Pierce’s expression has lost all its buoyancy. He actually looks concerned, and it’s freaking me out.

Quickly, he moves toward me, and guides me back from the door. He places his ear against it. The atmosphere has switched from awkward and argumentative to extremely tense in just two seconds flat.

Why doesn’t the door in his place have a fucking peephole?

My heart is racing. Something very definitely feels wrong.

I shadow him, watch as he unlocks and opens the door. In the hallway outside are two men in suits. I don’t fail to notice that they both sport the same tattoo on their necks, the left side just below the jawline. It’s a symbol of some kind, but I can’t make it out. One of them has his hands behind his back, and I see that they are beneath his jacket.

It dawns on me a second later: That man must be gripping onto a gun!

“Who the fuck are you?” Pierce asks, standing in the doorway. The men try to enter the apartment, but Pierce puts a hand out. “Uh-uh. Talk here, or fuck off.”

The two men look at each other. One of them is about five-eight, bald, with the build of a 1920’s Chicago gangster caricature, the other Pierce’s height, skinnier, and with a scar running down the side of his face. It joins his eye to his chin.

I touch Pierce’s elbow. These guys are definitely not door-to-door vacuum salesmen.

The stocky bald guy steps forward. “We work for Lev Fallon. You know of him, I presume?”

“Yeah, I heard of him,” Pierce replies.

“He’s setting up a fight.”

“First I’ve heard of it.”

“Next week, Friday. One fight only.”

“Against who?”

“Anton Vasilev.”

I see Pierce’s fist clench. “Never heard of him.”

“Fallon has arranged this fight in cooperation with the Mogilovich family. I take it you know who I refer to.”

Pierce’s body stiffens a little. He obviously knows, but the name means nothing to me. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that these names are those of mobsters, though. Or the mafia… whatever they’re called.

I don’t like this one bit.

“Why me?” Pierce asks.

“He’s been a long-time fan, mate.”

“I’m not interested.”

“You stand to earn two million bucks.”

Pierce, in the process of closing the door, opens it. “Two mil? For one fight? You’re shitting me.”

“Pierce!” I hiss, but he ignores me.

“That’s right. Two percent of the forecasted winnings.”

“Don’t tell me your boss is placing a fifty mil bet on me.”

“He represents a conglomerate.”

“Other fans,” Pierce sneers.

The stocky man straightens his tie. “He believes you can win.”

There’s a stony silence. The air between them turns thick as treacle.

“I won’t talk to some fucking goon.” He waves them off with his hand. “If your boss has something to ask me, then he can talk to me personally. Until then, you’re wasting my time.”

The man with the scar pulls out a radio, and when he clicks the button on the side, it bursts to life with a static hiss. “Boss, he says he’ll only talk to you.”

There’s a pause. A voice comes through with a thick Australian accent. “Be right up, mate.”

“He’s here now?” I ask. I pull Pierce to the side, press the door shut, and shoot him an angry glare. “Who is this guy that’s coming up?”

“Lev Fallon, one of the local mob bosses.”

I blink. “Pierce, you asshole. You can’t involve me in this. How the hell did they get your address?”

But he doesn’t reply. It’s clear to me that he doesn’t know. Suddenly, I’m feeling overwhelmingly disappointed.

“Jesus, Pierce! Are you listed anywhere?”

“No,” he says. “I got this place under a friend’s name.”

“Why? Why would you do that?”

“Fuck’s sake, Pen, I fight underground. You can make an enemy or two that way.”

“Well, they found it, so obviously you weren’t careful enough. Or they got to your friend.”

“Doubt it,” Pierce said. “He’s in Rio.”

“As in Brazil?”

“Yeah. He owns a few bars out there.”

“Well, you certainly involve yourself with stand-up people, don’t you?”

Pierce leans into me, eyes hard. “Climb down, Pen.”

“I’m going.”

“No, don’t. I don’t want them following you.”

I suck on my lower lip. Fuck. He’s right. That asshole!

“You gotta stay with me right now, Pen. I can protect you if you’re with me.”

“Against the mob? I doubt that.”

“Stay here.”

“What do they want?”

“You heard them,” Pierce says. “They just want to set up a fight. It’s just business.”

“Just business?” I hiss. “At your fucking house?”

“It’s the fucking mob, Pen. This is how they do business.”

I fold my arms. “Well, I don’t like it.”

Chapter Twenty Three

My blood is boiling. I can’t believe these cocksuckers came to my fucking house. I can’t believe that Penny was here when they did.

The only thing I can think about right now is whether or not they’re interested in using her to bargain with me. These fucks are above nothing.

That, and the huge fifty mil wager they’ve put on me. I have a feeling that this isn’t exactly an offer. More like a request… and the mob requesting something typically means they have something on you, something they can use.

I open the door again, and watch the two goons while they stand. Neither of them look uncomfortable. Two pairs of neutral eyes are fixed on me. That they are so comfortable speaks to their confidence, and that tells me a lot about this Lev Fallon, who up until this moment I only knew vaguely of by name.

Down the hallway, the elevator dings, and the man who steps out is one I recognize from my last fight. He was in the stands. He’s even wearing the same clothes.

Imagine the cliché of a mob boss. Impeccably dressed, expensive suit, gold rings, the works, neat hair. Well, he’s the opposite of that. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts, sandals, and his hair is pulled messily back into a pony tail.