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I know what I saw.

Dalton

Let it go, Ells. As long as he’s making us money, I don’t give a shit what he does in his free time or who he’s doing it for. You focus on the next fight, yeah?

I slid my phone back into my pocket without responding. A cheer went up behind me as the next two fighters stepped into the ring to start warming up.

Maybe I should’ve expected his answer. But we weren’t a fucking crime family. We’d started the Pit out of necessity. I’d spent three years building it into something that worked. Something controlled and as clean as you could get with an illegal fight ring.

Now, Jack was fucking it up in a way that could cause blowback for all of us, and it seemed like Dalton only saw dollar signs.

It made me wonder what the fuck he was thinking, and if my uncle was actually the decent guy I’d always thought…

Which was nearly as annoying as wondering if Bett McNeely was actually the entitled asshole I’d believed him to be.

A sharp ting from the cage pulled my attention back to the present. The final pair of fighters had finished their warm-up and were preparing to start.

I rolled my shoulders, forcing my focus outward.

This was what I understood.

Controlled chaos. Predictable violence. Money in, money out.

But even as I scanned the crowd for problems, part of me was still stuck on Dalton and Jack.

Wonder where McNeely’s head’s at.

Good fucking question. He’d played well the past few weeks. Enough that everyone was chalking up his season-opening miss as a fluke. But if anyone thought that meant he’d relaxed since then, they’d be wrong.

Bett McNeely was as opposite of relaxed as a person could be. He was coiled tight to the point I low-key wondered if I’d return to my room one night and find him comatose and babbling.

The entrance door to the Pit creaked open then, letting in a slice of cooler night air that cut through the heat of the room. A few heads turned automatically. Not because someone new had walked in—that happened all the time—but because this one didn’t fit, or maybe because he was recognizable as a campus celebrity.

McNeely stood just inside the old building as if my thoughts had summoned him, posture straight, shoulders squared like he’d stepped into the wrong place but refused to admit it. His shirt was clean. His expression composed. Too composed.

He took in the metal walls of the enclosure. The blood still dark on the mat. The bodies packed tight around the makeshift cage.

His eyes moved around like he was studying the situation. Assessing it.

Then his eyes shifted, and he was studying me.

My pulse kicked harder than it had when my fighter had hit the floor.

Oh, fuck no. No. Not here. Not him.

No fucking way.

11

BETT

I’d never had any interest in betting on a fight, but then again, I’d never been this fucking broke.

Tomorrow night, win or lose, I was expected to provide a keg, several handles of liquor, cups, and mixers. Garrett had offered to cover it, but my pride was way too stubborn for that.

I’d promised to pay it. I wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of cleaning up my mess.

Which was a nice sentiment and all, but right now, I had eighty-five dollars to my name—and even that was only because I’d managed to get some cash for a stupid-ass tie pin my grandfather had given me for my birthday. In order to save face at the house, I’d need to spend at least three hundred.