Even behind the sheet of glass in the small room high above the arena, the sounds of fists and of bells and of that wild crowd filled the room with vibrations of passion.

"Why'd you call me here?" Ritcher asked. Two women followed him in, scantily dressed. One blonde, the other brunette and with curly hair and who took special measures to rub Ritcher’s chest.

“Get away, whores,” He slapped one of them. She turned to face Turnus, who waved her away. She ran, the blonde holding her, guiding her as she faced the floor and cried out.

The door closed; well, slammed shut really.

“She looked a little like the whore you were seeing, didn’t she? I thought you’d like her,”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,”

“I’m sure the police don’t either, you didn’t really leave much a clue after you killed her, did you?” He asked.

“I fear no false accusation, truth serves as its own tribunal and jury. Let it speak for itself.”

“That’s a politicians answer,” Turnus said. “Or a priest's,”

Ritcher slammed the floor with his cane. Turnus wasn’t sure what was louder, the tapping or the crowd.

"This used to be a bar. Then it grew into a strip club, and finally an illegal fighting ring. I helped it, a little bit," He smiled. “Just a little smudge,”

“You often corrupt, I’m not surprised,” Ritcher said. “Gambling, alcohol, sex. You always knew how to graduate yourself to the next class of sin. A deviant, still, what would father think?”

“Have I ever cared what father thought?”

“To a fault,” Ritcher said.

Turnus laughed or at least played it off as laughter. His hand gripped a glass. He pressed down, unaware of course, more so distracted by his anger. The glass cracked from his grip, and he set it down. Whiskey pooled underneath the metal tray he rested it on.

“I didn’t call you here to talk about dad,” Turnus said. “I came here to make a deal, that’s it. A deal for someone we both know,”

“Why would I make any deal with the devil?” Ritcher asked. “I should just come around this table and choke the life out of you, it’d save me the trouble of doing it later.”

“You could, but you’d make your life harder,” Turnus said. “You do want to kill Salome, eventually, right?”

Ritcher found a black leather sofa to sit on. The corners of the room had small potted plants that extended halfway up the glass wall before slumping over. There was a monitor above them, trays of snacks and drinks.

“Speak,”

"Always in a hurry, aren’t you? I remember a time when you were just my little brother when you used to have fun,”

"I'm not nostalgic." Turnus’s voice was brief. Eerily so.

"Unfortunately, I am," Turnus said. "I don’t like being haunted by my memories, but that’s just my nature and who are we to fight our natures? You certainly don’t try,"

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“I told you to speak, not to ramble. Get to the point,”

“Heh.”

He looked out to the ring, two fighters struck each other, one with a leg kick to the head, the other with a kidney punch. They both rebounded off the impact, almost reaching opposite corners. The pain was obvious on their bloody bodies, the struggle in their punches as they sluggishly went at each other. It was nearing its end.

"Luanne wants me to convince you to not kill her,"

“I can’t do that. Rapture waits for none,” Ritcher said.

“I know that you’re a psychopath, but not stupid,” He said. “I want you to delay it at least, two weeks.”

“Why would I do that?” Ritcher asked. “She’s weak and perfect to lure the other two,”

“From one professional to another, you probably shouldn’t tell anyone your master plan,”

“If I was afraid of you, I wouldn’t,” Ritcher said.

“You’re something special, aren’t you?” Turnus said. “But you’re not special enough to go through those soldiers to get to Salome. She’s got a private army, and even if you do wipe them out, they can buy her enough time to evacuate. So as far as I can tell, your options are limited.”

“She wouldn’t leave her daughter and son,” Ritcher said.

“Then you don’t know her. Floyd is already a liability and Luanne is a traitor. Half-traitor, at least. She wasn’t keen on giving me all the information I wanted, but she gave me some.”

“What information would that be?”

“None of your business,” Turnus said. “What is - is what I can get you: an in. I can get you access to the casino,”

“How would you do that?” Ritcher asked.

“With money, of course. Bribery. I already have a spy, some poor sap with a baby on the way.” He said. “He can get you in and more importantly, get you in without getting noticed.”

“The only plan I need is God’s plan. What drivel you speak of,” He stood. His shoulders wide, his cane nearly half his width.

“You expect too much of that woman. You and I both know that when the chips are down and her options gone, she’ll throw her children out to dry. You and I both know that, don’t be stupid. This is the only opportunity you’ll get to kill her. You do want the head of the snake, after all, right?”

Ritcher walked over to Turnus, pushing every piece of furniture out the way.

"And the only way you’re talking to my guy is if I stay alive," Turnus grinned. He didn’t know why it wasn’t like Ritcher could see it. But perhaps he could feel it, the arrogance in his tone. He was sure Ritcher could feel it. He clenched the edge of his cane and struck the floor. It bounced, and he caught it in the air.

“You can get me in?” Ritcher asked.

“Yeah, but I need that , and I need you to keep your promise,”

“The boy too?”

Turnus felt his stomach turn. That he would even think that, that it could appear in his mind as a thought worthy to bespoke.

“Of course, the boy too.” Turnus grit his teeth. “He’s an infant. Our nephew.”

“And he carries Wolfe blood, which makes him kin to our progenitor’s sin. Our blood flows down the river time and little Flint too swims along the ebb.”

You’re sicker than I thought. He wanted to say, but couldn’t.

“The boy stays safe as well. Two weeks.”

“Fine.” He extended his hand. “I swear on my faith, on my reputation as an acolyte. I swear.”

It was tempting for Turnus, to kill Ritcher here and now. To deteriorate. To reduce this monster of a man. To completely kill off Ritcher, if he could until even the memory would become dust in his mind.

But that wasn't the plan.

There was more to what he wanted, more than this singular kill. It had to be all of them. All or none. So he took a deep breath and straightened his back and tightened his stomach until the butterflies were suffocated from his abdomen until the little prickly feelings disappeared almost as quickly as they appeared. He clenched Ritcher's hand and shook.

"You'll be coming after me eventually, right?" Turnus.

"Yes, you are a threat after all,"

"You really aren’t stupid, then," Turnus said.

Ritcher left. Turnus turned around, waving around at the guards who seemed more afraid than he was, who had their hands on the handles of their guns all the while Ritcher took to walk down the steps and out the underground club. Turnus looked down at the fight. His chosen champion, taken onto a stretcher, sprawled on the bed with one leg sticking out and nearly touching the floor. Two men carried him out, a third pumped oxygen into his unconscious body.

He stood watching at his underdog, a bit saddened, a bit in humor.

"Well, there goes a hundred thousand," He laughed. His voice seemed to taper off, along with the audience until it all disappeared into awed and terrified silence, for the victor stood in the arena still, blood in his hands and his tightened face pointed directly at the high-beam lights above.

Turnus stood there, in his loss, curious.

"It must be blinding," He said.

He reared his head down and drank from his broken glass.