Unleashed (A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance) (199 page)

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.

My mind reels for a moment before I am able to fully appreciate that though he looks like a fucking dork, he kills people, runs prostitution rings, and deals drugs for a living.

I could take all three of them, but I’m no fucking idiot.

“Pierce,” he says. His voice drips with congeniality. “Pierce, my boy. Good to finally meet you, mate. I’m a huge bloody fan of yours.” He takes a moment to look up and down my topless body. “Fuck me, you have the body of a Greek god. I’m part-Greek you know, on my mother’s side.” He pats his paunch. “No Godly genes in me, though.”

I level steely eyes at him. “I’m not your boy. How did you find out where I live?”

“Oh, I have connections,” Fallon says, gesturing ambiguously into the air. “May I come in?”

“No.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes.”

“So I think you should invite me in.”

I step outside, and shut the door behind me. “I think not, asshole. You think your fucking intimidation tactics scare me? Like I told your shit-heel meathead, I’m not interested.”

Fallon sucks in a long breath of air before he pushes his lips together. “I like you, Pierce,” he says. “You’ve got fire.”

“More than enough to burn you right now.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to your sweet little girlfriend, though, now would we, mate?”

I want to explode, wail on him, crack his fucking skull against the fire extinguisher.

“Have at her,” I say. “She’s nothing but a fucking lay. A shitty one, too.”

“Nice try,” Fallon says. He’s got this smile on his face that I want to punch off. “But I don’t buy it, considering you drove her home after your last fight. You don’t strike me as the gentlemanly sort of bloke.”

I narrow my eyes. They’ve been following me.

“Ah, he understands,” Fallon says, leering at me, and then exchanging grinning glances with his two goons. “Now, you ready to talk business? Or do I need to prove myself to you even further?”

“Why are you keeping tabs on me?”

“Like I said, I’m a longtime fan. Seen every one of your fights for two years straight. But if I’m going into business with somebody, I need to know what they’re about. I need to know that they’re reliable. I need to know they don’t have a bad habit or two on the side. As it stands, up until now your habit has been girls. That’s fine.”

“I’m not interested in fighting for you,” I say.

Fallon sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do we need to go over the girlfriend thing again?”

With difficulty, I force myself to calm. “You want me to fight in your own little grudge match with some Russian mafia family and his boy. The thing is, I don’t give a fuck about your cock-measuring.”

“And?”

“And I ain’t fighting for you. I don’t fight for anybody but me.”

Fallon rocks on his feet, before he claps his hands together in front of him. “Penelope Wordsworth, father Michael Wordsworth, engaged to… Isabelle Fletcher, mother of Pierce Fletcher. She may be a shitty lay, but you and I both know she’s not just some nobody.”

“Fuck you,” I growl.

“This bloke I know, he runs a travel agency. It’s a front, naturally, but he’s some kind of hacking wizard. I’ve had the equivalent of an APB out on your name in the digital world for a while, now.”

“You’ve been tapping my fucking internet?”

“You’ve got good taste in porn, mate. Surprised you need it with all the chicks you screw.”

I lick my lips. “Get to the point.”

Fallon drops his voice, and points two fingers at me. “We can get to you, mate. We can get to everyone you love, everyone you care about. Now, you said you’re not my boy. But you
are
my boy. I own you now, because I know you. I know everything about you. I know that this bad boy bullshit you put on isn’t you. You care. You’re a decent bloke. I can respect that. I even know about Ricky.”

I clench my fists, do everything I can to stop from breaking him in two.

“I know what you do for him and his mother. I know what you did
to
him. Like I said, I know everything. Like I said, you’re a decent bloke. I like that. The world needs more decent blokes. Me, though, I’m not decent. I’m not a good guy. Some might even say I was a bad guy. Maybe… you can respect that, or at least understand what it means.”

I calm my racing heart, force the anger to evaporate out of every pore on my body. They’ve got Penny in their sights… as much as I want to drop this prick right now, I can’t.

It takes every ounce of willpower I’ve got not to separate his lower jaw.

“Maybe you need a financial incentive. Two million is nothing to scoff at, but let’s say we up it to five percent of the pot. That’s at least five million, easy. That’s retirement money, Pierce. You can disappear with your girl on your arm. You can start a family, give your children good lives. You can spoil the fuck out of ’em, for all I care, turn them into fat little cunts.”

I grit my teeth together. I can hear the grinding enamel ringing in my skull.

“We’ll set up a private location, and tickets will be sold discretely. There will be a minimum bet to ensure we keep the undesirables out. This is all business.”

I’ve heard of these kinds of fights before. Rich gangsters betting on fighters like dogs. I never thought my success would make me a target…

…would make
her
a target.

“Attendance roughly one thousand, give or take,” Fallon continues. “Sound good?”

I grunt at him.

“You can put money in on yourself, since I know you like to do that. No limit, if you’ve got the stomach for something big.”

I glower at him. “I always win.”

“I know, my boy. That’s why I picked you.”

“I’m not your fucking boy. I want tapes, if you got any, of this Russian fighter. Anton whatever the fuck.”

Fallon clicks his fingers at Baldilocks, and the man puts a hand into his inside jacket pocket, and pulls out a brown paper envelope and hands it to me. It’s got a VCR cassette tape in it, judging by the weight and size.

Where the fuck am I going to find a player for this?

“Sorry about the tape,” Fallon says, shrugging.

“You couldn’t get a fucking DVD?”

“That’s all I could get. He’s a power fighter, uses his legs—”

I cut him off. “Don’t tell me how to analyze my opponent.”

“Just trying to help. It is in my best interest that you win this fight. And what’s in my best interest is also in your best interest.”

“Why don’t you just hop in the cage yourself with this Mogilovich cunt, you fucking wuss? Not man enough?”

Fallon blasts out a hoarse laugh. “You’ve picked up the Aussie vocabulary. You not seen Sergei Mogilovich, then?”

I shake my head.

“All of five-foot-five, and thin as a noodle. He’d never get in the ring with anybody.”

Great, I think to myself. A Chihuahua mobster with insecurities.

“Anyway,” Fallon says. “Enjoy your brekkie.”

“I never want you ’round my fucking house again, got it?”

“Hold up your end of the deal, Pierce, and you’ll never have to. I expect you to win.”