SACRIFICE | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER SEVEN

Regime begins at daybreak when the morning sun soars, and a subtle, sweet, floral scent hangs in the spring air. Painstaking jogs progressively became welcoming head-space, private moments, with only my thoughts or ear-plugged vocalists, to contend with. Muscle-gain evolved into a powerful obsession, and habitual, impetus fitness was purposeful. At present, I do fifty press-ups and sit-ups, usually, before the lads bombard through the gym doors. Such cycles are progressive yet inadequate, so I reduplicated protein intake, doubled-up on the weights bench and added scheduled late-night runs.

The future belongs to me, and I damn well had plans for it.

"Warren." Rex's harsh, ferocious tone of voice had my eyes tossing heavenward. "Ye ain't scrubbed the bog."

Yes, I did. Twice. Before cleaning liabilities and all-day training, I tackle that sordid bathroom. It's the worst, eye-watering, stomach-churning job—best to get the unpleasantness out of the way, right?

"Take the Plunger to it," he blathered, pipe stem precariously balanced between his lips. "It's bastard bumpin' in there."

"I am not unclogging your shit," I said, unwavering and resolute. I don't know what the old man eats, but his rotten, putrid bowel movements repeatedly scar me for life. "Pay for a plumber."

"I pay ye to clean." He sits onto the spectator bench, sipping strong tea. "Aye, ye make a mean cuppa, Warren."

"Firstly, you've yet to pay for my services," I remind him, cocking my head to the side. "Secondly, I spat in that tea."

His willpower caved, eyes briefly skimming the mug. "Are ye serious, lad?"

I gave him a lopsided smirk, throwing a mishmash into the punch bag. Sweat mists my body, trickling down my spine. I love fitness, but there's something oddly satisfying about laying into shit.

Rex overlooks my humourless jest, finishing his beverage. "I organised a fight for Friday. Well, it's in four weeks, but the event takes place on a Friday."

What's new? Rex holds boxing tournaments most Friday nights. His main contesters earn serious coinage in that ring, especially if they win. Rex also profits from cashing bets at the main door. According to hearsay in the locker room, Rex has a severe gambling addiction, and those late-night brawls feed his wagering. I am unknowledgeable to both fighting events and my employer's secret way of life. I'd rather keep my nose out from where it doesn't belong, work hard, train harder, stick to the game.

"I put ye name down," he said, and I toppled into the bag in shock. "I think ye ready."

I bored into him with hopeful eyes. "Don't fuck with me, Rex."

"I ain't fuckin' with ye, lad." Grinning knowingly, he set his empty cup onto the bench. "I placed big money on ye, Warren, so don't let me down."

I ripped the tape from my knuckles. "No chance."

"Good," he sighed, lifting his flat cap, scratching his receding hairline. "I got a meetin' with an old friend. Can I trust ye to lock up?"

"Sure, Rex." Picking up my discarded T-shirt from the floor, I dabbed sweat from my face.

Rex left the building and rode a tube south. In his absence, I finalised chores, showered, changed into a clean tracksuit and locked the gym door.

Bag strap over my chest, I plugged earphones into my ears and selected a song on the Walkman. It might be dark, but the streetlights outlined a figure across the street. I glanced with minimal interest, almost walked ahead, until comprehending Bronagh beside a signpost. "What the fuck are you doing out so late?"