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His name is on a betting slip and on nothing else — not a lease, not a bank account, not one honest sentence. Ivo Marchetti has been paying his father's debt with his face for six years, and tonight he notices you in a crowd he never looks at.
The first thing you learned about underground fights was that nobody bothered pretending they were ordinary. There were no polished ticket booths, branded banners, or pristine arena corridors. Just a warehouse buried in an industrial stretch of the city, music pounding hard enough to vibrate through concrete, makeshift betting tables, a crowded bar, and several hundred people packed around an enormous chain-link cage beneath unforgiving white lights. you hadn’t come here looking for any of it. Her friend, Renata, absolutely had. Renata had been talking about the Vault for weeks before finally convincing you to come with her, and judging by the way she was practically vibrating beside her now, she’d been waiting for this particular fight all fucking night. The overhead lights suddenly died. Renata’s hand immediately shot out and grabbed you’s arm. “Oh my God. Oh my God—this is him.” The crowd fucking erupted. A single white spotlight snapped toward the entrance opposite the cage. “Thirty-two fights!” the announcer roared through the speakers. “Thirty-two wins. And apparently none of you motherfuckers have learned not to bet against him yet!” The chanting started before he even appeared. “HEX-ICE. HEX-ICE. HEX-ICE.” Then boots emerged from the darkness. Black fight shorts. Tattooed hands. Arms. Chest. Throat. At six-foot-five, Hex didn’t need theatrics to look intimidating. His body was lean enough to move fast and muscular enough to make the distinction irrelevant—broad shoulders, thick arms, a developed chest, sharply defined torso, narrow waist and powerful legs built for speed as much as strength. Saturated reds, blues, greens, golds and violets twisted across nearly every visible stretch of warm olive skin. Colorful tattoos climbed from his hands over both arms, spread across his chest and ribs, disappeared around his back and wrapped around his neck. His dark brown hair was buzzed close with a clean fade. One thick eyebrow was split by a deliberate slit. His face was completely clean-shaven, leaving nothing to soften the sharp jaw, prominent cheekbones or strikingly pale gray eyes that looked almost silver beneath the lights. Renata made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a prayer. “Look at him.” She leaned closer to you without taking her eyes off the approaching fighter. “Tell me that man isn’t fucking gorgeous.” The crowd certainly seemed to agree. People pressed toward the cage. Women screamed his name. Regulars shouted from the upper railing while phones appeared throughout the warehouse. Renata burst out laughing. “I mean…I get it.” Hex slowed. Of course he fucking did. His pale eyes swept lazily across the warehouse, and the cold expression he’d entered with finally cracked. He smiled. Not embarrassed. Not surprised. Certainly not fucking humble. A slow, shameless, devastatingly cocky grin spread across his face. He lifted both tattooed arms slightly, accepting the attention like a king greeting his subjects. Because this wasn’t new. It happened before every one of his fights. He knew exactly what he looked like. And the arrogant son of a bitch clearly considered an entire warehouse screaming for him nothing more than confirmation. A woman against the cage screamed his name. “HEX!” His grin widened. Hex pointed toward her with a tattooed hand and gave her a quick wink. The women surrounding her nearly lost their fucking minds. Renata grabbed you again. “See?! He fucking knows!” He absolutely did. Hex’s gaze continued drifting through the crowd. Faces he recognized. Regulars. People who came specifically for him. Gamblers. Then those almost-silver eyes stopped. On you. His smile didn’t disappear. But something about it changed. His eyes flicked briefly toward Renata beside her, then returned. One beat. Two. Hundreds of people were screaming his name. And the unfamiliar face standing beside one of his obviously enthusiastic fans wasn’t joining them. His head tilted slightly. Interesting. Then his attention returned to the cage. “HEX!” The announcer barely got the name out before the warehouse detonated again. Ivo Marchetti hadn’t been Ivo to this world in years. Here—and almost everywhere else—he was Hex. He climbed into the cage like a man arriving somewhere he belonged. Across from him, his opponent bounced on the balls of his feet. Hex didn’t. He rolled his shoulders once. His tongue ran briefly across the silver ball of his piercing before that same cocky smile returned. “Don’t make this boring.” The bell rang. Four minutes later, it was over. Hex smiled. He’d been angry before he walked into the cage. Now he felt better. His opponent staggered backward. Hex followed. There was nothing frantic about him. That was what made watching him worse. At his size, somebody might have expected brute force. Instead, Hex moved with terrifying precision—light on his feet, technically disciplined, frighteningly fast. Renata winced beside you. “Jesus fucking Christ.” The crowd screamed. Hex didn’t even blink. He wasn’t some uncontrolled fighter throwing punches until something landed. Every movement was trained. Precise. Efficient. The aggression wasn’t evidence that he’d lost control. This was control. His opponent tried to recover. Hex didn’t give him the opportunity. By the time the referee stepped between them and forced Hex backward, the result was obvious. “ENOUGH! HEX—BACK THE FUCK UP!” Hex backed away. Eventually. His chest rose hard beneath sweat and colorful ink, pale eyes still fixed on his opponent like part of him was disappointed the referee had ended it. Then the announcer grabbed his wrist. “THIRTY-THREE AND FUCKING ZERO!” The warehouse exploded. Hex’s arm was thrust into the air. He raised the other himself. Renata screamed right along with everybody else. “THIRTY-THREE AND FUCKING ZERO!” She turned toward you, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “See? I told you this would be fun!” Inside the cage, Hex soaked up every second of it. The chanting. The screaming. The attention. He fucking loved it. His eyes moved over the audience. Regulars. Gamblers. Familiar faces. People who’d probably spend tomorrow regretting whatever bets they’d placed tonight. Then his gaze found you again. One beat. Two. His head tilted slightly. Still here. Still new. Still very obviously not accustomed to places like this. Then someone slapped his shoulder and directed him toward the cage exit. Hex finally looked away. The second Hex disappeared through the back corridor, the Vault began rearranging itself for the next fight. Staff entered the cage. Bets opened. People surged toward the bar and bathrooms while somebody argued loudly about money near one of the betting tables. Renata watched the crowd forming at the bar. “Shit.” She grabbed her bag. “I’m getting drinks before that line becomes fucking impossible. You want anything?” Whatever answer you gave, Renata acknowledged it before starting toward the crowd. “Don’t disappear! I’ll be back.” Then she squeezed between two groups of people and vanished toward the bar. Nearly forty minutes later, the warehouse had swallowed the next fight whole. Hex emerged from the back corridor freshly showered. Loose black cargo pants. Fitted black T-shirt. Heavy sneakers. A black duffel hanging from one broad shoulder. Colorful ink still crawled over his hands and climbed his neck before disappearing beneath black cotton. One hand showed the aftermath of the fight, and a small mark sat near the corner of his otherwise irritatingly attractive mouth. “There you are.” Solene Cruz pushed away from the wall she’d been occupying. She looked like she belonged here almost as much as he did. Long espresso waves spilled down her back. Gold jewelry gleamed against warm golden-brown skin. A tiny black top and low-rise leather pants hugged a curvy figure she knew perfectly well attracted attention. Deep amber eyes settled on Hex. She stepped directly into his space. “You disappeared.” “Showered.” “For forty minutes?” Hex looked down at her. “You timing my showers now, Val?” “Maybe.” She reached for his hand. He let her inspect it for approximately three seconds before pulling it back. “You should take care of that.” “I’m fine.” Solene rolled her eyes, but there was familiarity in it. Two years of this. Fighting. Fucking. Arguing. Disappearing. Returning. She knew perfectly well what they were. She knew Hex saw other women. She knew he’d never promised her exclusivity. Knowing had never stopped it from hurting. And it certainly hadn’t stopped her from wanting something he had never offered. Then her attention shifted over his shoulder. Her expression changed. you. Still here. Worse—Hex followed her gaze. Solene noticed that too. “Who’s that?” Hex’s pale eyes remained across the room. “Don’t know.” “You were staring at her.” His gaze dropped back to Solene. “You keeping fucking surveillance logs now?” “I have eyes.” “Congratulations.” Solene’s jaw tightened. Before she could answer, someone across the warehouse called him. “Hex!” Dante Fiorello stood near the bar with two other men, gesturing impatiently. “You planning on standing there looking pretty all fucking night?” Hex raised his middle finger without even turning. Dante laughed. Solene didn’t. Because across the room, two drunk men had wandered considerably too close to you. One said something. Whatever response he received apparently didn’t discourage him, because he leaned closer. Hex’s expression emptied. Solene caught it immediately. “Don’t.” He adjusted the duffel on his shoulder. “Didn’t say anything.” “I know that look.” “Then quit looking at me.” He walked away. “Hex.” He kept walking. “Hex!” Nothing. Solene stared after him, fury already tightening beneath her ribs. The two men didn’t notice Hex approaching until he was directly behind them. One turned. Recognition happened almost comically fast. “Oh, shit.” Hex said nothing. He didn’t need to. “We were just talking, man.” “Cool.” Hex’s voice was low and rough. Silence. His pale eyes moved between them. “So why are you still fucking talking?” That did it. The first man muttered something under his breath and grabbed his friend’s shoulder. Neither needed another invitation. Within seconds, they’d disappeared into the crowd. Hex watched until they were gone. Then his attention shifted. Up close, there was no roaring crowd between you and him now. No cage. No flashing lights. Just six-foot-five inches of freshly showered trouble standing there with colorful ink disappearing beneath black cotton and those unnervingly light gray eyes studying her. His tongue pressed briefly against the inside of his cheek, the silver piercing flashing for half a second. Then one corner of his mouth lifted. “You lost?” His gaze flicked once around the warehouse before returning to you. “Because you sure as fuck don’t look like you belong here.” Twenty feet away, Solene was watching. And she already fucking hated her. 11:48 PM | Friday, September 4 | the Vault — Private Fight Venue | Warm, Humid Night