Criminal Passion

8

Unlike the surface, down here it’s so hot that keeping my jacket on is impossible. Camile and I stop in a corner of the underground, surrounded by a crowd of rough men and half-naked women. Hip-hop booms in the air, cigarette smoke creates a thick haze in the shadows, and the stench of sweat sours my nostrils.

From a distance, I can see some kind of stage. It’s covered by a black tarp hanging from the ceiling like a circus tent, keeping whatever is inside hidden from view. I check on Camile, who has already tied her curly hair up in a bun and also ditched her jacket. She’s wearing jeans and a white turtleneck, so different from my damned neckline. My jaw drops when she pulls a vape from her pocket and takes a drag, the watermelon scent mixing into the air with the weed all around us.

“What the hell, Camile?”

“We have to blend in,” she defends herself. “We can’t look like two idiots here. Look at these guys.”

“And you think puffing on a little electronic cigarette is going to help? We look like two spoiled little rich girls.”

“You are a spoiled little rich girl. But at least we’ve got your boobs.” Her eyes drop to my chest.

“Nice cleavage.”

I take a deep breath, crossing my arms, which only makes the volume worse. My boobs are like two pathetic lemons, but in this place, they’re more than enough to get attention.

“With the cold outside, it never crossed my mind I’d have to take the jacket off.”

“No, this is good,” Camile says. “Just look at the women here. Short skirts, that face like they know exactly what they want. Now, let’s just pray they don’t notice we’re completely freaking out.”

“Then you girls need to place a bet.”

The voice comes from a guy right beside us, practically leaning into both of us. I have no idea where the hell he came from, but he’s got a cigarette tucked behind his ear and green eyes that catch us instantly. I go on alert, gripping Camile’s wrist. He must have heard our whole conversation.

“Relax. You’re not the first curious ones around here. And you, curls, you’re right.” He locks his gaze on Camile with a charming smile. “The trick is to act like it’s not your first time, like you already know how this place works.”

“Underground fights,” Camile says, confident. “See? We know what this is about.”

We cracked the code as soon as we walked in. The posters plastered on the walls, ripped images of famous fighters, graffiti of gloves, hand wraps, and iconic boxing movie characters. Not to mention the men’s heated conversations about fights.

“Smart girl,” the man teases, and Camile lifts her chin, smug. “That’s why there are bets. The booth closes in five minutes. Still time to get in on it.”

“With the amount of drugs going around, there’s more than just fighting here,” I mutter to Camile. “Don’t talk to this guy anymore, we don’t know who he is.”

“But he must be part of the main event,” she hisses back. “And unless we start snorting lines off each other’s shoulders, our only option is to bet, or we’ll draw even more attention. I don’t trust him, but it won’t hurt to hear what he has to say.” Camile looks at him again. “So? Who should we bet on?”

He nods toward the sign above the betting booth.

ROCHA vs PITBULL — 12:40 AM

“Rocha’s a tough guy,” he explains, “but Pitbull is undefeated.”

“Seems pretty obvious then,” Camile deduces.

“Not exactly. The thrill is betting on someone to take his title. If we all know Pitbull always wins, then yeah, the payout is tiny, almost nothing. The real deal is betting on the challenger. Hoping someone can finally break Pitbull’s winning streak.”

“So… people bet on the undefeated guy to lose?”

“Yeah.”

“But if he always wins, why take the risk?”

“First, because if the challenger happens to win, half the people in here get rich. Second, for the satisfaction of watching him fight. He’s brutal. And third…” He picks up a token and twirls it between his fingers. “For the addiction.”

Of course.

“But,” he continues, taking the cigarette from behind his ear and lighting it with a lighter, “you girls came on a rare night. The place is way more packed than usual, and for the first time in years, people are actually starting to believe Pitbull might lose.”

“You just said the guy’s invincible,” I snap back.

“Rumor is, last week he dislocated his shoulder. Nobody knows what really happened, or if he’s fully healed.”

I’m about to answer when a boxing bell clangs through the speakers and the men’s roars shake the walls.

“By the way, my name’s Marlon. Enjoy the show.”

Suddenly, the few lights overhead cut out. Darkness swallows the place whole.

The crowd erupts like a stadium, the roars sending chills down my spine.

“Camis?”

“Here,” she says, gripping my hand again.

A second later, a bright beam of light shoots across the space. The spotlight hits the black tarp. It’s not a stage. It’s a ring.

The tarp starts rising slowly, revealing long iron bars forming a cage.

The shouting grows louder.

My ears buzz. I squint, trying to understand if what I’m seeing is real.

The spotlight now lands on a man on the left side. His arms are bound by thick chains fixed to the cage bars, his muscles straining under sweaty skin, a muzzle strapped so tight across his mouth it looks heavy.

He’s restrained.

Chained like a wild animal.

Even contained behind that mask, his gaze is fierce and piercing. A shiver runs through me at the sight. I can feel the suppressed fury and raw energy tearing out of him.

I know him.

Even from a distance. Even like this.

I take a step forward, just enough for Marlon to hear me over the crowd’s howls.

“Is that Pitbull?”

He tilts his head toward me, far too close. His eyes drop to my mouth and the shadow of a smile curves his lips.

“That’s him. Flesh, bone, and pure hatred.”

“Why chain him like that?”

His lips brush my ear. My first instinct is to pull away, but curiosity keeps me glued in place.

“When he first showed up here, he was nobody. Tártaro had another favorite. Sadan. That guy was twisted. Everyone thought the rookie wouldn’t last a single round, no chance in a ring like this. But he just went feral. I’ll never forget the bite he gave Sadan, right in the cheek. He looked like an animal possessed. Blood poured like a waterfall, and even then, he wouldn’t let go. The crowd was horrified. And when he finally did let go, it was the sickest thing I’ve ever seen. So much blood people actually puked. And that’s saying something, because the folks down here are used to brutal violence. But what Don did… it was f****d up as hell.”

“Don?”

“Pitbull,” he says. “Don Santoro. That’s his name. Or at least that’s what they say. Since then, opponents have been terrified. Some tried biting back, but he was too fast, too focused. Nobody could do the same damage. It’s like he’s got so much hate inside that it turns into raw power. Over time, he became a spectacle. A freak show. Everyone in this underground hellhole wanted to know him, see him fight, watch him tear people apart. The chains and the muzzle… people love the idea of a brutal man, a beast in a cage, just waiting to be unleashed on a bloodbath.”