Fighter Daddy: A Bad Boy Secret Baby MMA Sports Romance (14 page)

S
eeing
Raina is like a lightning strike to the heart.

She's up.

That's a whole new batch of problems. Ricky made no secret of his intention to keep her against her will. Of course, I have no intention of leaving Raina to become one of those women kept in a basement. Literally, in this case. I'll die before I let her fade away here, under Ricky's club, never seeing sunlight again.

I will get her out of here and she will be mine. This girl has somehow turned my world around in only a few weeks. When I'm not thinking about kicking Sam's ass, I'm thinking about her, and usually even Sam can't distract me from her. I welcome a good challenge, but stealing Ricky Gerrard's girl is on level I haven't experienced since the Marines.

It makes her all the more desirable. Seeing her standing there by the ringside, it makes my blood boil. The weeks she's spent in solitary confinement have been shitty. Even my visits feel like going to the zoo. I can see the beautiful creature, but not touch.

At least we have a reason to celebrate. With her back to Victor, she managed to quietly tell me our baby is still alive. I didn't think I had the father gene in me, but I was wrong. I felt pride at my child being able to survive like that, a true fighter.

I will fight for them now.

Ricky doesn't know it, but he should celebrate too. If Raina lost the baby, Ricky's death wouldn't have been pleasant.

Her being up is a problem, though. If Ricky thinks she's well enough to move around, he might bring her to his room soon. I don't know how I could signal that to her. The thought of Ricky's hands on her... it's what motivates me to train harder than I ever have before.

Sam's no joke, but I know who my real enemy is. With the fight coming closer, I need to make sure Ricky goes down along Sam. Or I lose Raina forever.

I
t feels
like walking into a lion's den.

I haven't taken two steps before I'm given weird looks. The place I'm at—it's not a facility people accidentally wander into. The guys staring at me are a bit confused. What I'm doing shouldn't be possible. I see hands going to guns and chairs shuffling. This will get ugly very soon.

"I'm here to see Mr. Brandon," I say.

"Yeah?" a guy in a leather jacket and a ponytail that would make any girl jealous asks. "You got an appointment?"

I wonder where Jack Brandon gets these guys. The biker doesn't match the others, at least. Seems to be one of a kind. Street-level, probably not from around here. Not surprising; Jack Brandon has his dirty fingers in many cities. This one must be on vacation.

"Nah, sweetheart," I say, staring him down. "But if I knew what a pretty secretary he has, I'd have called for sure."

He lurches at me. The other guys in the bar stand up, but I see amusement on a few faces. Good. They might hesitate a second before gunning me down.

I sidestep the biker easily and grab ahold of his jacket. I throw him straight into the pool table by the wall. He crashes to the floor with a curse, but is up in the next second. This time he comes slower, no longer charging like a bull. I'm not willing to wait. The longer I'm here, the less funny these guys think I am.

I edge a few steps closer, dodging his clumsy blows. The cage has spoiled me. I take no pleasure in kicking his ass. It feels like taking candy from a baby. I grab his wrist when he comes to land me a right hook and twist it behind his back. He bends almost in two, cursing me to hell and back.

"You going to be nice now, sweetheart?" I ask. "Or else I'll send you home with a dislocated shoulder."

"Enough," one of the other guys says.

He looks more like the man I need to talk to. Tall and broad, serious eyes, not even a hint of a smile on his lips. Hair combed neatly over his head. Yeah, better. A lieutenant.

I let the biker go and he stumbles away, holding his hand against himself. I hear him whine something to the new guy, but one look from the lieutenant silences him.

"What do you want?" the new guy asks.

"I already told you. I want to see Mr. Brandon."

"Do you now?" he asks. "If you know anything about my employer, you'll be sure to know he won't be summoned by a guy from the street."

I'm actually aware of that, yes. But he will make an exception for me.

"I'll be worth his time."

"I give you a minute of
my
time," the lieutenant says coldly. "If it's interesting enough, I'll let you walk out of here and maybe relay your words. If it isn't, well..."

I consider this. I didn't come here to talk to Brandon's lackeys, but I won't be able to break through his security single-handed either. I figure it's no loss for me to let them know.

In the weeks Raina's been recovering, I haven't been idle. My first thought was to break my dad and Susan out of Ricky's and go from there. I figured the worst that prick would do was lock Raina up even further. She wouldn't have liked it, being even deeper in his clutches, but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make for us both.

Unfortunately for us, Ricky isn't the brainless asshole I wish he was. As soon as Raina was conscious, he moved Susan and Philip out of the club to keep them out of my reach. I asked Martin to search for them, of course, but alone he can't amount to much. With Ricky holding guns to my family's heads, I absolutely refused Martin calling this in.

I have to do this my way. His cop mind didn't want to grasp that very easily, but he relented. Good friend. Now he's out there, ready to step in when there's trouble and keeping an eye open for the hostages.

He hasn't located them, but he
did
bring me something to work with as a Plan B.

It occurred to me before, but Ricky is not himself when it comes to Raina. He gets sloppy, messy, and
loud
. Loud in the way that he's drawing attention to himself. The friends of Philip and Susan are already asking questions. Raina said her Aunt answers her phone when she's in the shower.

Now there's been weeks of silence. Even from Italy, that's a bit odd. With Raina now mysteriously disappeared and her boss gone, things are getting hot out there. I haven't been home, but I bet there's a few messages on my voice mail too.

All that means one thing: Ricky is going too far. His plans for us are bringing him too much into the light. He is desperate to keep us on the leash, but I'm no one's dog, and keeping me in check won't work for long. For example, here I am.

This is a long shot, but I figure Ricky's not too favored with Jack Brandon right now.

Jack is the boss of bosses. He funds almost every criminal operation in Boston. Unlike Ricky, who is a very public figure for a mob boss, Jack Brandon is... nobody really. He keeps himself in the shadows, directs things from there. But like a spider in the center of the web, he can make them all dance if he wants to.

I'm betting right now he's not too happy with Ricky's performance.

"I'm Lee Mason," I tell Brandon's guys. "I'll be fighting Sam Unbroken next Sunday."

A few of them sneer, others look almost appreciative. The lieutenant grins.

"No wonder you have a death wish then."

"Sam's my problem," I tell him. "Ricky Gerrard is your
employer's
. I can help."

There, a flash of interest, but he keeps his poker face.

"He doesn't need help from the likes of you."

"No," I agree. "But I can make things a hell of a lot easier for him. And I want almost nothing in return."

Now the lieutenant laughs.

"You have some nerve, boy."

"I'll take that as a compliment. Usually guys who threaten me don't understand that."

He stops laughing and we measure each other up. I know dealing with guys like him is much like how you'd behave with a misbehaving stray, all this barking and posturing bullshit. It makes me look forward to Sam and an honest test of strength.

"Sit," the lieutenant finally says. "Bar's open."

So far so good. I order a whiskey while the lieutenant leaves somewhere. I'm left with the other guys and the visiting biker. They all look like brawlers to me. I can almost hear their knuckles itching for my face. If they're as stupid as they look, I might get a decent exercise out of this visit at least.

As I guessed, I've taken maybe two gulps from my drink when the biker feels up for another round. He's the type that never learns. Idiots like that, they're powered by their belief in themselves. I have never met one whose self-confidence had any basis.

"Hey you," he growls at me. "You think you're some tough guy, huh? You caught me by surprise before."

I have to try very hard not to laugh. What a fucking pathetic excuse. It's all the way up there with "I wasn't ready yet."

I ignore him. Guys like that aren't worth the time of day. He doesn't take the hint.

"You listenin' to me, pal?"

I wish I wasn't. My mind's more occupied with what the lieutenant went to do. If he's getting Jack Brandon like I'm hoping, or if he's setting up a firing squad for me. Both are equally likely.

I hear smashing glass. The biker has broken his glass on the floor.

"Yeah, I knew that you were a bitch," he says, as if that proves something.

"Is that supposed to intimidate me?" I hear myself asking.

I immediately regret it. My only purpose here is to meet the boss and talk some business, not to pick a fight with his thugs. But I can't help it. Ever since I was kid, I never could take someone calling me out. Dad used to say I have a temper. Fuck temper, I have pride. No one, not a lowlife like the biker or a professional fighter, can get away with talking shit about me.

I turn back to the guys. I doubt any of them hold any special love for the biker, but he's one of them and that's worth more than gold. They'll have his back even if they hate his guts. If I'm going forward with this one, I'm going to have to be prepared for all of them.

"What did you say?!" the biker's snarling at me.

The excuse is so fake I almost take the high road. Almost.

"
I said
do you think I'm intimidated by a broken glass? Drop it on the floor, it breaks all the same. That's it. You point at
gravity
and take the credit."

My words might go over his head a bit, but he understands the meaning all too well. He pulls out a knife and comes at me. Behind him, I see the others move too. I'm trouble in their bar and they're going to put an end to it. Not because of the biker, but because it's all rep. Their boss can't be shown not to have his house in order.

And I can't allow them to. I have my own reputation and it doesn't involve getting my ass handed to me in a bar fight.

The knife is long and sharp, with a gleaming serrated edge. The biker seems more proficient with it than he is with his fists. It makes little difference to me. He's pushing me back with wide swipes of his knife, triumph burning in his dark eyes. Thinking he's got the upper hand. I edge closer, dodging under the blade and disarm him with a painful punch against his hand.

First rule of knife combat: don't drop your fucking knife.

I kick the blade away, it slides under the counter. Nothing good could come from knifing a guy in a place like this.

Left unarmed, the biker doesn't even consider giving up. I see fury in his eyes. It amuses me. It's the look of a pouting fucking child who thinks I am being unfair. I took his toy.

Enough of this nonsense; his buddies are moving in now. I crack my knuckles and punch him in his mustache, feel the bone of his nose breaking and blood spilling over my hand. He stumbles away and I send him off with a roundhouse kick to his teeth. I hear him spitting out a few when he collapses on the floor.

Others take quicker steps now. They were waiting for the biker to show what he's capable of and it turned out to be less than shit. No, they have to make up for it.

I back away again, fists raised. Keeping them all firmly in my sights. They fall into the same trap, idiots as they are. I suppose on the streets backing away
is
a sign of weakness, but in real combat, in a real fight, it's a tactic. It gives you room, gives you a second to recuperate, gives you distance to charge. They're rhinos. Once they get going, it's very difficult to stop them, but I'm an expert in that.

I catch the punch of the first painfully. For him. When I see his fist coming for me, I meet it with my own. I wouldn't say a guy his size has dainty hands, but he does compared to me. Years of training have hardened me and I know how to fucking aim my own limbs.

He screams in pain, cradling his hand that I know is crawling with pain. Put enough force into it and you can make the other guy feel like they're punching a brick wall.

A thought occurs to me that Sam Unbroken uses that trick often.

The next guy is more careful. He wants to kick my legs out from under me, but I am faster. I jump high enough to avoid his leg connecting with mine and land right after, only to stomp my own foot down on his leg. I feel bone break again and the howl is the loudest I've gotten today. I jump off him, catching the arm of the next, and throwing him over my shoulder. He hits a table and goes down with it.

The next two try to crowd me, but I don't care much for cowards. I allow myself to be caught in the middle of them for a moment, exchanging blows with both, dodging as I'm able. Then I slip out of the trap and grab the closest of them. I catch him in a quick headlock and slam his face down on the counter. He slumps and I turn to his buddy, who's backing away from me.

What, fun's over already? I was only getting started. I haven't even broken a sweat yet, you fucker.

"Impressive, Mr. Mason," says a voice that somehow carries over the room despite not being very loud.

That's how a man speaks who's used to being heard. I look at Jack Brandon approaching. It's interesting to see him at last. I recognize him, but that's all. Everything else about him is fake. Even the name I know him by is fake. I doubt any person in the room knows, including the lieutenant standing dutifully behind him.

Jack Brandon likes his privacy and he likes his business the same way. In his world, tidiness is everything. He won't hesitate to put me in a body bag, but he'll make sure it isn't crumpled.