said group is a woman who looks no older than thirty. She’s wearing a long-sleeved tight green dress. Her flamboyant red hair is gathered in a French twist. On her left, there’s a younger man with model-like looks and a petite blonde hanging on his arm. On her right stands a taller man with dark, no-nonsense features.
Upon seeing them, President Joe stands and greets them with toothy smiles.
His rivals. His fighter is playing against theirs tonight.
The leader’s name is Mist. She’s the madam of Le Salon — an entertainment club that runs prostitution on the side. It’s also the facade to money laundering, drugs, and gambling.
They weren’t the leaders until two months or so ago when the original owner was caught for tax fraud. And, surprise, he’s got no ounce of criminal records because like President Joe, these people cover their mafia business with legal flowers.
This group and President Joe are two facets of the same coin. But an enemy of my enemy...
Liam thinks I’ll infiltrate Le Salon to bring its owners down. I might do that if I get the chance, but my main aim is to bring President Joe down through his rivals.
The newcomers sit beside President Joe, chatting and appearing amicable. In reality, they must be plotting each other’s downfall. The history of their rivalry goes back for decades.
The shouting rises in volume. I rip my gaze to the reason why the crowd’s going rampant.
A hulk of a man – no kidding, pretty sure he’s on steroids or something – saunters inside the ring. Even his dark chest muscles are glinting due to some lotion or sweat.
The fighter runs along the ring, snarling and showing off his muscles pumped by steroids. Fighter man points at President Joe who raises his glass in acknowledgement.
Of course such a show-off is one of President Joe’s people.
Guess who I’ll root for? Yeah. Not this guy.
For a few minutes, no one else comes out from where the fighters normally enter the ring. The audience murmur amongst each other, some with anticipation. Some with anxiousness.
Instead of the usual entrance, a man slips from between the rails and hops into the ring with athletic grace.
The crowd erupts in cheers like he’s a Hollywood actor.
The man is half-naked and big, but his muscles aren’t on steroids like mister show-off. He has striking full-sleeves of colourful tattoos. I’ve seen countless tattoos in our side of the town, but nothing as realistic and menacing as his. Chinese tigers wrap around his biceps and forearms, snarling in full 3D fashion.
Their owner, however, appears laid back. Curls of his dark blond hair fall haphazardly against his forehead like he couldn’t be bothered to comb it. An easy-going smirk lifts his lips and his light blue – or grey? – eyes glint with pure mischievousness. It’s like he’s out in the pub with the lads instead of a highly anticipated fight.
He’s not a show-off like his opponent, but he has the level of confidence to know he will, without doubt, win. All of this seems like a one-man show where he’s internally mocking the fighter.
While his opponents snarls and beats his chest like an escaped Gorilla, he stands there in complete nonchalance. Seamless danger and authority seeps from him. He doesn’t even have to try to channel the entire ring’s attention.
Pity. I would’ve found him super hot – and drooled over those tattoos for like an hour – if he wasn’t so obviously an arrogant bastard.
“I told you Elle won’t come,” Liam shouts over the noise.
“She doesn’t like male fights in the first place.” My tone is absent-minded as I focus on President Joe’s rivals.
The blonde girl who came with Mist stands as soon as the fight starts and heads downstairs. To the restroom no doubt. I’ll begin working in Le Salon tomorrow, but it doesn’t hurt to form a connection now.
I stand. “I’ll go check on Elle.”
On my way out, I throw one last glance to where the fight is at its ripe. The arrogant bastard is toying with President Joe’s show-off. He ducks then kicks him in the back. The crowd’s cheers turn deafening. Something tells me he can knock him out unconscious if he wanted, but he’s elongating the show on purpose.
Not long after I round the corner, the cheers rise in volume. Maybe the arrogant bastard got bored and finished that other prick off.
I follow the blonde down the hall, trying to be as nonchalant about it as possible.