Tommy swallowed hard.
He looked down at his bruised knuckles, then up at his father.
“I understand.”
The next morning, they drove to the Zenith Athletic Club.
The parking lot was filled with German sports cars and blacked-out SUVs.
Ernest parked his rusted truck right between a pristine Bentley and a gleaming Porsche.
He killed the engine.
“Ready?” Ernest asked.
Tommy grabbed his gym bag.
His face was a mask of cold stone.
“Let’s go get our money.”
As they walked through the glass double doors into the lobby, the air conditioning hit them like a wall of ice.
The smell of expensive cologne and polished marble filled Ernest’s lungs.
Ahead of them, past the velvet ropes and the security guards, the grand ballroom awaited.
The fight had begun long before the bell rang.
But now there was nowhere left to hide.
The Zenith Athletic Club did not smell like a boxing gym.
It smelled like cedarwood, floor wax, and roasted tenderloin.
The Grand Ballroom had been transformed into a grotesque theater of cruelty.
A professional regulation ring sat directly beneath a massive tiered crystal chandelier.
The canvas illuminated by a rig of harsh blinding halogen lights.
Surrounding the ring were tables draped in white linen.
Men in tailored midnight-blue suits and women in silk cocktail dresses sat sipping champagne, picking at catered hors d’oeuvres.
They murmured to one another in hushed, polite tones, their eyes flicking toward the empty ring with a predatory anticipation.
They weren’t here for sport.
They were here for an execution.
They were here to watch Richard Cole enforce the natural order of their world.
Deep in the bowels of the club, in a sterile locker room reserved for visiting staff, Ernest ripped a piece of athletic tape from the roll.
The sharp tearing sound echoed off the white tile walls.
Tommy sat on a wooden bench, staring straight ahead.
He was wearing the plain black trunks Ernest had bought at the sporting goods store and a faded gray T-shirt.
He looked terrifyingly small.
“How do the wraps feel?” Ernest asked, pressing his thumbs into the center of Tommy’s palms, checking the tension.
“Tight,” Tommy said.
His voice was hollow. Not shaking, but entirely empty.
“Good. They’re supposed to be tight. They’re your cast.”
Ernest knelt in front of his son, bringing his face level with Tommy’s.
“Listen to me. The crowd out there, they don’t exist. The chandelier, the rich folks, Cole — they are ghosts. The only thing that is real is the sixteen-by-sixteen-foot square of canvas. You and Hunter. That’s it. The laws of physics work exactly the same in a billion-dollar ballroom as they do in Mickey’s basement.”
