Chapter 3 - The Turning Point**
The second round opened with a different kind of energy. Ezra Blackwood was no longer fighting a curiosity; he was fighting an equal, and his pride—the untouchable, dynastic pride that kept the Port Lands under his thumb—refused to let him lose to a musician in front of his inner circle. He came out aggressive, doubling his jab and firing heavy leg kicks that slapped against Nessa’s thighs with the sound of wet leather hitting a wall.
Nessa absorbed the impacts, her face tight with concentration. She checked the low kicks where she could, her shin bones clacking against Ezra’s with a dull, hollow resonance that made Pavl wince from ringside. Her conditioning was immaculate, forged through years of balancing eight-hour orchestra rehearsals with grueling evening pad work. While Ezra relied on raw power and intimidation, Nessa relied on economy of motion and structural precision.
Midway through the second round, Ezra sensed an opening. He feinted a high right kick, drew Nessa’s guard upward, and drove a powerful straight right hand toward her jaw.
It was a clean shot. It connected with a sharp thwack. Nessa’s head snapped back, and a smear of bright red blood appeared at the corner of her mouth. The men at ringside erupted, Pavl howling approval as he surged to his feet. “That’s it! Put her down, boss! Show her who runs this city!”
Nessa tasted iron on her tongue. She staggered back half a step, her heel touching the corner turnbuckle. Ezra pressed the advantage, stepping in close to unleash a flurry of body blows, his fists driving into her ribs with relentless force.
“Match is over, cellist,” Ezra muttered, breathing heavily as he threw a heavy hook.
Instead of shelling up, Nessa dropped her center of gravity instantly. She ducked beneath Ezra’s swinging arm, wrapping her right arm securely around the back of his neck while her left hand clamped onto his collarbone. Before Ezra could process the shift in momentum, Nessa drove her right knee upward with explosive force, catching him square in the solar plexus.
The air left Ezra’s lungs in a violent, ragged gasp. His eyes widened in shock as his knees buckled under him. Nessa didn't stop; she pivoted sharply in the clinch, using her hip to sweep his supporting leg out from under him.
*Thud.*
Ezra Blackwood hit the canvas hard, the breath completely knocked out of his chest, sprawling flat on his back beneath the harsh halogen lights.
The warehouse fell into a profound, suffocating silence. You could hear the distant lapping of dark water against the Port Lands concrete outside. Pavl stood frozen, his mouth half-open, staring at his boss sprawled on the mat.
Nessa stepped back to the neutral corner, wiping the blood from her lip with the back of her taped wrist, her chest rising and falling in steady, rhythmic intervals. She looked down at Ezra, who was propping himself up on one elbow, gasping for air, his face pale and slick with sweat.
The bell rang. Round two was over.
Ezra slowly climbed to his feet, assisted by the ropes rather than his fixer. He walked over to Nessa, his chest heaving, his immaculate suit-and-tie persona completely shattered, replaced by the raw, battered reality of a man who had just been dismantled. He spat a drop of blood onto the canvas, looked up at her, and gave a slow, deliberate nod of acknowledgment.
“You didn't mention,” Ezra rasped, his voice rough from exertion, “that you fought out of the Gerrard Street camp.”
“You didn't ask,” Nessa replied evenly.
Ezra reached into his pocket, pulled out his encrypted satellite phone, and dialed a direct line to his chief financial officer while still standing in the middle of the ring. “Meredith. Clear the outstanding balance at Royal Victoria Hospital immediately. Full settlement. Wire transfer confirmation on my desk in ten minutes... And order a custom-crafted spruce cello from the workshop in Cremona, Italy. Expedited air freight. Send the bill to my personal accounts.”
He hung up, locked his gaze onto Nessa, and said, “Debt’s settled. But you’re still playing my private event next Saturday.”
“We had an agreement about the debt and the instrument,” Nessa said, unspooling the tape from her knuckles. “We didn't agree to become your house musician.”
May you like
Ezra offered a faint, bruised smile that actually reached his eyes for the first time. “We’ll talk about your hourly rate tomorrow morning. Right now, I need some ice.”
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