Every championship belt. Every million-dollar purse. This very charity gala, filled with the wealthiest people in the city. All of it had been built on a lie. Built on the stolen money and stolen freedom of the only man who had ever truly believed in him.
“Marcus, listen to reason,” Richard said. His voice was entirely stripped of its arrogant edge now. It was thin, reedy, and frantic. He had managed to pull his leg back out of the ropes and was backing away along the apron. “The man was a criminal! I did you a favor! If the press found out you were tied to a syndicate, your career would have been over before it started! I cleaned up your image! I made you who you are!”
Marcus slowly lowered the yellow ledger page.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t lose control. The terrifying rage that usually fueled his knockouts in the ring vanished, replaced by a cold, absolute clarity.
He looked at the boy standing in the oversized hoodie, a child who had been forced to fight a war his father had lost twelve years ago.
Then, Marcus turned slowly to face Richard Sterling.
“You didn’t make me,” Marcus said, his voice echoing off the chandeliers. “Tommy made me. You just bought the stolen goods.”
Marcus took a step toward the ropes.
Richard stumbled backward, bumping into one of his own security guards. The crowd of billionaires, sensing the catastrophic shift in power, began to murmur urgently. Some were pulling out their phones.
“Security, stop him!” Richard shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at his own fighter. “He’s breaching his contract! Restrain him!”
The three guards hesitated. They looked at the terrified manager, and then at the heavyweight champion of the world, who was staring at them with eyes that promised absolute destruction.
None of the guards moved.
Marcus reached the ropes. He gripped the top black velvet cable with his massive right hand, pulling it down effortlessly. He stepped out of the ring, his boots hitting the ballroom floor with a heavy, final thud.
He was standing right in front of Richard.
“You said this was a charity event,” Marcus said softly.
Richard swallowed, his back pressed against a VIP table covered in crystal glasses. “Marcus... please. We can talk about this. We can fix it.”
“We are going to fix it,” Marcus said. He reached out and clamped his massive hand onto the lapel of Richard’s ten-thousand-dollar suit, lifting the manager onto his toes. “Right now. In front of everybody.”
Chapter 3: The Best Doctors in the City
The grand ballroom, packed with the most powerful people in the city, felt as small and suffocating as a closet.
Richard Sterling dangled on his toes, his polished Italian leather shoes barely grazing the carpet. Marcus held him effortlessly by the lapel of his tailored jacket, the champion’s grip like a steel vise. The absolute terror in Richard’s eyes was magnified by the hundreds of camera phones suddenly recording the moment from the surrounding tables.