Underdog Read online

  Underdog

  Prequel to The Wrath of Eli

  Lily Zante

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Excerpt from The Wrath of Eli

  Booklist

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  Underdog is the prequel to The Wrath of Eli the first book in The Seven Sins, a contemporary romance series of steamy, angsty and emotional stories featuring characters who are loosely connected.

  All books are STANDALONE.

  * * *

  Other books in The Seven Sins:

  * * *

  The Wrath of Eli

  The Problem with Lust

  The Lies of Pride

  The Price of Inertia

  * * *

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  Chapter One

  ELI

  * * *

  Blood trickles down my eye and I see red. My heart pounds. I stumble back against the ring bars, trying to keep myself up. I am so damn tired. I hope I’ve done enough because when I knocked the Russian down, it looked like he went down for good. Now he’s struggling to get up.

  The crowd are going mad. My heart is still thundering.

  And then my opponent gets a second burst of wind and raises himself to standing.

  The fight isn’t over yet.

  I need to finish him.

  He comes at me like a pissed off grizzly bear, and I swing out, striking his ribs. He clutches his side and stares at me, pure fury contorting that ugly old face of his. I try to wipe away the blood. It’s making my eyes sting. And just as I lift my fist to wipe it away, he cuts me with a left hook.

  I didn’t see it coming. He hits hard sometimes, when he’s really mad, like now. Igor Koshkin is known for it. He’s famous. I’m not. He’s expected to win.

  The fuck I’m going to let him.

  We dance around like wary predators. I get a couple of hooks in and dodge his lame-ass ones.

  Lou shouts from the corner. His croaky old voice still reaching my ears despite the baying crowd. Koshkin is the favorite. This is his city.

  But then the bell goes and we return to our corners.

  “You almost had him,” says Lou, his face close to mine as he examines me. The cut men get to work, putting some salve on my wound. I always get cut above my eyes. I’m used to this—getting beat up. I got used to it from a young age. As a child, my butt and a leather belt became the best of friends.

  But now I fight back. Hard. I hit like a beast. Because now, I can.

  The bell rings again and I rush back to the center. Koshkin looks like a pit bull with bloodshot eyes. I dance around. Being fast is my strength. The Russian has the weight and thick muscles, but I have speed. If you can’t get hit, doesn’t matter how big the opponent is.

  It’s pissing him off that I duck and dive and he can’t get at me.

  This is how I do it.

  I glide around the ring. Wear him out. I’m mad that I didn’t take him down in the last round. I wanted this over in five rounds.

  Too bad we’re into the eighth.

  I muster a smile when the Russian’s next punch misses me completely. I sense he’s getting tired. That’s another problem with all that muscle and bodyweight. It tires you out, slows you down. I’m big, but I’m not built like a tank. I’m big enough. Defined enough that Athena will give me head any time I turn up on her doorstep.

  BAM!

  I manage another hit between the Russian’s ribs. The crowd goes mad.

  “Eli! Eli! Eli!”

  This is fucking new. I thought they were all Koshkin’s people. I hear the change in their loyalty. I hear my name and it lifts me up. At a time like this, there is nothing better than having people believe in you.

  Inspired, I deliver an uppercut. It hits the underside of the Russian’s jaw. He staggers, hangs his head, then crashes to the floor.

  He’s not getting up. Even I can see that. I walk away, as the ref counts.

  I stare out at the crowd. Now they’re rooting for me and going batshit crazy.

  Only because I knocked the fucker out.

  Chapter Two

  NINA

  * * *

  “Did you mess up someone’s order?” Frankie asks. Her question snaps me out of my reverie.

  “No.” I scan the diner for signs of a customer in distress: needing to order, or not happy with their food, or raising their hands to get the bill. Everything is calm and orderly. Which is just how I like it.

  “Then what are you worrying about now?” She knows my moods, my expressions. She can read me like a book. It’s eerie, having someone keep an eye on me. I’m not used to it, even though I should be, having worked here for so long. I pull down the cuffs of my long-sleeved top.

  Frankie looks over at the tables of customers. “Is someone giving you trouble?” She is overly protective of me, just like Elias is. I don’t need protecting anymore.

  “No.” Elias is fighting. I can’t think or focus or rest easy until it’s over and I know he’s okay. I don’t even want to talk about it.

  Frankie nods, then starts to walk away into the kitchen at the back. I raise a hand to the back of my neck, feeling self-conscious again.

  “Oh, honey.” Frankie comes back. Her voice is softer now, like a soothing blanket. I knew she’d figure it out sooner or later. “I forgot. Eli’s fighting tonight.”

  “He’s fighting right now.”

  “I forgot how much it stresses you out. I don’t suppose you know—”

  How he’s doing, she wants to know. I shake my head.

  “Want me to turn on the TV and check?”

  “No.” It’s almost as if not seeing him on the screen means it’s not happening. I can’t watch him. I want to support him but I will never go to watch him at the arena. I can’t even bring myself to catch a glimpse of him on TV.

  I’ve wiped away the blood enough times when he used to come home after those illegal underground fights. I’ve had my share of nights when his face was so badly cut, I had to grind down on my teeth to fight the urge to vomit.

  “Come here, girl.” She puts her arms around me and gives me a rare hug. Frankie is my mother and grandma all rolled into one, the people that neither me nor Elias ever had. Her hugs are rare, and I must look really despondent for her to give me one. She looks out for me, though. Always has. It’s one of the reasons why I don’t want to leave the diner. Frankie’s Kitchen is my second home, when I’m not at night school. “Eli’s going to be fine. That boy can take care of himself.”

  “I know.” I inhale a deep breath as we pull apart. I force myself to be strong and to believe in my brother as much as he believes in himself.

  “You get back to it when you’re ready,” Frankie says softly, then leaves.

  Elias thinks it’s funny that I’m always doing one course or another. He says I’m too overqualified to be a waitress. Working for Frankie gives me something constant, a place to go to every day, a nice group of people—well, mostly nice—and Frankie, who looks out for me. My trust in people, and in life, has been shaken to the point that I don’t believe in luck and love and happy things.

  But we get by, me and Elias. Now that he’s turned pro, and is getting more chances to fight, and the fights are legal, I feel slightly better. Only slightly, though, but I still won’t watch him.

  He has his sights on bigger things. Says he wants a shot at the big guys, says he wants it all, the title and the belt. Says he’s got what it takes to be the he
avyweight champion. He dreams big, but lately, his temper is worse. Sometimes when he comes to the diner, he’s like a fireball, ready to ignite. I like that his trainer isn’t putting him forward for so many fights. I trust Lou to do the right thing, but Elias gets mad. He says life’s unfair, that it’s a shitstorm, and he’s sick of it. But that’s because Elias was born with his hands fisted. I’ve not known my brother to be anything but a raging wall of fury. That’s his character, that’s who he is.

  He’s in the ring right now with some huge, hulking Russian. I saw a picture of him because I needed to know who my brother was going to step into the ring with. I took this late shift at the diner because I didn’t want to be sitting at home worrying.

  I can’t wait to see him. The fight was out of state so it will be a few days before he gets back. Hopefully all of the cuts and bruises he’s sustained will have disappeared enough that I won’t wince when I see him.

  Sometimes I wonder if we would be in a better place had things not been so messed up for us from the start. If we’d had the normal things, like parents and a family home. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel so anxious and maybe Elias wouldn’t have become a boxer.

  Better days are ahead, I tell myself. One of these days I’ll put to use one of my night school courses and I’ll find a good job. It could be enough for me to take the plunge and leave the safety net of Frankie’s employment. And Elias could become an electrician, or mechanic, or something. Have a nine-to-five where he doesn’t break his nose or get his face all cut up.

  Realizing that I’ve been daydreaming for far too long, I pick up the coffee pot and walk by the tables, asking customers if they would like more coffee.

  A smart looking guy dressed in a business suit walks in. This is odd, for him to be here this late dressed in business clothes. I recognize him. He was here last week, and the week before that. He’s relatively new to the diner and it’s only because he’s wearing a dark pin-striped business suit that I remember him at all. A lot of our customers aren’t so well dressed, and many are tourists.

  Last week he was friendly, and he left me a big tip.

  I happen to catch his eye, and when he smiles at me, I’m so shaken I look away. He sits down at a table which I’m going to have to pass, but I so don’t want to take his order. I’ve got the coffee pot in my hand, and I could go over. I should go over but I look over hoping to find another waitress coming to take his order. Unfortunately, they’re all gathered by the kitchen door gossiping.

  “Could I order?” the guy asks, as I try to walk past without catching his eye. It’s difficult, because he’s looking right at me, because he is eager to catch my eye; as waitresses we develop a sixth sense and know when people want something.

  “Sure, let me just refill this.” I head back to the coffee machine and refill the pot. I’m starting to feel prickly and uncomfortable again when I start walking towards him, reaching into my apron pocket for my pencil and notepad.

  But Joni beats me to it.

  I sigh out in relief. She’s a flirt, and works the tables well, being overly kind and helpful, to the point of being annoying, and most of it is done in order to get tips. When she sees a good-looking guy, she’s all over him like a rash.

  I’m not so angry with her today.

  She can have all the good-looking guys. I’m happy to stay away.

  Chapter Three

  HARPER

  * * *

  “A bottle of red, I think …” My father sniffs and wrinkles his nose as he peruses the wine menu.

  “Don’t get a bottle dad. I’m not drinking. I have work to do tonight.”

  He gives me a look of disapproval, as if I've said something in a foreign language.

  “The Clos de Terrefort 1982 Bordeaux.” He snaps the menu list shut and hands it back to the server. “Work? Tonight?” He looks visibly annoyed. “This was supposed to be job that didn’t take up too much of your time, Harper.”

  “I don't mind. I want to prove myself.”

  “Prove yourself to who? They're lucky to have you.”

  I wince. I don't get that impression from my work colleagues at all.

  “You should be dating,” he continues, looking at the food menu. “Enjoying life. Traveling the world. Meeting good people.”

  My heart sinks. It’s too early to be debating such things, but he has annoyed me, and after another not-so-great day at work, a fire inflames inside me. “Good people? Define good.”

  He snorts at my audacity. “People like you and me.”

  It hasn't taken long for him to say something that annoys me, and I can't sit and say nothing. The older I get, the more I want him to explain his viewpoint, so that I can understand him better. “And what does that mean?”

  “People like us, who have money, and who appreciate the finer things in life.”

  “Like the two hundred dollar bottle of wine you just ordered?”

  A flash of irritation flecks those irises as he stares back at me. “I can afford it, so, why not?”

  I wince and squirm in my chair. All of a sudden I'm too tired to take on my father after work. Maybe I need to have a glass of wine after all. “You deserve it, of course you do,” I tell him with a smile. I’ve been on another training course and I need to complete an exercise for tomorrow. I sense that my boss hasn’t thrown me in at the deep end by giving me any meaty assignments, probably because he assumes I won’t be able to survive.

  “Working.” My father spits the word out as if it has been laced with poison. “Of all the things you could be doing in the evening, work shouldn’t be one of them.”

  I take a deep breath and wonder if I will get through dinner. This isn't lunch at the golf club, where I can sail in and out and mention that I only have thirty minutes before I need to get back. I made a mistake in meeting my father for dinner. This interrogation and disapproval will rumble through the evening. “I can get you moved, if it helps.”

  “No, thanks, dad. Please don’t interfere.” He’s done enough. I feel ashamed that I couldn't get a job on my own and he took pity on me. He interfered—stepped in he would say—and found something for me. To be fair, I had only been job hunting for a short while but I wasn’t getting any response for the types of positions I wanted; management roles or senior positions. I had naively assumed that my Ivy league education might make things easier.

  How wrong I was.

  The employers all wanted experienced candidates but how am I supposed to get experience if I don’t have a job to begin with?

  I tell myself that working at the Chicago Daily Herald is only a temporary situation. My heart sinks each morning I walk into the office and sense the hostility. I almost feel guilty that I’m there, and although no one has said anything to my face, I’m not stupid. My peers begrudge that I got this job on account of having the right contacts, not because I was the right person for it.

  “It’s not too much work that I have to do. Forget I said that. I’ll finish it off at work tomorrow.” Gerry will understand. He's a senior editor there and the only one who's been friendly to me. His boss, and my indirect boss, Merv, doesn't like me, though he tries to hide it well.

  “That's better. You shouldn’t be having to go home and work in the evenings. What have they got you slaving over?”

  “Uh … nothing too exciting.”

  In fact, nothing exciting at all. I get set little assignments, which I then have to turn around within a day or so. I've met all my deadlines so far, but I'm also aware that I'm not being pushed as hard as some of the others. The training course this week has me sitting in another part of the building, so I don’t have to walk past Merv’s office daily and have him look at me as if I shouldn’t be there.

  “Nothing too exciting,” my father echoes, “and yet you want to waste your free time finishing off things.” My father snorts with revulsion at this but thankfully the server has returned with the wine. He presents the bottle to my father who checks the label diligently. Suitably assured that
it is the right wine, he nods and the server pours a little bit out for my father to taste. As usual, my father swirls the glass as if he's conducting a royal ceremony.

  “I'm sure it's fine, dad.” We're at one of Chicago's finest restaurants. Embarrassment courses through me at this unnecessary wine ritual. My father dismisses my remark with a withering look, then he takes a few short sniffs, before having a sip. He makes a face as if he's sucking through a straw. I sit back and hang my head, wondering how I can get out of this. This is another reason why I prefer to meet him for lunch at the golf club. Then he's usually only sipping whiskey, and I can blame my short visit on limited time. I wish I hadn’t agreed to tonight, but I thought I’d get this visit over and done with.

  My life right now is a mess. I hate my new job, I have no friends there, I feel out of sorts. My college friends are enjoying life; this is the picture their social media accounts present. My friends’ online photos telegraph a supposed good life, but that’s not the type of life I want for me. I don’t want to lie topless on a yacht, soaking up the sun and drinking champagne. I take a lot after my mother, in that respect.

  “It's good.” My father nods his approval and the server tops his glass. He moves to fill my glass but I put my hand over it, even though a glass or three might help get me to get through this evening in less pain. “No, thank you.”

  “It’s very good, Harper.” My father isn’t one to take ‘no’ for an answer. He won’t give up, and the barbed wire tension in the air will only get worse. I give in. “Just half a glass please,” I tell the server, and then take a huge sip.