Chapter 241: "Make Them Kneel"

Inside the cage, the fighters still standing seemed to reach the same conclusion as the spectators.

"Holy fuck," one said, exchanging a nervous glance with the fighter nearest him. "What are we supposed to do now?"

"You’re asking me?" the other man snapped. "The guy leading us is already on the floor!"

Another spoke up immediately.

"What if we force her into a corner? Leave her no room to hop around, then fucking smash her?"

"Yeah, good idea," the first man replied. "This bitch keeps hopping around like a rabbit! Let’s fucking squeeze her!"

With that plan in mind, the fighters charged again, approaching from better angles this time. They tried to coordinate their attacks, forcing Aren toward one side of the cage where she would have less room to maneuver.

Unfortunately, their unconscious companions were scattered across the floor, and avoiding them made coordinated movement difficult.

The referee was quick to notice.

He hurried between the fighters, dragging the fallen competitors toward a corner so they wouldn’t obstruct the match. By the time he’d gathered them, he was breathing heavily.

"Fucking hell," he muttered as he stared at Aren, who was already engaging another fighter across the cage. "What the hell is wrong with that girl?"

He’d expected her to be competent.

The whole point of arranging fifteen opponents had been to overwhelm someone already known to be dangerous, but this was ridiculous.

Almost unconsciously, his fingers brushed the concealed blades in his trouser pockets. He’d hoped they wouldn’t be necessary. Now, he was beginning to reconsider.

Meanwhile, Aren had begun noticing something peculiar about her remaining opponents.

They weren’t consistently aiming for her head, throat, or torso. Instead, they repeatedly attempted to seize her wrists and arms, or strike her legs at angles intended to break bones rather than simply knock her off balance.

’Hm, I see. They seem particularly interested in breaking my limbs.’

’That’s an inefficient strategy.’

’A sufficiently severe blow to the skull would be much more effective. They could leave me in a vegetative state for the rest of my life.’

Nevertheless, her observation confirmed that Jeremiah’s suspicion had been justified. These men weren’t merely attempting to win the match. They were trying to inflict a particular kind of injury.

Unfortunately, Aren doubted that their intentions, however obvious to her, would be sufficient to implicate Cavallo or the Castellano brothers.

A fighter could always claim he’d been targeting an opponent’s limbs as part of a legitimate strategy. She needed something more substantial.

’If I only knock them unconscious, there won’t be enough to establish what they were instructed to do.’

’Better force them to reveal their intentions.’

’Let’s break a few important bones, then.’

Aren charged the nearest man.

Her next kick struck his leg hard enough to force him down onto one knee. Before he could rise, she seized his arm, forced it backward, and brought her foot down with enough force to drive the joint past its limit.

CRACK!

"AAAAARGHHH!"

The sound of breaking bone carried through the cage, followed by the man’s agonized scream.

Several spectators nearest the fencing visibly recoiled. Even among an audience accustomed to violent fighting, there was something distinctly unpleasant about hearing a bone snap so clearly.

The injured fighter collapsed, clutching his arm against his chest.

"Argh... fuck! FUCK!"

He writhed on the floor, his face contorted with pain.

"That fucking bitch broke my arm! SHE BROKE MY FUCKING ARM!"

He looked toward his remaining companions.

"KILL HER! YOU HEAR ME? FUCKING KILL HER!"

The remaining fighters looked toward him, and for the first time since entering the cage, several seemed genuinely afraid.

Until now, they’d been able to tell themselves that the worst likely outcome was being knocked unconscious. Their fallen companions might wake with headaches and bruises, but there was a considerable difference between losing a fight and suffering an injury that could keep someone out of work for months.

Several swallowed nervously.

One glanced toward the others, searching for reassurance, yet beneath their growing fear lay another consideration.

They’d been promised a substantial amount of money. Whatever had been arranged outside the cage, they’d already committed themselves to carrying it out.

After a brief exchange of uncertain looks, the men rallied.

"COME ON, BROTHERS!"

"LET’S FUCKING KILL THIS BITCH!"

They gathered what remained of their courage and charged together.

Aren moved to meet them.

The next few exchanges were considerably uglier. The fighters attacked with increasing desperation, attempting to trap her between their bodies and catch whichever limb came within reach.

Aren responded with the same precision as before, but she no longer limited herself to knocking them unconscious.

Another bone broke.

Crack!

"HAAAARGHHH!"

Then another.

Crack!

"MOMMYYY!"

The sounds of cracking bones continued to ring out from the cage amid heavy impacts, grunts, and increasingly desperate cries.

The audience went wild.

"YES! Fuck yes!"

"Show them how it’s done, Swan Queen!"

"Make them kneel, Lombardi! I placed millions on you tonight!"

Some spectators were now shouting Ariana Lombardi’s name, while others recoiled whenever another fighter collapsed clutching an injured limb.

A number of men who’d placed substantial wagers on Cavallo’s team were beginning to look distinctly unhappy. With each passing moment, the possibility of losing their money became less theoretical.

High above the cage, Hezekiah and Zachariah Castellano were facing a considerably larger problem.

Neither brother had placed a wager that evening. They’d invested in something far more consequential, and it was going disastrously wrong.

Ariana Lombardi was supposed to leave the cage with injuries severe enough to end her fighting career. Instead, she looked determined to break every available bone among Cavallo’s fifteen best fighters.

Zachariah leaned forward, staring at another fighter who’d just gone down, then turned toward Hezekiah with growing alarm.

"This isn’t good, brother! What the fuck is that woman? Some kind of beast? This isn’t how it was supposed to go at all! What are we supposed to do now?"

Hezekiah no longer looked particularly comfortable. He gripped the arms of his chair, his attention fixed on the cage.

"What else can we do?!" he snapped. "Just fucking use our insurance before this whole thing gets any further out of hand!"

He made a sharp gesture toward the nearest subordinate.

The man approached immediately and bent close enough to hear Hezekiah’s instructions over the noise of the crowd. A few seconds later, he stepped aside, tapped his earpiece, and spoke briefly into it.

Down near the cage, Cavallo raised a hand to his own ear.

His face tightened as he listened. The crowd was still roaring, and he had to concentrate to make out the message being relayed to him.

Across the arena, Jeremiah noticed every part of the exchange. While Jordan and Caio had been following every movement inside the cage, he’d devoted most of his attention to his brothers and Cavallo.

The moment Hezekiah summoned his subordinate, Jeremiah became even more interested. When the man spoke into his earpiece and Cavallo responded almost immediately afterward, Jeremiah’s suspicions hardened into certainty.

’Ah. So now they’re panicking.’

His lovely fighter had done exactly what he’d asked. She’d stepped beneath the stage lights and performed beautifully, drawing the entire arena’s attention while making fifteen large men look increasingly unfortunate.

Now, apparently, it was time for him to fulfill his part of their arrangement.

Jeremiah continued watching Cavallo.

The man’s expression had grown tense. Whatever message he’d received, it clearly wasn’t pleasant.

Fortunately, it was brief.

Within seconds, Cavallo lowered his hand and began moving around the outside of the cage, taking care not to draw unnecessary attention.

Jeremiah followed him with his eyes.

Cavallo stopped near the referee. There was a small gesture, subtle enough that most spectators would never have noticed it.

The referee looked toward Cavallo and nodded. Then he moved closer to one of the fighters still standing.

Jeremiah’s brows lifted slightly.

From his position, he couldn’t see exactly what passed between them. The referee’s body concealed the exchange, and the angle was poor, but he’d stood close to the fighter for a moment, and the movement of his hand was unmistakable.

He’d given the fighter something.

Under ordinary circumstances, that might not have meant much, but these were hardly ordinary circumstances. There were very few innocent explanations for a referee secretly handing something to a fighter in the middle of a match.

’Fucking hell.’

Jeremiah’s smile disappeared.

’I had every one of those fighters checked, and I didn’t think to inspect the fucking referee.’

The oversight was infuriating.

He reached up and tapped his earpiece.

"Get ready," he said quietly. "The little rats are on the move. Nobody acts until I give the signal."