Wrapping his arm around my shoulders, he says, “This is Rico. He’s the fucking annoying cellmate I told you about.”
“I thought that was Tao?” I whisper.
Rico’s laugh bounces across the concrete hallway, and I feel self-conscious more than anything. Today, Mickey told me stories about his time in prison, but he’d get distracted and jump to another topic, so I never really got the full picture.
“You didn’t tell me that she’s funny, hombre. But no, bella, we like Tao.” He says the word with an accent, like he’s calling me beautiful, rather than my actual name. “Yang makes us money. We like money.”
Roman ignores him and turns to me. “Remember what I said about staying by Damien?”
I nod skeptically.
“That does not include Rico. You are not allowed to be alone with him. And you—” He whips around to Rico "—If I see you talking to Isabella, you’re a fucking dead man.”
From where I’m standing, I don’t think his threats are empty. Rico apparently disagrees. He must have a death wish because he gives Roman a big, goofy smile that says that he’s going to go out of his way to make sure we’re left alone together.
But it’s odd… I’ve never seen Mickey act so… civilly with another person after being taunted. Death threat aside, this is the first time I’ve seen him interact with someone else for more than five seconds without using his fists.
I never thought I’d see the day Roman Riviera has friends. I’m actually… proud of him. Now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t think he’s threatened Damien about anything, and Mickey clearly trusts him enough to be my part-time babysitter.
“And, Bella?” I chew the inside of my cheek and make a strained sound as Roman tips my chin up to him. “Eyes on me the whole time. I’m going to win the match for you.”
I can’t focus on his promise with how close his lips are to mine. I don’t want him to leave, and I don’t want him to fight. Even if it is for me.
“Alright, hermano. Get a room.” Rico claps Mickey on the shoulder. “Time to get you suited.”
Roman grunts and kisses my forehead. “Remember our promise.”
I nod and watch as the two of them walk down the hall to one of the doors. Their chests are both puffed, as if trying to out-posture one another. It’s kind of cute to see.
Mickey looks at me one last time and winks. Then Rico does the exact same thing and says, “Chica, you and me are gonna be the bestest friends.”
Front-row seats are meant to make you feel like the top of the food chain, but I feel anything but good about this. The beer Damien brought me is making me feel worse, but that could also be because it tastes like crap.
The ring is more daunting up close. With the arena-style seats, everyone here has a clear view of what’s going down on the platform.
Men pass money to other men, who then give them a ticket of some sort. I can’t hear who everyone is bidding on. I’ve heard Ares a couple of times, and the name Copper thrown around even more. I know for a fact Roman wouldn’t be caught dead with having Copper as a stage name.
It’s the calm before the storm. The atmosphere is buzzing with booze, nicotine, and anticipation. Everyone is high off the last match because one of the fighters had to be dragged out of the ring unconscious.
“Your boy’s good. He’ll be fine,” Damien says from beside me.
I glance over at him to find him staring at the hands I’ve been wringing since the second I sat down.
“Is Copper any good?”
He nods once. “The best.”
How the fuck was that meant to make me feel better?
His eyes narrow slightly. I would have missed it if I weren’t paying attention. He seems to communicate in micro-movements. Even though he doesn’t speak much, he misses nothing.
“So is Riviera,” he explains. “They’re both fast and agile. Same height and weight group. Both arrogant, with just as many wins.”
Again, I do not see how this is supposed to bring me peace.
“This is Copper’s crowd. Over there.” He nods toward the group of men in suits on the other side of the room, all with half-naked girls on their laps.
I don’t need to move closer to know they have money spilling out of their wallets. Golden chains hang around their necks beneath Armani suits that match their bulky golden watches and diamond rings.
“The Bratva,” Damien explains. “Copper’s on their payroll. To the Bratva and every other person in this room, Ares is a nobody. Copper will think he has the upper hand because this is his territory.”