COLD BLOODED I : The Devil and The Dove

[ELODIE]

I never thought I’d end up sneaking into an old theater, face hidden under an oversized hoodie. The air reeked of sweat and cheap alcohol. Each roar from the crowd sent a jolt of adrenaline through me, making my chest tight and my breathing shallow.

Ethan hadn’t come home in two days. Normally, I’d let him handle his own business, but he’d never gone radio silent for more than twenty-four hours. His friend mentioned something about an underground fight ring—one owned by a notorious mafia family in Vegas.

“GET UP, YOU DAMN LOSER!”

“Let it go, Bob. We’re moving to the next fight. I’ve got my money on Goliath.”

“Did that Bellion guy bet on him too?”

I froze near the empty ring, watching as the defeated was dragged out like roadkill. My stomach turned, but I swallowed it down and followed the crowd to the next arena.

"Of course! Remember, he’s Goliath! Undefeated. The consigliere wouldn’t bet against him. And rumor says—he’s facing a rookie.”

My pulse spiked. I fought my way to the front row, praying that rookie was my brother.

The crowd erupted when Goliath entered; carved from stone—victory written all over his brutal face. Whoever fought him tonight was doomed.

While the rookie looked barely twenty. A kid tossed into a slaughterhouse. This was a losing game—and for one fleeting moment, I was grateful it wasn’t Ethan.

Still, I pulled my hoodie lower, tried to blend in. Then the crowd shifted, whispers spreading fast.

“That’s him. The Consigliere.”

He walked in like the room belonged to him—crisp white shirt, black coat brushing his ankles, calm steps that somehow silenced everyone. He didn’t need to speak; just standing there made the air feel thinner, like the whole place was waiting for him to breathe first.

His eyes—sharp, predatory—scanned the room. A cold shiver crept down my spine.

“I thought you wouldn’t show tonight, Mr. Consigliere.” The man beside him flicked on a mic, letting the whole arena hear their exchange.

That smug smile—he wasn’t an ally.

"Say something,” he pressed. “They’re dying to hear the great Consigliere speak.”

The man finally did. “Thank you for playing in my arena tonight, Mr. Neatley. It’s an honor.”

His voice was smooth, baritone—like velvet wrapping a blade.

"You’ve been quite into underground fights lately. I heard you even put Goliath as your main act tonight.”

"Yeah. But too bad you brought me a kid to fight my champion. Is this a joke, or are you trying to make me look stupid?”

The Consigliere smiled. Just a faint curve—but it unsettled me, and when he finally answered Neatley—

"I’m not good at making jokes, Mr.Neatley. If I wanted people to laugh at you, I wouldn’t need one.”

The words hit like a blade dressed in silk. The crowd seemed to tighten around me, pressing in until I could barely breathe. The fight hadn’t even started, yet the entire room was already under his control—the Consigliere’s calm grip on chaos.

“So,” Neatley sneered, adjusting the expensive suit that couldn’t hide his gut, “you betting on Goliath too? Like most of them.”

“Side bets?” the Consigliere asked smoothly.

“Of course!” Neatley grinned, loud and arrogant. “Thirty grand says Goliath makes that kid eat the floor in fifteen minutes! Bring the money!”

His men slammed the cash down on the Consigliere’s table. The crowd cheered for Goliath—louder and hungrier.

“That’s a lot of money for blind confidence.”

“It’s more than money,” Neatley spat. “I want victory—your defeat, Bellion.”

The Consigliere smiled faintly. “Good. Since you’re not after money, I’ll take it all for myself. I’m betting fifty thousand—on the rookie.”

The whole room froze. So did I.

Looked at the kid who didn’t stand a chance might make us think that consigliere had a bad sight. But his confidence was unnerving—steady, absolute.

“Start the game,” he ordered.

And just like that, victory already felt like his.

Goliath came out swinging—every punch a promise of pain. The crowd roared with every hit that landed on the rookie’s face, feeding off his dominance. But no matter how many blows he took, the kid refused to go down.

Almost fifteen minutes in, and Goliath was fighting a ghost. The rookie moved sharper, faster—like something had snapped inside him. Before anyone could process it, he rushed Goliath, climbed up his massive frame, and in a blur, locked his legs around Goliath’s neck.

The arena exploded. People screamed in panic, some in disbelief—as the undefeated monster hit the ground, unconscious.

I just stood there, my brain couldn’t catch up with what my eyes saw. I turned, searching for the Consigliere, maybe to see how he’d react, maybe to prove this wasn’t real—but then he looked at me.

Just a glance. Sharp. Hunting.

I pushed through the crowd, slipping toward the same hidden exit I used to get in. My heart was still pounding, my hands shaking. It was my first time seeing a mafia consigliere up close. He didn’t look like a monster—but he made me feel like I was already halfway down the cliff, one step from falling.

"Oh, Ethan,” I whispered, voice breaking.

My words died in my throat when I saw them—two men blocking the alley. My pulse stuttered.

"W-who?” I squeaked.

"We’re your brother’s friends. He told us to pick you home.”

"Ethan?”

“Yeah. Ethan. Come on, our car’s out front. Ethan’s waiting.”

Relief hit my blue eyes. “Ethan’s with you?”

“Yeah. Just left the bar. He’s wasted—eighteen shots deep.”

They sounded close to Ethan, but something didn’t sit right. I refuse to walk.

“What’s wrong?” one asked, puzzled. I forced my hands to stop shaking so I could step back, buy myself a chance.

"I don’t know which Ethan you mean, but my Ethan can’t even hold a drink—”

A hand clamped my shoulder. A broad chest pressed cold against my back.

“I didn’t expect uninvited guests.” The voice was close and deathly.

Even my breath trembled. I’d been caught with no easy escape.

“Hand the girl over,” the man said. His friendly face switched to hard, and his companion turned stern and insistent.

“No one orders me in my place.” I felt his breath—the consiglier’s—ghost my pale skin.

Two of his men slid out of the shadows, edging toward the intruders. He didn’t have to bark an order—a single look could spill blood.

I stayed rigid until we reached the front door.

He leaned in, eyes pinning me without a sound. “Come inside. It’s too cold out here to wait for death.”

"Who were those two? Why let them brawl with your men?” I asked, panic and afraid tangled together as I watched four heads collide.

"This is a fight house—people settling things here isn’t unusual.”

I flinched as he stepped closer. His face didn’t change—only that silent authority.

"That’s the kindest thing I’ve offered anyone who walks into my arena uninvited,” he said low and slow, the last warning; enter, or try to run with a five percent chance of getting away.

“If you want a fair talk, we do it inside.”

I wanted to refuse, but I knew how this would end.

I went back in through the front door. I couldn’t spare the sound. The consigliere followed two paces behind, watching my slumped back the way an eagle fixes on prey.