Page 21 of The Ache That Stayed

His eyes darkened. “And that makes her a liability.”

My spine went rigid.

“You bring war to my door,” he continued calmly, “I won’t protect you from it.”

He walked back to his desk, tapping the cigar once, ash falling like grey snow into the tray. Like he was marking territory.

“Blood buys silence, not forgiveness,” he said. “And pride is the one debt no man can pay. Remember that.”

The tap against his temple echoed like a gavel. Judgment passed. Sentence delivered.

I nodded once. Acknowledged the sentence without accepting the judgment.

“I’ll handle it,” I said.

His gaze sharpened.

“You already are. That’s the problem.”

He didn’t raise his voice. Men like him never needed to.

Rooms bent around his decisions.

Graves existed because of them.

I left before reason could get the better of me. I didn’t trust myself, not when he spoke of her like she was some item to own and possess. I wanted to break something—preferably bone, hit until the pain took over the noise in my head. Maybe bleed a little too. My knuckles itched, phantom bruises already blooming beneath the skin.

Fighting became easier than sleeping. Easier than silence. Easier than remembering her and living with the fact that I walked away anyway.

So, I went to the one place where the noise on the outside would make the internal noise quieter—the fighting ring. Where beating a man didn’t provoke questions, instead earned me a name.

The fight ring was underground—literally. A converted meat locker beneath a closed factory, walls sweating with damp and iron. The air smelled like blood, sweat, and money changing hands.

No names here. No loyalties. Just fists and the agreement that pain was temporary and scars were the marks of victory.

The crowd parted when I entered.

“Rossi!” Someone screamed in the distance.

“Rossi is here.” Another said. The name moved through the room like a warning.

“Make me some good money today, Rossi,” Greg said, patting my chest as I walked towards the cage.

Greg worked doors at a local club and spent his free days betting on me. And like the generous friend I was, I made sure his kids ate.

I stripped off my jacket, wrapped my hands without care, with the low hum of anticipation. Men and women alike, eager to watch someone get broken so they didn’t have to think about their own fractures.

The ring looked more like a cage than a fighting ring. The cage was welded iron, chain-link walls bolted into concrete—rusted in places, reinforced in others.

Old blood lived permanently in the seams of the floor. No one cleaned it properly. Just enough to keep it from smelling like death.

Fights here had one rule: beat or be beaten, until your opponent couldn’t stand. No killing. Not officially, at least.

My opponent was built like a wall—so big he probably couldn’t scratch his own back without help. They called him Big Bob. His bald skull shining under bad fluorescent lights. Neck thick as a tree trunk. Eyes too small for a face that size. Like they got squeezed out by muscle.

“First round?” someone shouted.

I stepped forward. He cracked his knuckles.