Chapter 1

 

Vegas—Rake

“Punch his lights out, kid!”

Luis’s voice boomed over the roar of the crowd as Rake ducked and bobbed. His fist flew out and connected to Ramon’s jaw, felling him like a dead tree. The fans all said Rake’s fists were heat-seeking missiles, disconnected from his body.

Luis Orvidas, Rake’s manager, and Hunter, his best friend and one if his trainers, knew otherwise. He’d perfected his hits and worked on his strength and reflexes since he was nine years old. His father had insisted on it.

He waited and bounced on his toes as the ref counted down from ten.

“Three, two, one.” The ref slapped the floor of the ring and stood.

Rake’s hand was up in the air before he could blink, and the crowd stood on its feet and went crazy. Luis and Hunter ducked under the ropes and lifted him onto their shoulders.

He’d done it. He’d won. The joy came in a hot rush.

His stomach somersaulted as the men bounced him on their arms and lowered him. He hugged them both with slaps on their backs.

A salt-and-pepper-haired man named Jonesy stuck a mic in his face. “Rafael da Silva, how does it feel to be the new welterweight champion?”

“It’s surreal. I’ve been training for this my whole life. I owe a lot to my trainer and best friend, Hunter Champ, and my manager, Luis. It’s definitely been a team effort.”

After a few more questions, he climbed out of the ring and was congratulated by dozens of people. Luis ran off with Dick Martin, one of the biggest sports agents around, so endorsements were coming. He didn’t know what to think about that. He’d be shit at acting in commercials.

Alone, Rake sat in the freezing locker room while his ears rang from the sudden harsh silence. His father, Ray, hadn’t come. What else had Rake expected? Being owned by the Corsetti crime family didn’t give one a lot of free time for things like supporting your son. Not that he’d anticipated anything different.

The doors opened with a bang, and Rake paused as he unraveled his tape. Ramon came in, still wobbling from Rake’s last hit. They stared as the bloodlust tried to reclaim them, but being professionals, they held it at bay. They nodded at each other, and that was it.

After a shower, Rake left in his Toyota. Maybe he could buy a new car after his winnings were deposited into his bank account…after he paid the taxes on them, of course. His father had beat that into his brain, sometimes literally. “Never give the feds an excuse to look your way, Rake. The fuckers would do anything to get a piece of the Corsettis.”

Raymond da Silva suffered from delusions of grandeur. He fancied himself an important mobster, when in reality he was a glorified accountant. Sure, he was a criminal, but just because he had regular monthly meetings with Damian Corsetti did not mean he was a “made” man.

“Whoever has the money has the power.” His father’s favorite saying came to him, and the truth of it rang in his ears.

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. With this win, technically, Rake was a millionaire…and his father would know it. Damian Corsetti would too. Not that Rake owed him a damn thing, but Corsetti wouldn’t see it that way. He’d want his cut, like he did with every fight in Vegas. His men spread out into the Vegas streets like a virus and took what they wanted, paying off cops as they went.

Rake dragged in a deep breath and released it along with his anger. He wanted to let the rage loose, but it’d be pointless. He saved that for the ring.

He needed a drink. He took a left and wound around some alleys and one-way streets until he came to Hollywood and Wine, Hunter’s bar. He parked in the employee lot, and as he reached the door, it opened with a bang. Lila came out carrying a black trash bag.

“Rake!” She hurried over, and he picked her up. The bag hit him on some fresh bruises, but he didn’t mind.

“Hey, Lila.”

“Congrats on the fight! We were all watching.” He set her down, and she eyed his battered face. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. Can’t even feel it.”

“Is that a good thing?” Lila laughed as she chucked the bag into the dumpster. “Come on in and have a drink on the house.”

Rake followed the petite brunette into the bar. The atmosphere was perfect with its dark, noir theme. Pictures of Bogart and Bacall, Stanwyck and Cagney adorned the burgundy walls. The bar took up half the front room. Rake ran an admiring hand over the smooth wood as he sat on his favorite stool. Custom ordered by the previous owner, the bar was the main reason Hunter had wanted this place. He’d sunk every penny he had into buying and fixing it up, and it showed.

Rake smiled as everyone congratulated him and asked for autographs, then took a sip of the bourbon that appeared in front of him.

Hunter had beaten him there, taken his favorite spot behind the bar, and pulled beer on tap. He wore a black T-shirt with the name of the bar. A tall man with blond hair—lighter than Rake’s own dirty blond—his green eyes crinkled with laughter. “How’re you feeling, Champ?”

Rake grinned. “I’m fine right now. It’ll hurt in the morning. He’s not called The Hammer for nothing.”

“I know. I was there watching him pound your ass.”

Rake waited a beat before he smirked. “Now that would have been a much more fun way to spend my night.”

Hunter laughed and shook his head. “You have issues, my friend. Public indecency is a crime.”

“Hey, I’ve never been convicted.”

Rake’s fingers sought out the little brass plaque underneath the lip of the bar. He’d long ago memorized the name and address of the marker. He traced the letters: Rio Danvers - Metal and Woodworking. Riverbend, Utah.

“Want another?” Hunter asked as he drained his glass.

Rake shook his head. “Better not. Have you heard from Ray?”

Hunter’s frown was all he needed for an answer. Rake nodded and swallowed, keeping his gray eyes on Hunter’s.

“What do you think he’s going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Rake said. “He’ll probably try and collect for Corsetti.”

“Luis—”

“Luis can’t do shit. And he wouldn’t anyway.”

Hunter sighed. He knew the score. He was born and raised in Vegas, running in and out of bars and boxing rings his whole life, just like Rake. It was their way of life.

“Let me know if you need anything.” A commotion by the pool table caught Hunter’s attention, and he straightened from his lean while flexing his wide shoulders. “Time for some fun.”

Rake stood and followed Hunter as he rounded the bar and walked toward the rear. Two men plowed their fists into each other’s stomachs. The smell hit him first. One of them had puked after being hit.

One of the hangers-on shouted at his friend, but the men didn’t stop.

Hunter pulled the big guy off by his arms and locked him in a half nelson. The other rounded on them with blood in his eye.

The friend grabbed his shoulder. “Shithead, knock it off! Can’t you see that’s Rake da Silva?”

Hunter’s guy stuttered. “F-fuck. Okay. I’m fine. Let go.”

Rake lifted a brow.

The one standing cocked his head and studied Rake. “You ain’t bare-knuckling.”

Rake grinned. “Shithead, was it?” He nodded and cracked his sore knuckles. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Shithead scowled and jerked forward with a wild haymaker. Rake shook his head and lifted his fist. It connected to the other man’s ribs so fast, the small crowd gasped. Shithead sucked in air, or tried to, and doubled over when he realized he could no longer breathe.

“Dammit, Rake. Did you break his ribs?” Hunter deposited his cargo in a booth and told him to stay.

Rake shook his head. “Nah. Just knocked the wind out of him.”

The man kneeled on the floor, one hand on his ribs while the other clutched the edge of the pool table.

He cringed. “I think.”

“Very impressive, Rafael.”

A chill raced up Rake’s spine. That voice. Even over the yells of the crowd and the music playing through the speakers, it stood out, low and serene, like looking into a deep well when you were dying of thirst. The well had what you needed, but you’d drown before getting it.

Rake turned to meet his fate.