“Did you like my handiwork on your boyfriend’s chest, muñeca?”

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.

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.”

“I don’t understand.” Is Roman being set up to lose? Is that how he makes money?

“They’re both cocky, but Riviera is smarter. No one in this room knows he’s already won. We’ve got the key that will make him win.”

“What is it?”

“You.”

My brow line flattens at his answer.

“People fight for all sorts of things: money, power, glory,” he continues. “Copper will fight for money and to add another win to his belt. Riviera will be fighting for you. And that is why you, me, and Rico are going to be rich tonight.”

I down the rest of my drink, willing the night to move faster. Or better yet, come to an end.

I’m not sure what to make of what Damien said. Like any person who’s told they’re a lucky charm, I feel special. But at what cost? I want Roman to win, but I don’t want to watch him get beaten to a pulp just to get there.

“And what are you?” I ask when the alcohol hits my bloodstream. “They’re Bratva, and what does that make you? Cartel?”

“Who said I’m part of anything?”

“Deflection doesn’t answer the question.”

The corner of his lips tip. It’s barely noticeable, and I’m not sure if my alcohol-addled brain is making it up. “Alvarez Cartel.”

“Never heard of them.” It’s a stupid thing to say, because I’ve never heard of any of the cartels. The only cartel I know about is the El Chapo Cartel that had all those exotic animals at their mansion. Or is El Chapo just a person? I can’t remember.

“Keep it that way. The less you know, the better,” Damien says, his attention only partially on me as he glances around. “You see the man with the scar on the top row to your left?”

I look at where he said, and sure enough, there’s a man clad in black, sporting a scar from his forehead to the other side of his cheek.

“What about him?”

“Pay attention to everyone sitting around him. Never cross paths with any of them.”

“Who are they?” My blood roars in my ears as I subtly try to ingrain each one of their faces into memory.

“Riviera lost them a lot of money. And people like us hide our weaknesses so someone else doesn’t hit us where it hurts.”

He doesn’t need to say what he means.

I think I need another drink.

“Muñeca.” Rico plops down into the empty seat next to me, sandwiching me between him and Damien. He shoots me a lopsided grin. “Your man is fucking insufferable when you’re around. It makes pissing him off easier. Thank you.”

Words die on my tongue. What do I say to that? Men who want to have casual, non-creepy conversations with me are few and far between. What would I say to Mickey if he said that? Am I meant to laugh? Say you’re welcome?

“You never answered my question before.”

I inhale sharply. “What?”