My Fiancé Fixed My Fight—So I Signed With His Mafia Rival

Five minutes before the biggest fight of my life, my fiancé kissed my forehead and told me to fall in the third round.

Dean had managed me since I was nineteen, and I had trusted him with every contract, sponsor, and corner decision.

Then he showed me a photo of my younger brother leaving campus.

“Win, and Mateo pays the debt you put your name on.”

I finally understood why Dean had spent weeks changing my schedule and keeping me away from my own accounts.

I walked into the cage anyway.

I knocked my opponent out in round two.

Before the belt touched my waist, Crown officials stopped the celebration and announced a positive drug test.

Dean stepped in front of the cameras and called me an addict he had “tried to save.”

So I took off my engagement ring and pressed it into his palm.

“You don't speak for me anymore.”

His smile vanished when Luca Moretti entered the room and said, “Her sample was switched.”

***

Dean’s thumbs smoothed over the white athletic tape along my knuckles, pressing the edges firm against my skin.

He had done this before every single fight for the past five years. Every wrap, every lace, every prayer whispered against my temple had come from him. He was my head coach, my manager, and the man whose ring had sat on my left hand for eight months.

He pulled the leather fight glove over my right fist, cinching the strap until it bit into my wrist.

Then he leaned down, his mouth brushing the shell of my ear.

"Third round, Eva," he murmured, his breath smelling faintly of peppermint and stale coffee. "You go down at two minutes."

My fingers curled involuntarily inside the leather. I looked up at him, searching his face for a bad joke.

His blue eyes were flat. Dead.

"What did you just say?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"You heard me." He adjusted the Velcro strap on my left wrist, his fingers clinical and steady. "Take a clean overhand right against the fence. Stay down. Make it look convincing."

A cold drop of sweat tracked down the center of my spine. "This is the title fight, Dean. We've spent six years killing ourselves to get here."

"And we're cashing out," he said quietly.

"I won't throw a fight. Not for you, not for anyone." I yanked my hand back, but he caught my wrist in an iron grip.

"You don't have a choice."

With his free hand, Dean pulled his phone from his tracksuit pocket, tapped the screen, and turned it toward me.

The screen showed a photo taken from inside a parked car. On the sidewalk stood my fourteen-year-old brother, Mateo, his backpack slung over one shoulder as he walked down the front steps of his school. A red timestamp sat in the lower corner. It had been taken less than an hour ago.

The air vanished from my lungs.

"What is this?" My chest heaved against my sports bra. "Dean, what did you do?"

"I took a line of credit against your purse," he whispered, leaning so close our foreheads nearly touched. "Then I doubled down with the syndicate in Queens. In your name, baby. Your signature is on the markers."

"You forged my name?"

"I made an investment. And it went south." He slipped the phone back into his pocket, his expression completely devoid of remorse. "They’re watching Mateo right now. Win, and Mateo pays for it. Lose in the third, and the debt gets wiped clean, plus we walk away with two hundred grand under the table."

"You bastard," I choked out.

"Two minutes into the third round," he repeated, tapping my cheek with two fingers. "Don't be a hero. Be a good sister."

The commission official knocked hard on the locker room door. "Vance! Five minutes to walkout!"

Dean stepped back, wiping his palms on a towel, slipping seamlessly into the role of the devoted trainer. "Hands up, champ. Let’s show the world what you're made of."

I stared at him. The man I thought I loved was gone, replaced by a monster holding a gun to my brother's head.

I didn't answer. I didn't yell. I pulled my mouthguard from the plastic case, shoved it between my teeth, and walked through the door.

The roar of eighteen thousand fans inside the arena hit me like a physical wall. Bass thumped through the concrete floor, reverberating straight into my bones. The lights blinded me as I stepped into the cage, but all I could see was the picture of Mateo on the school steps.

Across the canvas stood Roxanne Miller, the reigning bantamweight champion. Built like a brick wall, eyes burning with bloodlust.

The referee gave the final instructions. We touched gloves.

The bell rang.

"Circle out, Eva!" Dean shouted from the corner. "Keep her off you! Drag it out!"

Miller charged forward, throwing a heavy left hook that grazed my guard. I slipped to the right, feeling the wind of her punch.

*Third round,* Dean had said. *Make it look convincing.*

Miller threw a stiff jab. I parried it, my mind racing. If I threw the fight, Dean owned me forever. The debt was in my name. The mob would own my contracts, my purse, my life. Mateo would never be safe.

I had to end this on my own terms.

Round one became a masterclass in survival. I danced on the outside, peppering Miller’s lead leg with calf kicks, making her chase me, letting Dean believe I was following the script.

When the horn sounded, I sat on the stool. Dean leaned through the cage door, squeezing water into my mouth.

"Good," he hissed in my ear. "One more round to kill, then stay on the fence in the third. Remember who's waiting outside that school."

I spit into the bucket and locked eyes with him. Cold, clear hatred burned away every shred of fear.

Round two began.

Miller came out swinging, smelling blood because I hadn't engaged. She threw a reckless, looping overhand right.

I didn't back up.

I ducked inside the arc of her punch, pivoted on my back foot, and drove a vicious left hook straight into her exposed jaw.

*Crack.*

Miller’s eyes rolled back instantly. Her knees gave out, and she folded forward like an empty suit of clothes, crashing face-first onto the canvas.

The arena erupted into absolute hysteria.

I didn't wait for the referee to pull me off. I backed away, chest heaving, staring down at the unconscious champion.

Two rounds. Not three.

I turned toward the corner. Dean was gripping the chain-link fence, his face drained of all color. His mouth hung open in pure terror. He knew what this meant. The syndicate was ruined.

The referee caught my arm, pulling me toward the center of the cage. He lifted my wrist into the air.

"Here is your winner by knockout... and the NEW—"

The ring announcer abruptly cut off.

A group of state athletic commission officials pushed through the cage door, accompanied by two arena security guards. The lead inspector marched directly up to the referee and grabbed the microphone.

"Hold the belt," the official barked into the mic, his voice echoing across the silenced arena. "We have an immediate ruling. The commission has just received an expedited lab report from pre-fight testing. Eva Vance has tested positive for an elevated dose of recombinant erythropoietin and synthetic stimulants. The bout is officially declared a No Contest."

A chorus of boos and gasps ripped through the crowd.

I stood frozen, the sweat cooling instantly on my skin. "What? No. That’s impossible. I've never touched a needle in my life!"

Before I could reach the official, Dean rushed through the open cage door.

He didn't look scared anymore. The panic on his face had transformed into an expression of theatrical, heartbreaking grief. He shoved his way past the referee and grabbed the hanging overhead boom mic.

"Please! Everyone, stop!" Dean shouted, his voice cracking with rehearsed emotion as dozens of camera lenses swung toward him. "Don't attack her! Eva's been under an immense amount of pressure leading up to this camp. She’s sick!"

"Dean, shut your mouth!" I lunged toward him, but an official caught my shoulder.

"I tried to help her," Dean cried to the cameras, his eyes glistening with fake tears. "I’ve spent the last six months trying to save her from her addiction, but she wouldn't listen. She made terrible choices behind my back, and I take full responsibility as her coach for failing to protect her from herself!"

Flashbulbs flared like continuous lightning. The reporters were eating it up. In ten seconds, he had turned himself from a ruined gambler into a tragic, noble trainer, while throwing me to the wolves to explain away the failed bet.

He tried to turn toward me, reaching out with open arms to stage a comforting hug for the cameras.

I slapped his hands away.

The sharp sound echoed over the remaining ring mics. The press scrambled closer to the apron.

I looked down at the three-carat diamond on my left hand. The ring he had given me in front of hundreds of people. The ring that had shackled me to a parasite.

I gripped the band with my taped fingers and tore it off my finger.

I grabbed Dean’s collar with one hand, dragging him down until his face was inches from mine. He blinked, stunned by the raw fury in my eyes.

I forced his hand open and slammed the diamond ring into his palm, closing his fingers around it so hard the metal cut into his skin.

"You don't speak for me anymore," I said, my voice ringing clear and steady into the silence of the cage.

Dean’s mouth snapped shut. For the first time in five years, he had completely lost control of the narrative.

His face darkened, turning an ugly, mottled red.

"You crazy bitch," he hissed under his breath. He grabbed my upper arm in a vice-like grip, digging his thumb into my muscle. "You're getting off this stage right now. You're done."

He violently yanked me toward the tunnel exit, trying to drag me away from the wall of flashing cameras before I could say another word.

"Let go of her."

The voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the chaos like a blade.

A tall figure stepped out of the shadow of the media tunnel, blocking our path to the back rooms.

He wore a tailored charcoal suit that cost more than my entire fight purse. His hair was dark, his posture relaxed, and his cold, calculating eyes were locked entirely on Dean.

Luca Moretti.

The biggest fight promoter on the East Coast, and a man whose name was whispered with genuine terror in every backroom in the city.

Dean froze, his hand trembling slightly on my arm, but he tried to maintain his bravado. "Mr. Moretti, this is a private camp matter. The commission handled it. She failed the test—"

Luca didn't even glance at Dean. He stepped forward, stopped two feet away from me, and looked directly into the battery of news cameras.

"Her sample was switched."