the tape from his hands. “I feel like you’re trying to throw your weight around here.”

And that is a lot of weight, Ansel noted, trying not to gape at the fat man’s belly protruding from his belt. How does he even find pants that size?

Tony’s face grew red, and he gaped at the boxer.

“I can’t tell if you’re cocky or stupid,” he said.

“Maybe both,” Ansel replied pleasantly. “Now, if you don’t mind…” He trailed off and looked purposefully at the clock.

Tony’s face was almost purple with fury as he reached into his waistband, withdrawing a pistol from his pants.

Ansel tried not to laugh. That man is going to blow off his own sack one day. He is much too obese to be wearing a firearm like that.

“Your fancy boxing moves ain’t gonna protect you from a bullet, you little shit!” Tony snarled, drawing close. He pointed the pistol directly toward Ansel’s forehead, and as Ansel waited for the mobster to act, he could see the veins in his forehead throbbing.

“This is not necessary,” Ansel said, swiping the gun away from his face as if it were a toy. “And it’s certainly not going to solve anything.”

Tony’s jaw almost hit the floor in shock. He raised the gun again and aimed it, ready to fire, but before he could make another move, Ansel’s face transformed.

His chin jutted forward into an elongated reptilian head, nostrils flaring. A mishmash row of gleaming pointed teeth protruded from his mouth, and Ansel’s gray eyes became glowing yellow embers of fury. His lips curled slightly, exposing the jagged incisors, a long, thick tongue falling from his mouth as he took in the look of horror on Tony’s face.

The old man stepped back, his face opaque with panic.

“What the—?”

Ansel opened his mouth and released a roar so loud, it shook the entire room. Tony passed out immediately, his corpulent body collapsing onto the ground.

The door flew open and Luca appeared, his face twisted in shock as he stared at his boss lying on the floor.

“What happened?” he demanded, rushing to Tony’s side.

Ansel stepped closer to knock the discarded gun under the sofa before Luca could see it, and his expression when the bodyguard turned to him for an explanation was one of concern.

“I couldn’t say!” Ansel exclaimed. “He heard that terrible ruckus and fainted dead away! What on earth was that noise?”

Luca didn’t respond, patting his boss’ face. A second later, Tony’s eyes opened. He gasped as he saw Ansel staring down at him.

“Diavolo!” he hissed, pointing at Ansel with a long accusing finger. “Diavolo!”

Luca glanced at the boxer.

“What happened?” he growled, jumping to his feet and reaching for his own firearm.

Ansel stifled a sigh, preparing to shift again, but Tony struggled to his feet.

“No!” Tony screamed. “No! We gotta get the hell out of here!”

Luca glanced uncertainly at his boss. Tony, however, was already scrambling to his feet, halfway out the door.

“Cheerio!” Ansel called. “Thanks for coming to watch the fight!”

Luca cast him one last look before taking off after Valducci.

Ansel shook his head, sighing as he turned to stare at his reflection in the mirror. Then he began to laugh.

I wish Nora had been here to see that, he thought wistfully. She would have loved it.

He stopped laughing as soon as he processed that thought. It had been unexpected, but he knew it had come from seeing that brunette in the hall. She had made him stop in his tracks—the resemblance to his beloved had been uncanny.

She was obviously not Nora, and Ansel knew it perfectly, but she would suffice.

If I squint and the lighting is dim, he reasoned. He was aware that the longing for Nora was not going to be sated by a brunette, no matter how many he went through trying to replace her. But he still grew tired of being alone, of missing her when part of him knew he would probably never see her again.

Ansel spun from the glass and hurried toward the door. He hoped the brunette was still around.