Chapter 4 - Shadows on the Concrete Floor
The buzzer sounded off the metal wall, echoing harshly through the empty warehouse. I dropped my hands, breathing heavily through my nose, sweat beading along my hairline where the braid met my neck. Vincent leaned against the corner turnbuckle, chest rising and falling in rhythm with mine, a thin sheen of perspiration gleaming on his skin.
"You haven't lost the step," Vincent said, pulling off his left glove with his teeth before tossing it onto the canvas. He reached for a water bottle on the stool and took a long swallow, never breaking eye contact with me. "Most people who walk away from the amateur circuit stay away. The discipline gets burned out of them by bad managers or broken promises."
"Who said anything about amateur?" I walked over to the corner, resting my forearms on the top rope as I looked down at the empty concrete floor below. The warehouse was dead silent except for the hum of an overhead utility heater.
"Your footwork said it," Vincent replied, stepping closer inside the ring until he was standing right beside me against the ropes. He didn't touch me, but I could feel the radiant heat coming off him. "The way you drop your weight on the pivot. That's not YMCA conditioning. That's gym wars in South Boston or Queens."
"I left Queens a long time ago," I said quietly, staring at the dust motes dancing in the shaft of light from the high windows. "And I left the ring because the men running it cared more about betting slips than the fighters taking the hits."
Vincent was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice lost its usual underboss edge, turning surprisingly raw. "I started out running bets in neighborhoods where a good right hook was the only currency that mattered. I swore when I built my own setup that the people who fought for me would have a choice. Real choice."
I turned my head to look at him. Up close, the harsh warehouse light caught the faint white scar along his jawline—something I hadn't noticed in the dim ambiance of the lounge.
"Is that why you're running the lounge?" I asked.
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"It's where I keep my eye on things," Vincent said softly. He reached out, his bare hand hesitating for a fraction of a second before he let his fingers brush my wrist, right over the edge of my hand-wrap. "Come work security for the venues, Cassidy. Not behind the bar pouring drinks for idiots who drop whiskey bottles. On the floor. Double your current cut."
I looked down at his hand on my wrist, feeling the steady, deliberate pulse beneath his thumb. The offer changed everything. It pulled me deeper into his orbit, but for the first time in years, it felt like a choice I was making on my own terms.
