Two guards wearing black suits and earpieces approach me as I walk toward the open hangar door.
“Excuse me, miss,” they say. “Do you have the—”
“Flyer?” I ask, pulling it from my bag.
But they’ve already seen my face, and they know who I am.
“Sorry, Ms. Marino,” they both diffidently say in unison. They cast quick, nervous glances at each other.
“It’s okay,” I tell them, smiling.
“Just doing our jobs.”
“Come on, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it, I won’t bite. Where’s Duncan? I need to speak to him.”
“There’s a closed-off area down in the back,” the guard on the left informs me. He’s got an accent I can’t place. Dad always liked to hire new immigrants; he says they’re easier to control. “There’s a guard outside, too.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding. “Thank you.”
“Ms. Marino,” the guard says, stepping in front of me when I move to enter the hangar.
“Yes?”
He hesitates, seems to be trying to figure out the most diplomatic words to use. Eventually, he just spits it out.
“Are you carrying a weapon?” He holds out a numbered tag. The number reads eighty-six. “If you don’t mind.”
“No,” I tell him. I open my bag, let him peer inside. “Satisfied?”
“Do you mind if I look inside myself, Ms. Marino?”
I sigh, but give him my whole bag. He rummages through it quickly, before nodding and giving it back to me.
“I’m really sorry, but—”
“My father’s orders,” I say. “It’s okay, I understand.”
No weapons allowed inside. A wise decision, considering some people are going to lose a lot of money tonight when Duncan wins.
“Your father’s orders,” the guard echoes, nodding.
“It’s okay. Really, you guys need to relax.”
But I know they can’t. Dad hates mistakes. Make one, and you are likely to end up in hospital with a cast around your leg.
Your second mistake puts you underground.
“One more thing, Ms. Marino.”
“What is it?”
“Your father wants to speak with you.”
A pang hits me right in the gut. Why would Dad want to see me?
“I’ll speak to him later.”
“He left specific instructions for you to see him immediately.”
I sigh. “Thank you.”
I have no intention of seeing him immediately. I’ll see him when I damn well choose to.
I step into the hangar, and immediately wince, shielding my eyes from the bright spotlights. There is dust in the air, in the beams, and it looks like dripping liquid light.
The spotlights illuminate a steel-mesh cage sitting in the center of the enormous space. It’s elevated on a platform about five-feet high, and facing each of its six sides are bleachers that rise up at a steep angle.
Already, the place is packed. I can faintly smell booze on the air. I cast my eyes around, studying the place. Toward the right wall of the hangar is the bookie’s station.
I lick my lips, shake my head.
I hate this. I hate that they bet on Duncan like he’s some kind of dog. They bet against him, want to see him beaten up, broken, lose.
When I first started going to Duncan’s fights, I used to think it was cool. He’d be the winner, the star, and we’d celebrate together.
We’d drink together afterward and laugh and chat. And Duncan would never want to talk about the fights, and I always would. And Duncan would always ask me questions about what I was doing in college, as if it could somehow be more interesting than underground fighting with fucking senators in attendance.
But now I feel differently. The glamor has worn off. It’s been getting that way for a while. The excitement has faded, and I’m starting to see it for what it truly is. Duncan is, to Dad, to the other mob bosses and attendees, nothing but an animal in a fight.
They all want to see blood and make money.
Now… now the fights are different. Now I see a man I care for with all of my heart taking punches, and sometimes it’s worse when he throws them.
I’ve watched Duncan snap a man’s leg in two, choke a man blue, turn a face to red and white mush in a flurry of punches.
I worry what it does to him.
What it’s doing to me.
After thirty-three fights, after helping to clean his wounds, after watching him wince in pain just getting out of bed the next day… now I hate it.
I blink myself out of reverie, look around the hanger for where Duncan’s private partition will be. Toward the left wall is the bar. Drinks are sold liberally, and you can even get a little something else on the side if you know how to ask for it. But guards walk through the area regularly. Anybody getting too rowdy gets thrown out.
I begin to make my way down toward the back of the hangar. I can see large, roofed partition, a building built inside the hanger.
A screech of laughter snatches my attention, and I see the same three girls that were in the limousine walk past me, arms linked. They’re still wobbly, and they are moving in the same direction I am, flicking their hair, drawing attention to themselves.
I follow them slowly, all the way to the back room where Duncan is. A guard approaches them, and he puts his hands out.
“I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “You can’t come back here.”
“But we just want to talk to Creature,” one of the girls says, her voice a drawn-out whine.
“Off limits,” the guard says.
The girls all look at each other, and then turn big, puppy-eyes on the guard. They blink eyelashes at him, pout their lips.
“Please? We only want to wish him good luck.”
“A kiss for luck!” one of the girls blurts, and they all descend into giggling. “Maybe something more.”
I roll my eyes.
“You can see him later,” the guard says, his voice growing sterner. “When he’s fighting.”
But the girls still don’t give up, and I grow irritated. I walk around them with a sigh, and meet the guard’s eye. He nods at me, swings open the door. The hinges grind.
“Why can she go in?” I hear one of the girls complain.
Another one hisses at her to shut up. “That’s Mr. Marino’s daughter!”
I turn around, meet her eyes. She gives me the best bitch-look she can muster as the door shuts.
And then I’m in darkness, and blink rapidly, seeing spots while my eyes adjust. A pair of strong arms wraps me up from behind, shocking me, and I feel warm breath against the back of my neck, feel lips against my skin.
“I’ve been waiting for you all night, Dee.”