The stiletto slipped from his numb fingers, clattering on the tar. His left arm, mangled and bleeding, was now useless. But his right hand still clenched the combat knife, its grip slick with blood.
They saw it. The last flicker of his strength dying.
With a collective roar born from fear and shame, the remaining Vipers surged forward. There was no skill now, no careful strikes. It was a storm of violence.
A baseball bat swung low, connecting with his already wounded leg. A sound like a dry branch snapping echoed, and Matt's leg folded underneath him. He crashed to the ground, the impact driving the air from his lungs. Still, he thrust the knife upwards, sinking it into the thigh of the bat-wielder. The man howled and fell back, but two more took his place.
Boots descended on him. He curled into a ball, his world shrinking to a cacophony of impacts. A kick to his ribs sent a fresh wave of agony through him. A stomp to his back made his body jolt like a landed fish. He felt a tooth break loose from the force of a kick to his jaw. He couldn't see, couldn't think. He could only feel. Each blow was a hammer on an anvil, beating him down into the cold ground.
Through a swollen eye, he saw a man leaning in with a knife. With the last of his conscious will, Matt's hand shot out, not to block the knife, but to grab the man's jacket. He pulled the Viper down into the storm of kicks, using him as a bloody shield. He heard the man grunt as his friends' boots connected with him instead.
But it was his final move.
A heavy boot stamped down on his knife hand. He felt the delicate bones in his wrist give way. His fingers sprang open, releasing the knife. He was disarmed. He was broken.
The blows kept coming, but they slowed. He was no longer fighting back. He was just a thing, being broken into pieces. His body was a universe of pain. His mind, which had been a sharp, burning coal of rage, was now flickering, drifting.
He saw their faces above him, not as individuals, but as a blur of panting, scared men. Their eyes were wide, their faces splattered with his blood. They weren't triumphant. They were exhausted and horrified by what they had had to do to put him down.
His psychopathic smile was gone. In its place was a bloody, swollen mask. But deep within the fading blue of his one good eye, there was no fear. There was no regret. There was only a cold, final thought that echoed in the silence of his mind "I'm sorry Shayla"
One of the Vipers, a big man with a split lip, placed a foot on Matt's chest, not to kick him, but to hold him down. He looked at the ruin of the man beneath his boot.
"He's done," the man panted, his voice hollow. "He's finished."
They didn't land the final blow. They simply stood around him, their chests heaving, staring at the legend they had shattered but had not been brave enough to kill. Matt Marino, breathing in shallow, bubbling gasps, lay broken on the cold tar, defeated but, in their eyes, forever undefeated.
The world swam back into focus in shades of agony and orange firelight. Matt lay on the cold concrete, a broken sculpture of a man. Every breath was a knife-twist in his ribs. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. He could hear the distant shouts and scuffles of the ongoing battle, but here, in this small circle of light, a different kind of war was about to be fought.
The crowd of Vipers and Jackals parted. Two figures emerged from the shifting shadows. The first was Salvatore Vitello, boss of the Riviera Vipers. He moved with a casual swagger, his expensive shoes stepping carefully around the puddles of blood. His face, sharp and cunning, was lit by a mocking smile. Just behind his shoulder was Luca Morano, leader of the Crimson Jackals. Luca was a wall of silent muscle, his arms crossed, his eyes scanning not just Matt, but the Vipers around them, his own men a tense, watchful semicircle at his back.
Salvatore stopped, looking down at Matt as if he were a curious insect.
"Well, well… look who we have here," Salvatore said, his voice smooth and almost musical. "The great Matt Marino. The stone that wouldn't erode." He clicked his tongue. "Looks pretty eroded to me."
Matt forced his head to turn. The simple movement sent fire through his neck. He gathered the blood and saliva in his mouth and spat a dark crimson glob onto the concrete near Salvatore's shoe.
"Damn you all," Matt rasped, his voice a ruined thing. Yet, he managed to raise his chin, a final, defiant lift of his head.
A Viper standing nearby, a brute with knuckles raw from punching, didn't like that. "Show some respect!" he snarled, stepping forward and driving a hard kick into Matt's side.
Matt's body convulsed. A guttural groan was torn from his lips, his eyes squeezing shut against the explosion of pain. He curled involuntarily around the fresh injury, his breath catching in his throat.
Salvatore watched, his expression one of mild interest. After a moment, he raised a single hand. "Enough, Rico. Let the man speak. He's earned that much." The Viper, Rico, stepped back, scowling.
Salvatore crouched down, bringing himself closer to Matt's level. The firelight danced in his cold eyes. "You put on one hell of a show, Matt. I'll give you that. But was it worth it? Look at you. Your gang is broken. Your territory will be ours by sunrise."
Matt's one good eye opened, fixing on Salvatore. "You talk… too much," he breathed, each word a struggle. "Just get on… with it."
"Oh, we will," Salvatore smiled. He then asked, his tone almost jovial, "Funny question, Matt. A philosophical one. When a king falls, do you think he feels the ground is harder than it is for other men?"
Before Matt could even form a retort, Salvatore gave a slight nod. Another kick, this time from a different direction, slammed into Matt's back. He gasped, his face scraping against the rough concrete.
Salvatore waited for the wave of pain to pass. "Let me try another. Do you think your Nunca-caer will remember you as a hero… or a fool who got them all killed?"
Through shattered teeth and bubbling blood, Matt let out a wet, choked laugh. He turned his head, his gaze sliding from Salvatore to the silent Luca Morano.
"You…" Matt wheezed, directing his words at Luca. "You standing there… thinking you're safe… with this snake?" He coughed, a spray of blood misting the air. "You think… the Vipers won't turn on you… the second I'm gone? They feast on their own… Luca. You're just… the next meal."
Luca's expression didn't change. But his eyes, hard and calculating, shifted from Matt to Salvatore. He didn't speak, but the stillness of his men tightened. Their hands drifted closer to the weapons at their backs. The air, already thick with smoke and blood, now crackled with a new, dangerous tension. The alliance was a thin sheet of ice, and Matt had just driven a crack right through the center of it.
Salvatore's mocking smile finally slipped. Annoyance flashed across his face. He stood up, brushing imaginary dust from his trousers.
"You always did have a sharp tongue, Matt," he said, his voice losing its playful edge. "A pity it couldn't save you." He looked at Rico and gave another, almost imperceptible nod.
"Make him quiet."