My focus is on Roman and the tension lining his face, deepening the further we descend into the basement. With an aching heart, I reach for his hand and give him a reassuring squeeze. As the sounds grow, the taut muscles of his shoulders relax with predatory ease, head tilting up with the confidence of a man who owns the place.
It isn’t just one or two people making some noise in the basement; it sounds like a whole crowd. The second we make it to the bottom of the stairs, I hate how right I am.
The putrid smell of sweat, booze, and cigarettes singes my nostrils. Bodies clump together, jumping up and down, fists pumping the air as they jeer. Scantily clad women move between the throngs of men, some holding drinks, others hanging off a man or two’s arm.
Two temporary walls cage me in, so the only choice is to move forward into the throng or back the way we came. I arch my neck, squinting my eyes to get a better look at the people poking out just above the wall.
Suddenly, the underground basement comes alive. Everyone jumps to their feet, roaring and screaming their heads off. The men and women closer to the entrance turn and give us their backs, joining in with the cheering.
My blood heats while my skin turns cold. I can barely hear my thoughts over the mixture of people and music… and the smell. This is almost too much for me to handle. There’s too much noise, too many people. I need air.
The bodies part as Roman pushes me forward with a hand on my back. Then I see it: the stage.
No, not a stage; a platform.
A fighting ring.
That’s what Roman is here for. That’s why he packed clothes and cash into his bag. He’s going to fight.
In the ring, a man as big as the bouncer straddles another equally large man. His fists fly, one right after the other, landing on the other person each time. His hands are up in an attempt to block his face, but it isn’t enough to stop the assault.
Fingers wrap around my hand, making me jolt back. But I can do nothing to stop Roman from dragging me behind him. My mind is running a thousand miles per hour, and it still isn’t fast enough to comprehend the fact that Mickey will be in there.
He’s going to fight someone.
And he’s going to get paid for it.
How long has he been doing this? When I returned to Mickey after I was taken away as a teen, I thought he seemed a little calmer. I explicitly remember thinking he wasn’t itching for a fight every few minutes and brushing it off as puberty. He must have been around fifteen years old.
Oh God, is this how he paid for all my gifts?
How did he keep this from me? How did I not know? I can’t count how many times Mickey has picked me up, bruised and bloody, and I barely questioned it because he would give me the same answers each time.
They deserved it.
You should see the other guy.
Don’t you worry your pretty little head.
My stomach churns and I focus on the back of Roman’s head. I’m mildly aware of the strange looks I’m getting and the occasional scowl, but I’m reeling too much to fully pay attention. We go down a corridor, where the deafening noises are muted, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s been here before. I’m not sure when he might have had the time to drive to Chicago, but he’s moving around the place like this is his home.
Damien and Roman stop before a set of doors, where a man leans against the wall beside the entrance. He’s shorter than Mickey, with slightly smaller muscles and a tattoo of a rose peeking through his faded buzz cut.
He’s another gangster, if the teardrop tattoo and the skull on his neck are any indication.
“Hey, Bella,” he purrs.
A shiver rips down my spine. How does he know my name? Not Isa, but Bella? Only Mickey calls me that; no one else.
The way he’s looking at me isn’t leering. It isn’t ogling, either. The only word I can think of to describe it is challenging. He’s looking at me like he’s waiting to start a fight… with Roman.
“Isabella,” Roman corrects, squeezing my hand and pulling me behind him. I’m all too happy to oblige.
The man with the buzz cut raises a shoulder and drops it in a noncommittal shrug, clearly not caring what Roman wants me to be called. Pushing off the wall, the guy stuffs his hands into his pocket and moves closer to me.
“Did you like my handiwork on your boyfriend’s chest, mu?eca?”
Doll.
Even after all the comments I get from random men because of my childish hairdo, I can’t bring myself to retire the pigtails.
His question slowly registers. What does he mean about his handiwork on Mickey’s chest? When I look at Roman in question, he’s grinning from ear to ear like he’s pleased with something I said. Or didn’t say.