“Who wants a piece of me?” he called.
“I’m up for it, if you are, old man.”
Slowly, Antonio turned to face one of Thomas’s right-hand men. A dark gray hoodie partially obscured the younger man’s face, but his slight smirk beamed brightly from the depths.
The fighter vibrated with animosity, and Antonio’s radar blipped. The man didn’t like him. Dirty fight. Excellent. Darkness rose inside him and he didn’t squelch it.
He’d been itching for this since his last round with Ravi in Punggur Besar. Rodrigo hadn’t matched even a tenth of Antonio’s skill and the fight had left him unsatisfied. Plus, Antonio and Rodrigo must have been friendly at some point in the past and that alone had caused Antonio to hold back.
There would be no holding back required with this matchup.
Antonio let his gaze travel down the length of his opponent and snorted his derision. “Hope your moves back up your mouth.”
“Only one way to find out.”
“What do they call you?” His real name was irrelevant, but the nicknames fighters adopted often gave clues about their style, their mind-set.
“Cutter.” The insolent lift of his chin revealed eyes so light blue, they were almost colorless. “Because you’re gonna walk away with my cuts all over your face.”
Or in some cases, when you were good at reading your competition, nicknames revealed their weaknesses. Cutter was arrogant. Overconfident. Eager to prove himself against the legendary Falco.
Of course, Antonio had known all of that the moment Cutter had labeled him “old man.” And this punk was about to be schooled on what age meant for a man’s technique and skill.
In minutes, Antonio and Cutter had suited up and squared off. Antonio sized him up quickly now that his opponent wasn’t hiding under shapeless clothing. Muscular but not too bulky. Blond hair shaved close to his scalp. Viking-style tattoos across his torso and wrapped around his biceps. Feral sneer firmly in place. Nothing to differentiate him from the dozens of other fighters in his age and weight class—which was probably what pissed Cutter off the most.
The metal cage gleamed around them, providing a safe backdrop for the two men to tear each other up, no holds barred. No chance of being thrown from the ring...and no chance of escape.
There was nowhere to hide and nowhere to run. And blood would be spilled before long.
The younger man feinted and went low. Amateur. Antonio circled away and spun to catch him off guard with a sideways kick to his hip.
Cutter’s retribution came in a series of attacks that kept Antonio busy deflecting. Duck. Spin. Feint. The rhythm became comfortable. Mindless.
In a split second, Antonio found a hole. Attack. His opponent was a lightweight, so Antonio had a few pounds on him, which he used ruthlessly to force Cutter against the fence. Going for the man’s mouth was a no-brainer.
Antonio’s fist connected and Cutter’s flesh separated. The scent of blood rolled over him.
Cutter sprang forward with an amazing show of strength, fury lacing his expression and weighting his punches. A lucky cuff caught Antonio across the temple before he could block.
Pain exploded in his head, blurring his vision. Images of Vanessa’s red hair ricocheted through his consciousness. Images of her in various scenarios. The two of them shouting at each other. Of her talking. Laughing. Of Antonio with her, skin bared, his hand on her flesh, mouth on hers.
Something about the memories pricked at him, sitting strangely. Something wasn’t right. He couldn’t—
He had no time to think.
Show no weakness. Blindly, he circled away, trying to give himself a moment to let his mind clear. The moment he regained his faculties, he went on the offensive. Uppercut, double kick. No mercy.
Often two fighters left the ring shaking hands. MMA was more gentlemanly than outsiders would assume. That wasn’t the case in this ring.
In moments, it was finished. Antonio wiped the trickle of blood leaking into his right eye. Cutter lay crumpled on the mat, groaning.
Endorphins soared through his body like bullets. Memories of his wife crowded his mind. The metallic scent of blood stung his nose and he craved more.
“Anyone else want a go at me?” Antonio challenged.
No one volunteered.
Eight
Antonio sneaked into the house and closed himself off in his bedroom to clean up before anyone saw him. Anyone, meaning Caitlyn. The split skin near his eyebrow wasn’t life threatening but it wasn’t pretty, either. Nor was he good company, not with adrenaline still swirling through his body like a tornado.