“Marcus, you’re throwing it all away!” Richard gasped, his manicured hands clawing uselessly at Marcus’s massive, tape-wrapped wrist. “Everything we built! The endorsements, the title defense! You need me!”
“I don’t need anything from you,” Marcus said, his voice a low, vibrating hum of controlled fury. “Not anymore.”
From the front row of the VIP section, a tall, silver-haired man stood up. It was Arthur Thorne, the state boxing commissioner, his face grim and pale. He buttoned his tuxedo jacket and stepped into the clearing around the ring.
“Marcus,” Thorne said, his voice carrying an undeniable authority. “What is going on here? If what this boy is saying is true—”
“It’s true,” Marcus interrupted, turning his head just enough to look the commissioner in the eye. He didn’t let go of Richard. With his free hand, Marcus held out the yellow ledger paper, keeping it perfectly steady. “I want you to look at this, Arthur. Look at the signature.”
Thorne stepped closer, producing a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket. He studied the faded blue ink, the syndicate letterhead, the brutal terms of Tommy Carter’s sacrifice, and finally, the elegant, sweeping forgery at the bottom.
Thorne looked up, his expression hardening into disgust. He looked at Richard, who was now sweating profusely, his face pale and slick.
“Richard,” Thorne said, his voice dropping in temperature. “Did you forge a syndicate transfer to secure managerial rights to this fighter?”
“He was a nobody!” Richard shrieked, his composure completely shattering. He stopped clawing at Marcus and gestured wildly toward the ring, toward the invisible memory of Tommy Carter. “Tommy was a street-level thug! He was going down anyway! I took a fifty-thousand-dollar debt and turned this kid into a hundred-million-dollar industry! I protected the sport! I protected him!”
The admission echoed through the ballroom, caught on a hundred microphones and phone cameras.
The crowd of billionaires recoiled. The polite, refined atmosphere of the gala collapsed into a collective gasp of revulsion. The people in this room understood ruthless business, but they also understood a liability. Richard Sterling had just confessed to racketeering, forgery, and theft in front of the state boxing commissioner and the city’s elite.
Thorne removed his glasses and tucked them away. “I am suspending your promoter’s license effective immediately, Richard. And I imagine the district attorney will have several questions for you regarding the origins of Sterling Management.”
Marcus stared at the pathetic, trembling man in his grasp. All the anger, the twelve years of resentment he had held toward Tommy for abandoning him, vanished into a profound, suffocating grief. He had hated a man who had sacrificed his entire life for him.
Marcus released his grip.
Richard collapsed onto the carpet, landing hard on his knees, gasping for air. He looked up, expecting his security guards to help him, but the three massive men simply stepped backward, distancing themselves from a sinking ship.
Marcus didn't look at Richard again. He reached across his chest, unzipped his black silk track jacket—the one bearing the Sterling Management logo—and pulled it off. He dropped it onto the floor, letting it cover Richard’s polished shoes.
Then, Marcus turned and stepped back through the ropes, re-entering the ring.
Leo was still standing in the center of the canvas. The boy hadn't moved. He was clutching the yellowed newspaper to his chest, his pale face streaked with dirt and tears, watching the giant fighter approach.
The champion stopped in front of the boy. The crowd was entirely silent now, the only sound the faint hum of the overhead lights and the boy’s ragged breathing.