It’s not even remotely possible that Cort van Breda is sane.
The article didn’t mention much about his personal life. Didn’t say anything about his wives or where he lives. Didn’t give anything up about his hobbies or interests. In fact, it talked more about the entourage of friends following him down on the deck right now than it did him.
Two are not fighters themselves, but trainers in Cort’s camp. All the Ring of Fire fighters run training centers. It’s the only way to keep these fights going because there is a dead body at the end of every match.
These men, they only exist to kill one another.
This is Cort’s last fight. I overheard my father saying so a few weeks back and Cort is not the favorite tonight. He’s been around too long and at twenty-seven, he’s two years older than his opponent, Pavo.
That’s two additional years of abuse.
Two additional years of hardcore training. The type of training that breaks a body down quicker and quicker with each passing year.
Two years is a big deal in the ring. Cort has had at least a dozen more fights than his opponent tonight and in this world, too much experience is a liability.
The article was mostly the rules tonight, the opponent, the prize, and, of course, the ring.
There are no rules. It’s fight to the death by any means possible.
The opponent is Pavo Vervonal. A ruthless man I’ve known my whole life because my father owns him and the training center he runs.
The prize is complicated. As is the ring. Because it’s not a ring at all, it’s a ship. These fights never take place in a gym or an event center. That’s far too dull and banal for the people who run my world. They need drama. They thrive on it.
The ship, called the Bull of Light, is definitely dramatic. It is a massive, floating oil-rig installation vessel currently carrying a fully-assembled five-story oil rig that will be carefully placed on a platform in the Gulf of Mexico sometime next week, but for now is being used as a hotel for over a hundred and fifty invited guests.
We’re in the South Atlantic, somewhere between Vila dos Remédios and French Guiana. My family arrived yesterday. Pavo, the Sick Heart’s opponent, is… family, for lack of a better word. He needed time to acclimate to the sea because he trains in Thailand so we came early.
I guess Cort van Breda didn’t feel the need for the same consideration because the fight is tonight and he, obviously, just got here.
The ship is not just the ring, but also the prize. Part of it, at least.
Cort’s father—for lack of a better word—is Udulf van Hauten. He currently owns an eighty-one-percent controlling interest in this massive two-point-eight-billion-dollar ship. But if Pavo wins tonight, my father will knock him down to forty-nine percent and the majority of the ship’s profits will change hands.
The prize is as complicated as the ring. Because if Pavo loses, I will change hands as well.
I wonder what the Sick Heart thinks about that?
I take a quick step towards the window again so I can watch him as he approaches the command center. And just before he disappears inside, he looks up and pauses. Watching me watch him.
Then his friend pushes him inside and he disappears.
I walk over to one of the overstuffed leather couches and take a seat. It’s nice and cool up here in the reception room. Almost chilly, since I’m the only one here. But I enjoy it while it lasts. It’s sticky hot outside and later tonight, after the fight is over, all the important people will be up here for the celebration and I will have forgotten all about what it feels like to sit in cool comfort, alone and unbothered.
And just as those thoughts manifest in my head, right on cue, the door flies open with a bang and Bexxie, my nine-year-old sister—for lack of a better word—comes racing in squealing with delight.
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God. OMG. OMG. OMGeeeeeeeee! Did you see him?” She places a hand over her heart and sighs. “Ahhhhhhh. I’m dead. Dead, Anya. Were you looking?”
I nod at her.
“Of course you were looking.” She giggles. “You should’ve seen the lady crew from the laundry. They were all dy-ing. Dying, Anya! Falling over dead. He’s so gorgeous. Don’t you think?”
I, of course, do not answer her. But someone else does.
“No.”
Bexxie and I both turn towards the door to find Pavo walking in to the reception room. He’s looking very put-together. Short-sleeved collared shirt, dark, pressed jeans, mahogany hair slicked back. He even smells good.
He walks over to me, extends his hand, and pulls me to my feet. He spins me around, leans his mouth in to my neck, and whispers, “Do you find him pretty, Anya? Are your panties wet for him?”
I roll my eyes.
Bexxie makes a face. “You’re gross, Pavo. You should not talk to us like that.”
Pavo laughs. “Get the fuck out of here, you little baby brat. I need some time alone with your sister.”
“She doesn’t like you.” Bexxie sneers at him. “In fact, she hates you.”
“Doesn’t matter, does it?” Pavo licks my ear. Bexxie and I both make a face. But I don’t move and neither does she. “It doesn’t matter if you like me, does it, Anya? Because after I win this fight tonight, you’re mine. Forever.”
Bexxie frowns. “She’s not yours. And you’re not going to win. Cort is.”
Pavo pushes me off him and crosses the distance to Bexxie in an instant. Her face is red from the slap before I can even move to stop him. “Shut up, you little whore. Go find your stupid daddy. Anya is mine.”
Bexxie—not the kind of girl who can be deterred by a single slap—plants her hands on her hips and tips her chin up. “No. You go find my stupid daddy. And make sure you tell him you called him stupid. Because I will if you don’t.” She points
