Mickey parallel parks on the street of an industrial area. There are a few cars around, but apart from it being ten o’clock at night, nothing is setting off my alarm bells. Or maybe my fight-or-flight senses are fried because sleeping inside a car is incredibly unpleasant, and I’m very much ready for bed.

Mickey kills the engine, then turns to cup my face. “Remember your promise, okay?”

All I can do is nod.

Don’t talk. Don’t look. Don’t scream. Stay by Damien, even though he looks like he could kill me with his bare hands. A man who looks like he carries a gun.

Click.

I can still hear the sound of the safety turning off as if it were happening again.

I’m not ready to die.

Mickey kisses my forehead before grabbing the bag from the back seat. He flicks off a text to God knows who and tugs me beneath his arm as we walk down the poorly lit street. He’s rigid, but there’s almost a bounce in his step and a slight smirk on his lips, like he’s excited.

What the hell is going to happen, and where on earth are we going? What if we’re going to a strip club or something? Or like an underground lair with a bunch of naked ladies? I don’t think I’d survive. Not because I’d stick out, or because I’ve grown up feeling men’s leering gazes, but I’m self-aware enough to know that I’m a damn jealous person.

I’m heating up enough at the thought of half-naked women looking at Mickey, or worse, of Roman looking at half-naked women… it wouldn’t be envy or jealousy I’d be feeling, it would be unbridled fury.

My heart works double time when we get to what looks like an abandoned warehouse, not exactly screaming strip club. But there was a brothel on the same street as Greg and Millie’s house, so who knows.

The streets in the vicinity are deserted except for the singular burly man standing next to an entrance off to the side of the warehouse. The place where he’s standing is illuminated by a single droplight. Shouting and music spill through the gaps in the door, growing louder the closer we get. Is it a club?

Damien steps out of the warehouse. “They’re with me.”

The bouncer puts a hand on Roman’s chest when we step toward the door. “Security check.”

An annoyed grunt leaves Roman’s throat, but he reluctantly peels himself away from me, lifting his arms from his sides. Jaw tight, brows low, lips curled, his disdain toward the man’s pat down is a living, breathing entity.

The bouncer checks the bag next, then turns to me.

“Don’t fucking touch her,” Roman warns.

Unfazed, the bouncer continues moving toward me, only to stop two feet away. “No check, no entry,” he says simply. There’s nothing untoward about how he looks at me, but it doesn’t stop my nerve endings from screaming.

“Touch her, and I’ll—”

“That isn’t necessary.” My new babysitter comes to my rescue at the same time I say, “It’s fine.”

I hope Mickey sees the plea in my eyes. I want to get this over with so I can crawl into bed and pretend my life is normal. “We need the money. It’s okay. Let him.”

There’s no mistaking the internal war unfolding behind Mickey’s steely eyes. “Do it.” The resignation is loud and clear in his voice, and I send him a silent thank you.

The bouncer is a lot more delicate with me than he was with Roman, which I put down to the fact that I’m a woman and I look like a grunge child in pigtails, wearing Mickey’s bleach-dyed hoodie.

He doesn’t hesitate to usher me through the doors, shooting the bouncer a scathing look. Damien’s I-don’t-give-a-shit demeanor isn’t adding to my comfort in the slightest when all I can hear is yelling.

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.