"Ten thousand dollars on the mountain, they call him 'Meatball'," Paul said, eyeing the muscular fighter.
"Look at the underdog, he'll be devoured by that mountain." He trailed off, unsure of what to call the young fighter facing Meatball. "That little thing," he finished.
"Twenty," Luciano murmured, and all his inner circle shot him a glance. He sat with his right leg casually draped over his left in the VIP section. "Twenty thousand dollars on the 'little thing,'" he added.
"Twenty thousand?" Blake exclaimed. "Boss, you might as well give me that money. That fighter doesn't stand a chance."
"He may be smaller, but look at his stance, his focus, the power in his uppercut," Luciano said. "He's got a chance."
"Fine," Paul grumbled. "I'll take that bet."
Luciano and Paul placed their bets, and the crowd waited with bated breath as the two fighters prepared for the match. The arena was filled with the sound of cheering as the crowd chanted, "Meatball! Meatball! Meatball!"
The mountain lifted his hands, smiling as he basked in the adoration. He glanced over at the young fighter and threatened him, "One blow, and you're done for."
The young fighter remained silent, calculating his odds. He knew he was at a disadvantage, but he was determined to find Meatball's weakness. He had to, or it would be game over.
As the match commenced, the fighters advanced towards one another. Meatball, the behemoth, aware of his size advantage, relied solely on brute force. His fists flew with ferocity and speed, causing the fledgling fighter to strain and struggle as he sought refuge from the relentless barrage. Each punch that landed sent the young fighter reeling, yet he managed to keep his balance, his feet rooted to the ground.
The young fighter retaliated with puny blows, barely making a dent in Meatball's armor of muscle. One particularly powerful punch almost sent him sprawling, but he managed to right himself. With a resigned sigh, he resumed his stance and watched as Meatball approached, realizing that the brute's punches left his body exposed.
Seizing the opportunity, the young fighter ducked one punch and struck Meatball's right rib with all his might. Meatball let out a pained whimper, stumbling backwards in shock. The crowd, who had been chanting his name with fervor, fell silent.
Luciano smiled, a glint in his eye. The young fighter had trained well. Luciano had once been a fighter himself in his early twenties, facing opponents twice his size.
Fury boiled in Meatball's chest, and he growled menacingly. The young fighter before him wore a confident smile, having accomplished his initial objective - to enrage the formidable opponent.
In a fit of rage, Meatball attacked with wild blows, leaving himself exposed. The nimble fighter deftly maneuvered around him, then struck with his signature move, a powerful uppercut. Luciano's keen eye had spotted it - a right fist that connected with Meatball's lower chin, sending him crashing to the ground.
The crowd, once vibrant with cheers for Meatball, fell silent as the referee declared the young fighter the victor. Meatball, dazed and injured, attempted to rise but stumbled, his vision blurring before he collapsed once more.
Luciano turned to Paul. "Secure that fighter for me," he commanded. "And don't forget the twenty thousand dollars," he added, preparing to leave with his two bodyguards and Blake in tow.
Paul sighed, his gaze following the victorious fighter, Marcos Santini, also known as 'Lucky Fist.' Despite his smaller frame, Santini was a formidable opponent, nearly impossible to defeat in hand-to-hand combat.
Marcos Santini was in the dimly lit changing room, gathering his belongings, when Paul burst in.
"Magnificent match, that was," Paul said, attempting to garner Marcus's attention.
Marcus turned slowly to face the intruder, his eyes scanning Paul up and down, assessing any potential threat.
Paul, realizing the cold reception, quickly got to the point. "My boss thinks highly of your fighting skills."
"I don't care what your boss thinks" Marcus replied, his voice icy.
The arrogance in Marcus's tone irked Paul, but he held his tongue and pressed on. " He wishes for you to fight on his behalf."
"I don't fight for anyone," Marcus retorted.
Paul chuckled nervously. "Ah, I'm afraid you may have misunderstood. It's not a request. He insists."
Marcus grinned, dropping his bag to the floor with a thud. He advanced towards Paul, who retreated until his back met the cold, hard wall. Marcus leaned in close, his fists bracketing Paul's head, his knuckles mere inches from his ears.
"Listen well" Marcus whispered ominously. "Go back and tell your master that I am no man's pet." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "And tell him where he can stick his demands."
Paul approached the sleek limousine parked outside the building, his heart pounding in his chest. Luciano, the notorious boss, sat within, his eyes piercing even through the tinted windows. Two burly bodyguards flanked the vehicle, their presence an ominous reminder of the power that Luciano wielded.
"Boss," Paul began, his voice wavering, "the young fighter declined to fight for you."
A ghost of a smile graced Luciano's lips causing a chill to run down Paul's spine. "I suspected as much. There's a fire in this young man, a spark that can't be extinguished. He'll come around, one way or another."
As the limousine pulled away, Paul couldn't shake the feeling of unease. Luciano was not known for his patience, and the thought of what he might do to the young fighter weighed heavily on his mind.
The three followed Luciano's car in a second car, a black BMW
"What do you think Luciano will do to him?" Blake asked, his voice low and tense. Blake, Luciano's cousin, was one of the few people he trusted implicitly.
Paul sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I don't know, but I fear it won't be good."