Walking in on the arm of MickeyTwoTimes, Catalina surveyed the small arena. The place was packed, and should have been held in a larger venue. Mickey stopped several times on the way to their seats, puffing his chest out and telling the odd acquaintance here and there that his money was on the Irishman. Catalina imagined, what with the volume of his voice as he dropped numbers, that he was trying to impress her somehow, and was hoping to show her later where the 'TwoTimes' part of his moniker had come from. Considering he'd only had enough overhead to buy half of the cocaine she'd smuggled over from her home city of Madrid, it was going to take a lot more than that. Growing impatient, she shifted her weight as she stood there in heels and a crimson dress.

"Disculpa," she interjected. "I think I see people in our seats," Catalina said, pointing at the front row. It wasn't a lie; two wise guy types had taken the last two folding chairs at ringside. Mickey uttered a 'shit' and excused himself from his friend, then hurried them down the row to confront the seat-stealers. For a tense moment, it looked like a preliminary round was going to happen, right there in the audience. Catalina interjected herself once again.

"Gentlemen, this is my very first American fight. I would very much like to see it, instead of spending the evening in your hospital, or your cárcel," she smiled sweetly. All three men turned to look at her, and her smile never wavered. 

"Mi papá, he was just telling me today on the telephone, that no fight in America can be as good as our bullfights. Which one of these boys tonight will be the bull?" 

This started a flurry of discussion, as she'd anticipated it would. As luck would have it, the seat-stealers were also in favor of the Irishman, and an instant camaraderie formed between the men. Several terms were passed back and forth, both slang and technical, and Catalina was lost. Mission accomplished, though, so she simply smiled and nodded along as they tried to explain it all to her before the wise guys took their designated seats one row back. Catalina and Mickey seated themselves, and when Mickey placed his hand on her knee, she tolerated it. He'd made her $50,000 in profit today, which was a far cry from the $100,000 she'd been anticipating, but if she tried hard enough, she would surely get the rest of the cocaine unloaded before her return home.

A few minutes later, the fighters were led to the ring by their managers, and the real fight began. It was true, this was her first American fight, and Catalina was instantly enraptured by the sheer brutality of the two men inside the ropes. Almost instantly, both were covered in blood and sweat, and before she knew it, Catalina was on her feet, yelling encouraging words at the young Irishman, who was now drilling the Italian into the ground after several long rounds of obviously playing with him, like a cat with a mouse.

"Mátalo! ¡Es tuyo!" Everyone else around her was screaming as well, but the Irishman heard her, a lone, singular chord in a sea of music. He hesitated briefly, his eyes rising from his bloody work to meet hers. So angry, this man. The heat of a thousand fires burned in him, and Catalina could not help but smile at the fury she saw. He blinked at her, then returned to beating the Italian senseless. After the referee called the fight, the young man climbed the ropes and began yelling at a man she couldn't quite see on the other side, and then was quickly escorted out of the ring and back into the locker room area. 

"YES," yelled Mickey beside her, who turned and lifted her off of her feet in celebration. He was $20,000 richer now, and emboldened. Catalina never even looked down at him. He'd just given her a better view, and she was using it to track the young fighter as he was led away amidst a flurry of applause and back-slapping.