How much did I drink? Like… four bottles? Or was it six?
I think I’m substantially drunker than I thought. The alternative to my inebriation is that the world is moving, and I’m the one that’s completely still…which seems unlikely.
I’m not sure how long I sit there. Maybe a minute, maybe twenty. I’m dead to the world, attempting to take deep breaths and ground myself physically, mentally, and metaphorically.
How the hell did I get here?
Not the bathroom, but here, in a goddamn underground fighting ring? I thought the wildest thing I’d do in my life is be an accomplice to an after school fight involving Roman or maybe break into a place or two because he convinced me to tag along. But now I’m hanging out in an arena filled with every shade of criminal in existence.
Mickey said this is the last time. I believe him.
I think.
As long as he comes out of this alive, I’m willing to move on from this criminal chapter of our lives and pretend to be Alice and Michael, not Bonnie and Clyde.
Taking one last steadying breath, I force myself to get up. I stumble a couple of times before I make it to the sink to wash my hands.
If Roman saw me like this, he’d probably kill me.
Actually, I’m pretty sure he’d love having a drunk Isabella to himself. But a drunk Isabella alone in the bathroom of an underground fighting ring?
Wait, not alone.
There’s… is that a man?
Am I imagining things? Did I accidentally go to the men’s bathroom?
The man narrows the space between us, taking up all the oxygen. He’s the size of a mountain, maybe bigger. With long black hair tied back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, sides shaved to show a massive scar. He smells like danger and looks like he wouldn’t hesitate to turn my lights off. Permanently.
Oh God.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
I broke my promise to Mickey.
Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.
“What’s your name?”
He creeps closer. Every cell in my body screams at me to get out of there. I need Damien. I shouldn’t have left his side.
My heart rattles in my chest. He was one of the men from the Vargas Cartel that Damien told me to look out for because of the stolen cocaine.
His words ring in my head.
People like us hide our weaknesses so someone else doesn’t hit us where it hurts.
I’m trying to rationalize my safety with myself. The bouncer would have taken his gun off him, right? So I won’t get shot. Not like any of that matters. He and I know he won’t need a weapon to kill me. He has to be at least triple my size.
I push myself against the sink and try to inch toward the door, but he reads my thoughts. The next thing I know, he’s standing in front of the exit and staring at me with an excited glint in his eyes that raises the hairs on my body.
“Isa,” I whisper.
I chant Damien’s name in my head, thinking—hoping—he’d be able to hear me and come to my rescue. Roman would be too busy, and the last thing I want is for him to start a fight with this guy.
“Isabella?”
My throat seizes. How does he know my name? What else does he know about me? Could he know about Jeremy?
I was wrong. I was so, so wrong. Mickey isn’t the one I should have been worried about. I am.
I’m the weakest link. I am Roman’s weakness.
He owes the cartel money. They want to make him pay.
To destroy him, they only need to look at me.
I shouldn’t have had anything to drink, shouldn’t have gone to the bathroom alone, shouldn’t have left Damien’s side.
“What do you want?” I squeak.
He takes a step toward me, and I match it back. “Our money. But we’ll settle for you.”
My heart stops for a split second.
Everything stills.
Then I open my mouth to scream.
Chapter 28
ROMAN
Sweat trickles down my back.
Every inch of my body burns.
I glance at the wall behind the big fucker’s head, where the time stares at me in big, red, blinking numbers.
Fourteen minutes and thirty-six seconds since the match started.
Another three minutes and twenty-four seconds, and another two grand will be added to my wallet. If we last to the twentieth, five grand will be added.
They want a show, not a quick knockout. But if one of us is still standing by the twenty-fifth minute, people get bored, and the money stops coming. This isn’t boxing. There’s no break every three minutes. So we’re tired and sloppy, but it still makes for a good show.
Vargas’s fighter looks even shittier than me. The guy is probably the best fighter that gang has. He’s strong but slow. His right hook is deadly, and my head is still swimming after failing to block one. But I’d wager that Bella has better endurance than him.