Page 1 of Embriagado

PROLOGUE

SANTIAGO

My heart was racing in my chest, breath steady as I kept my hands raised to protect my face. With my footwork on point, I dodged my opponent’s blows. He was scattered, throwing punches all over the place, clearly having no clue what he was doing. But that was to be expected from an amateur. They all were, every single man I beat up in this lousy tournament. It was an embarrassment to even take part in it, but it was the only contest I could currently afford to pay the entry fee for. There were no medals here, no pedestals, only a laughable winning prize. Fuck that—there was hardly even a crowd, and yet I found myself glancing at the chairs again, my eyes scanning the few people who’d come to watch this shitshow.

Of course he’s not here.

My jaw tightened, brief disappointment washing over me before I focused back on the fight. I’d dragged it out for as long as I could, and it was about time I finished it. At the end of the day, as shitty as this contest was, I still had to win if I wanted the cash.

Keeping my elbows in so as not to lose power, I waited for the right second to strike. When it came, I didn’t hold back and sent my hand forward, twisting the punch for maximum impact as I right-hooked my opponent. Without breaking a sweat, I put my weight back on my leading leg before going for another hit right to his temple. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, and I smiled, satisfied at the sweet sight. But a fight wasn’t over until one man was down, and knowing I wouldn’t be happy until I’d seen fucking red, I threw another rear uppercut just before the bell rang, indicating this round was over.

What a shame. I should have punched him more.

“That last hit was after the bell!” the referee called.

“What?” I barked, turning to loom over the man who hardly reached my chest.

“It’s your third foul.”

“Bullshit!” I screamed, rage scraping my throat. I didn’t give a shit about this tournament, but this was still a win. My win.

“Watch it, boxer,” he said, eyes locked with mine.

Fucking old asshole.

“You know damn well this fight’s mine.”

“You hit the man after the bell, it’s a foul. Now, go back to your corner and thank me for not disqualifying you.”

Feeling like the vein in my neck was about to burst, I took a deep breath, forcing down my anger. This motherfucker of a referee was known to be a fucking liar. He was probably paid off to steal the fight. I pressed my lips together, trying hard to hold it back; the only thing keeping me down was knowing I still had a chance of getting paid. So, with my head bowed, I began walking to my corner.

“Fucking fairy,” he huffed under his breath, making me stop in my tracks.

That red I wanted to see earlier? Yeah, now I saw it, and it was fucking beautiful.

* * *

“Yo, Rivas.”

Not slowing down to see who was calling me, I continued to walk, hands shoved in my pockets, until someone slammed his hand on my back.

“Hey, Santiago Rivas, didn’t you hear me calling your name?”

I grunted. “No.”

“Better check those ears of yours.” He tried touching me, but I shoved him away.

“Fuck off, Ace.”

Not listening, he continued walking by my side. “Heard you got disqualified tonight, something to do with punching the referee.”

What could I say? Some people were meant to be punched. And currently, with the smirk on his ugly face, Ace was cutting close to the list.

“Shame, isn’t it? Heard the winner cut a nice prize.”

Nice, my ass. First place wasn’t even scratching one grand, although in my situation, anything was good.

“By the way, saw your old man earlier, getting hammered and losing his money in cards⁠—”