The Forge feels like a cathedral built for worship of the most honest kind—violence stripped of pretense and politics.
I've been here since six AM, watching Russian enforcers transform the warehouse space into something that will either establish my reputation or destroy it completely. The fighting platform rises from the concrete floor like an altar waiting for sacrifice. Industrial lighting casts everything in stark relief, all shadows and brightness with no middle ground for anything resembling mercy.
By nine PM, three hundred people from seven different families fill the tiered seating that surrounds the platform. The air tastes like anticipation and barely controlled aggression. Like the moment before a storm breaks and destroys everything in its path.
This is what I've been building toward for a week. Not just the tournament itself, but this moment. The moment when I stop being the silent observer who needs someone else's fire to feel real and prove that I'm exactly as dangerous as anyone who carries a family name.
The moment when Enzo Moretti discovers what I'm really capable of when I stop hiding behind strategy and step into the ring myself.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer's voice cuts through the crowd noise like a blade, "welcome to The Forge. Tonight's opening match features our host, Noah Aslanov of the Aslanov Bratva, against Marcus Chen from the Bay Area Triad."
The crowd's noise changes. Gets hungrier. This isn't just another tournament fight between hired muscle. This is the Russian heir putting himself on the line in his own arena. Either I prove that the Aslanov family breeds warriors who can back up their strategic reputation with blood, or I get humiliated in front of every major underground family on the East Coast.
Either way, everyone gets to see what I really am.
I strip off my shirt and hand it to Viktor, who's acting as my corner man despite his obvious displeasure with this entire arrangement. I watch them take in the lean muscle, the technical precision in how I move, the confidence that comes from knowing exactly what kind of damage you can absorb and still keep fighting.
But more than that, they can see the scars. The thin white lines that map out a childhood spent learning that silence and pain were survival tools. The evidence that Noah Aslanov isn't the untouchable prince they thought he was.
I scan the crowd, looking for familiar dark hair and golden-hazel eyes. Looking for the one person whose reaction matters more than all the political implications of what I'm about to do.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
The voice cuts through everything else like a knife to the throat. Low, dangerous, and absolutely furious.
Enzo.
He's standing at the edge of the platform, close enough that I can see the rage burning in his eyes. Close enough that anyone watching can see this isn't just a casual conversation between heirs from different families.
Close enough that I can smell his cologne and feel the heat radiating off his skin and remember exactly what it feels like when those hands are wrapped around my throat.
"Fighting," I say, because the simplicity of it will piss him off more than any elaborate explanation.
"Bullshit." He steps closer to the platform's edge, and his voice drops to something that probably only I can hear but carries the kind of menace that makes everyone nearby step back instinctively. "So this is what you had planned that you couldn't tell me about. You orchestrated this entire fucking evening and didn't tell me you were planning to get in the ring yourself?"
"I told you I had a plan."
"You told me you had a plan for Declan. You didn't mention your plan involved putting yourself at risk while I sit in the stands like some helpless fucking spectator." His eyes narrow, and I can see the pieces clicking together in his mind. The understanding that this isn't just about fighting—it's about proving something to him specifically. "You knew I wouldn't agree with this."
"You would have tried to stop me."
"Damn right I would have tried to stop you." The possessiveness in his voice sends heat racing through my veins despite the crowd of witnesses. Despite the fact that we're having this conversation in front of people who will analyze every word for political implications. "Because this is exactly the kind of reckless shit that I would do, and you fucking know that."
"I can handle myself."
"That's not the fucking point." His hands clench at his sides, and I can see him fighting the urge to climb onto the platform and drag me off it regardless of the consequences. "The point is that partners don't keep each other in the dark about shit this important."
"Partners also don't try to control each other's decisions about acceptable risk."
"Acceptable risk? You're about to let someone beat the shit out of you in front of three hundred people, and you think that's acceptable?"
"I think it's necessary."
"For what?"
"For proving that I don't need you to fight my battles for me."
I watch my words hit their target. His whole face changes—the fury cracking apart to show something raw underneath before it gets buried under the kind of cold rage that actually scares people. The kind that doesn't threaten. It just acts.
"Noah—"
"Fighters to your corners," the referee calls out. "We're starting in thirty seconds."
I look at Enzo one more time, taking in the conflict written across his face. The way he wants to stop this but knows he can't. Not here. Not in front of everyone. Not without causing the kind of scene that would have political ramifications for both our families.
The way he's realizing that I orchestrated this entire situation specifically to put him in this position. To force him to watch while being powerless to intervene.
"I'll see you after," I say.
"You fucking better." His voice is rough, dangerous. Like he's barely keeping himself from doing something we'll both regret. "Because we're going to finish this conversation tonight. At home. And Noah?"
"Yeah?"
"You better be there."
His voice makes something dark and hungry twist in my gut. Because that's not just a request. It's a command. The kind that promises consequences if I'm stupid enough to try avoiding him after this.
The kind that tells me exactly how this evening is going to end, regardless of what happens in the ring.
"I'll be there," I say.
Marcus Chen is already in his corner, bouncing on his toes and rolling his shoulders. He's built like a boxer—compact, powerful, the kind of controlled aggression that comes from years of disciplined training. Dangerous, but not unbeatable. I chose him specifically for that reason. Skilled enough that winning means something. Not so skilled that I'm likely to get destroyed.
The announcer's voice booms across the arena again. "Tonight's tournament format is elimination style. Losers are out. Winners advance to the next round. This continues until we have our last two fighters standing for the final match. Tonight we have three matches: Noah Aslanov versus Marcus Chen, Dmitri Kozlov versus Jin Watanabe, and Kai O'Sullivan versus Rosa Delgado."
I can hear the murmur running through the crowd—anticipation mixed with bloodlust. They think they're just here for one night of fights. They have no idea this is the beginning of something that could run for weeks, maybe months, as fighters from every family work their way through the brackets. An ongoing tournament that will keep people busy, distracted, focused on proving themselves in the ring instead of plotting revenge against healing Italian heirs.
But when I look back toward where Enzo is standing as I move to my corner, he's still at the platform's edge. Still watching me with those molten eyes. Still looking like he wants to tear Marcus apart for having the privilege of making me bleed.
He's still standing there watching me, the emotions on his face showing me that he'd rather be the one in this ring than me.
The bell rings.
Marcus comes at me like he's trying to end this quickly, no feeling-out process, no cautious evaluation. His first punch is a right cross that barely misses my jaw—I feel the heat of his knuckles brush past my face as I duck. But I don't see the left hook coming until it slams into my ribs like a sledgehammer, the impact driving every bit of air from my lungs and sending shockwaves through my entire torso.
Fuck, he hits harder than I expected.
I step back, sucking in breath, already tasting copper. But instead of giving me space to recover, Marcus presses forward like he smells blood in the water. A jab snaps my head back, splitting the skin above my left eyebrow. Blood runs down into my eye, hot and thick, turning half my vision red.
The crowd roars, hungry for more.
Marcus sees the blood and goes for it like a predator. A brutal uppercut aimed at my chin that I barely deflect with my forearm, the impact numbing my arm from elbow to fingertips. But deflecting it leaves me open for his knee, which drives into my solar plexus with enough force to make my vision blur and my knees buckle.
I stumble backward, gasping, blood streaming down my face. Marcus advances, confident now that he's found my weakness. His right hand comes up in a devastating hook aimed at my temple—the kind of shot that ends fights and sometimes careers.
I duck under it and drive my fist into his kidney.
The sound he makes is inhuman. A grunt-scream that tells me I've found nerve clusters that most people don't even know exist. His whole body contorts, trying to escape the pain, and that's when I follow up with an elbow to his floating ribs that makes an audible crack.
Now we're both hurt. Now it's a real fight.
Marcus recovers faster than I expect, spinning with a backfist that catches me across the cheekbone and sends stars exploding across my vision. The impact rattles my brain inside my skull, and I taste fresh blood as my teeth cut the inside of my mouth.
But pain has always been my friend. Pain means I'm alive. Pain means I'm not backing down.
I spit blood and smile at him.
That's when his expression changes. When he realizes that hurting me doesn't discourage me—it feeds something dark and hungry that lives in my chest. That every shot he lands just makes me more dangerous, not less.
His next combination is desperate, sloppy. A wild right hand that I slip, a left hook that I catch on my shoulder instead of my jaw. And when he overextends on the third punch, I step inside his guard and drive a knee into his liver with everything I have.
The sound is wet. Ugly. The kind of impact that echoes through bone and makes even the bloodthirsty crowd fall silent for a heartbeat.
Marcus doubles over, retching, his face gray with pain. I grab the back of his head and bring my knee up again, aiming for his face, but he gets his hands up just in time. The impact makes a sickening crack as it hits his forearm, but it saves his skull.
He roars in pain and fury, surging upward with an uppercut that connects with my chin and lifts me off my feet. The world goes white for a second, my brain rattling around inside my skull like dice in a cup. I hit the canvas hard, my ribs screaming where they meet the floor.
The referee starts counting.
"One... two... three..."
Through the ringing in my ears, I can hear voices from the crowd. Italian voices. Enzo's voice, though I can't make out words. Just the sound of someone who's watching something they care about get destroyed and can't do anything to stop it.
"Four... five... six..."
I roll to my side, tasting blood and bile. My vision clears slowly, the warehouse lights swimming back into focus. Marcus is standing in the neutral corner, flexing his broken arm, waiting to finish what he started.
Waiting to prove that the Russian heir is all strategy and no substance when it comes to real violence.
"Seven... eight..."
I push myself to my knees, then to my feet. The world tilts sideways for a moment, but I lock my legs and refuse to fall. Blood runs freely from my nose and the cut above my eye, and I'm pretty sure my left hand is badly bruised from blocking his knee.
But I'm standing. I'm conscious. I'm not finished.
"Nine..."
I nod to the referee that I can continue.
Marcus's eyes widen. He can't believe I'm still standing. Can't process that someone would absorb that much damage and ask for more. Can't understand that I've spent my entire life learning that pain is just another tool, another language, another way to communicate when words aren't enough.
That's his mistake.
When he comes at me again, it's with the confidence of someone who thinks I'm already finished. His guard is lower, his movement less careful. He's planning to put me away with one big shot instead of staying technical and disciplined.
I slip his right cross and step inside, wrapping my arms around his waist. Before he can sprawl away, I lift him off his feet and drive him into the canvas with a takedown that would make a wrestler proud. The impact drives the air from his lungs and sends a shock wave through the platform.
Now we're on the ground. Now we're in my world.
I mount him before he can recover, my knees pinning his arms to his sides. He tries to buck me off, but I'm already swinging. Right hand to his temple. Left hand to his jaw. Right hand to his nose, feeling cartilage crunch under my knuckles.
With his arms trapped, he can't defend himself. Just has to take it. I keep swinging. Methodical. Precise. Each punch designed to accumulate damage rather than end the fight quickly. Because I want him to understand exactly what kind of mistake he made when he thought hurting me would make me quit.
Because I want everyone watching to understand that I don't break. I break others.
Blood spatters across the canvas with each impact. His blood. Mine. Mixed together in the kind of brutal honesty that only comes from two people trying to destroy each other with their bare hands.
His struggles become weaker. More desperate. That's when I grab his head with both hands and ram my head into his face.
The sound is final. Definitive. The kind of impact that ends arguments.
Marcus goes limp beneath me, his eyes rolling back. The referee is pulling me off before I realize the fight is over, before I understand that I've won.
I stand over Marcus's unconscious body, chest heaving, blood streaming down my face from the cut above my eye. My left hand feels like it might be sprained, and my ribs feel like they're held together with spite and stubbornness. Every breath tastes like copper and violence.
But I'm standing. I'm conscious. I'm victorious.
And when I look toward where Enzo is sitting, he is gripping the railing so hard his knuckles are white. His face is a mask of fury and hunger. Like he's just watched me do something that both terrifies and arouses him.
Like he's just seen exactly what kind of monster I become when someone tries to break me.
The next hour passes in a blur of congratulations and medical attention. Viktor handles most of the crowd while the arena medic examines my hand and stitches the cut above my eye.
"Good news," the medic says, flexing my fingers and testing the joints. "Slight sprain. Deep bruising and some swelling, but nothing that won't heal in a few days. You'll be able to fight again when the next round comes up."
Relief floods through me, though I don't let it show. Because he's right - if I'd actually broken bones tonight, this whole elaborate plan would have been pointless. Can't very well create an ongoing tournament designed to keep people busy if the host is sidelined with injuries.
But through it all, I'm aware of Enzo watching me from across the arena. Not approaching. Not trying to interfere with the post-fight politics. Just watching with those molten eyes while I demonstrate that I can handle the aftermath of violence as efficiently as I handled the violence itself.
The second fight brings Dmitri Kozlov into the ring—a Russian bruiser built like a tank, all muscle and calculated aggression. His opponent, Jin Watanabe, moves like water until Dmitri breaks him against the rocks of pure Russian stubbornness. Technical precision meets brute force, and brute force wins. Jin goes down in the third round from a combination that sounds like sledgehammers hitting meat.
I can see the crowd getting hungrier. They've tasted real blood twice, and they want more.
The third fight is what makes everyone understand that tonight is about more than just Russian dominance. Rosa Delgado steps into the ring like she owns it—five feet six inches of cartel-trained violence wrapped in deceptive curves. Kai O'Sullivan underestimates her exactly once. Her first punch breaks his nose. Her second drops him to one knee. By the time she's finished with him, the Irish section is dead silent and everyone else is on their feet screaming.
I watch it all unfold. Three fights. Three winners. Three statements about what I've built here.
But more than that, I can see what I've really accomplished tonight. This isn't just another underground fighting venue. This is the beginning of something that could reshape how families settle disputes, prove dominance, and establish hierarchy. Something that puts my territory at the center of inter-family politics for months to come.
Something that keeps dangerous people busy while more important things heal.
I watch families start planning their exits while fighters collect their payments. Family representatives approach me with careful respect. Because tonight proved that I'm not just a strategist who hides behind politics. I'm someone who can bleed for his convictions and create institutions that matter.
Someone worth their attention.
Someone worth their fear.
By the time I see Enzo separate from his group and move toward me with that predatory grace, the arena has mostly cleared. The congratulations are finished. The medical attention is complete. Now it's just us and the consequences of what I've built.
When he reaches me, he doesn't speak immediately. Just stands there looking at me with those molten gold-hazel eyes. I watch him take in the medical tape around my hand, the stitches above my eyebrow, the bruises already darkening along my ribs.
I can see him cataloging the evidence of what I chose to do tonight and what it cost me.
"You look like shit," he says finally.
"I won."
"You're hurt." His voice is rough, dangerous. "You fucking risked yourself like this all because you couldn't trust me with the truth."
"I trusted you with what you needed to know."
"Bullshit." He steps closer, close enough that I can see the rage burning behind his eyes. Close enough that anyone still watching can see this isn't a casual conversation between family representatives. "You played me. Made me think we were partners while you planned this entire fucking spectacle behind my back."
"We are partners."
"Partners don't lie to each other's faces for a week straight." His jaw tightens. "Partners don't manipulate each other into compliance by withholding information."
He's right. I did manipulate him. Did orchestrate this entire evening knowing he'd try to stop me if he knew what I was really planning.
And I'm not sorry I did it.
"Maybe I don't want a partner who thinks he gets to approve my decisions," I say.
His laugh is sharp and absolutely vicious. "And maybe I don't want a partner who thinks psychological manipulation counts as strategy."
"Then we have a problem."
"Yeah. We fucking do." He leans closer, his voice dropping to something that's pure threat wrapped in silk. "Because you're going to come home tonight, and you're going to explain exactly what game you think you're playing. All of it. The real plan for Declan. The reason you needed me to see you bleed. Every twisted calculation that went into tonight."
"And if I don't?"
His smile is absolutely feral. "Then I'll make sure you understand that watching you get hurt tonight didn't make me proud or impressed. It made me want to hurt you back. Worse. Until you remember that when you belong to someone, you don't get to risk what's theirs without permission."
The promise sends ice and fire racing through my veins in equal measure. Because that's not concern or protectiveness. That's ownership. The kind of possessive fury that comes from someone who's just watched their property get damaged and wants to return the favor.
"You think you own me?" I ask.
"I think you've been begging me to prove it since the night we met." His eyes never leave mine. "Tonight just gave me the excuse."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a fucking promise." He steps back, putting distance between us that feels like strategy rather than retreat. "Be there, Noah. Because if I have to come find you, what happens next won't be a conversation."
He walks away without waiting for my response, leaving me standing there with the taste of blood in my mouth and bruised knuckles throbbing in rhythm with my heartbeat.
Leaving me with the absolute certainty that whatever happens between us tonight is going to redefine every rule we've established.
Because I just watched Enzo Moretti drop every pretense of being civilized.
And the fucked-up part of me that orchestrated this entire evening just to push him past his breaking point can't wait to see what he does to me when he gets me alone.
The ride back to our apartment passes in charged silence. My bruised knuckles throb against the steering wheel, and the stitches above my eye pull tight every time I blink. But the pain feels clean. Honest. Like proof that I'm finally done hiding behind careful strategy and political maneuvering.
Like evidence that I'm exactly as dangerous as anyone who carries a family name, regardless of whether that danger comes from calculated violence or calculated psychology.
By the time I reach the apartment, my hands are steady despite the bruised knuckles. My breathing is controlled despite the bruised ribs. Because whatever Enzo has planned for tonight—whatever consequences he thinks I've earned—I'm ready for all of it.
Ready to prove that the monster he glimpsed tonight is just the beginning of what I'm capable of when someone tries to control what belongs to me.
Ready to show him that I don't just belong to him.
He belongs to me too.
And ownership in our world is something that gets negotiated through violence, not conversation.
But tonight proved something else entirely. Tonight proved that I don't just belong to this world of blood and politics and carefully orchestrated brutality.
I can reshape it.