The streets of New York had a way of swallowing men whole. Between the smoke filled bars, crooked bookmakers, and back-alley dealings, a man needed more than a sharp suit and a loaded pocket to make a name for himself. He needed connections, reputation and the nerve to stand tall when the whole damn city was watching.

Sal Rossi intended to have all three.

For weeks, the idea had been rattling around in his head. An underground fight night, open to anyone with the guts to step through the door. No fancy boxing halls, no polished floors, and certainly no wealthy gentlemen sipping champagne from velvet seats. This would be something different. Something rough. Something that belonged to the people who made their living with calloused hands and bruised knuckles.

He had just the place in mind.

On the outskirts of the industrial district sat an abandoned warehouse that had once stored cheap wood-pulp paper, the kind supplied to a local news company for its monthly publications. Years of neglect had left the building a miserable shell of its former self. Rust crawled along the corrugated metal walls, shattered windows let the winter wind whistle through and the old loading doors groaned like dying men whenever they moved.

Perfect.

Sal stood outside the building one cold evening, his overcoat buttoned against the wind, a cigarette resting between two fingers. He peered through a gap in the loading doors, studying the enormous open floor. Old paper scraps littered the corners, and the smell of damp timber and machinery still clung to the place.

A makeshift ring could sit right in the middle. Wooden benches could line the walls. A small table near the entrance would serve as the collection point and a few lanterns would provide enough light to keep the evening from turning into a blind man's guessing game.

It wasn't pretty, but Sal had never been a man who needed pretty.

He needed profitable, memorable and just dangerous enough to keep people talking long after the last punch had landed.

"Christ, this place has seen better days," Sal muttered, taking a long drag from his cigarette. "Then again, so have most of the bastards walking around this city."

A grin crept across his face.

The plan was simple. Spread word throughout New York that a proper underground fight night was coming. Outsiders would be welcome, whether they were dockworkers, laborers, gamblers, neighborhood toughs, or anyone else looking to put a few dollars down and watch two men settle their differences the old-fashioned way. Fighters could test their mettle, spectators could wager a little cash, and Valhalla would have another opportunity to establish its presence in the city.

But Sal wasn't foolish enough to believe an event like this could run on enthusiasm alone.

A crowd full of drinkers, gamblers, and bruised egos could turn ugly in a heartbeat. All it would take was one sore loser, one drunken argument, or one stranger looking to make a name for himself at Valhalla's expense.

He needed his people there.

His brothers and sisters weren't simply names on a roster. They were the people he trusted to stand beside him when circumstances took a turn for the worse. If this event was going to succeed, he wanted Valhalla represented from the moment the first guest arrived until the last soul walked out the door.

The following evening, Sal made his way to a familiar meeting spot and gathered word to his fellow Valhalla members. Dressed in his usual sharp attire, he leaned against a table, removed his gloves, and waited until he had everyone's attention.

"Alright, listen up, folks. I've got something in the works, and I reckon it could be a fine opportunity for us if we handle it right."

He reached into his coat, pulled out a folded sheet of paper bearing the warehouse's location, and laid it on the table.

"I'm putting together a fight night. Not some fancy affair for the upper crust, either. We're talking bare-knuckle attitudes, hard-hitting bouts, a few dollars changing hands, and enough excitement to keep the whole neighborhood talking. The old paper warehouse down in the industrial district is where it'll be held. Used to store wood pulp for one of the news companies before the place went belly-up."

Sal tapped the paper with one finger.

"Now, I'm opening the doors to outsiders, too. I want a proper crowd. New faces, old faces, people looking to fight, people looking to watch. The more folks who hear about it, the better the night could turn out for all of us."

He paused, letting the idea settle before continuing.

"Of course, a crowd like that brings its fair share of trouble. And that's where you lot come in."

Sal straightened, his expression growing a touch more serious.

"I want Valhalla there to make sure things run smoothly. Keep an eye on the entrance, watch the crowd, and make certain nobody mistakes a friendly sporting event for an opportunity to start a war. We're there to keep order, not to go looking for trouble. If someone gets rowdy, we handle it with our heads before we resort to our hands."

He glanced around the gathering, allowing his eyes to settle on each face in turn.

"Now, I'm not about to start handing out orders without hearing from the people who'll be helping me pull this off. You're my brothers and sisters, and I want your thoughts before we get the wheels turning."

A faint smirk returned to his face as he folded his arms.

"So, what do you say? Who's willing to lend a hand with security, and what do you reckon we ought to have in place to make this night one New York won't forget?"

Sal fell silent, giving the room a moment to breathe.

Outside, the city carried on beneath its familiar blanket of smoke and fog. Somewhere in the distance, a train rattled along its tracks, and the faint sound of a trumpet drifted from a nearby establishment.

The old paper warehouse had spent years gathering dust, forgotten by the very city it once helped keep informed.

Soon enough, it might have something new to print about.

And Sal Rossi intended to make damn sure the story was worth reading.

Sal emerged from behind a stack of old crates, cigarette between his fingers. Noticing the woman and her bodyguards, he straightened his jacket and approached with a confident smirk.

"Well, now. Can I help you, miss? Sal Rossi, at your service."

Before he could say another word, a rotten plank broke loose from the rafters, crashing against a nearby crate before splintering across the floor. Sal glanced up then back at his unexpected visitor, brushing the dust from his shoulder.

"Christ almighty. Place is trying to kill my guests before I've even had the chance to welcome 'em."

He chuckled, gesturing toward the open warehouse.

"Everyone's welcome here, miss. And when it comes to business, I never turn down a good opportunity or an interesting idea, so long as both parties stand to benefit. Now, what brings you down to my neck of the woods? Looking to invest some money, offer a proposition, or perhaps you've got an idea of your own?"

He motioned toward a nearby table, his expression confident but attentive.

"Speak freely. I'm always willing to hear a good idea, regardless of who's bringing it to me. So, what did you have in mind?"

I could hear my own shoes inside the warehouse. That wasn’t what I’d expected. No shouting, no money being counted at the door. A draft rattled through the broken windows and sent an old sheet of paper skating past me.

Early, then.

There was a woman at a table with several men nearby, and the fellow she was speaking to answered to Rossi. They were discussing percentages. I stayed out of their way, working a bit of grit from between my teeth. The air tasted of damp paper, and I’d walked here with my mouth open against the wind.

“Mr. Rossi? Name’s Jacob Soderlund. Heard you were putting on fights. I’d like a go.”

I said that before I could spend another five minutes standing in the doorway.

“Had a few scraps. Nothing with rounds or a fellow counting over me. You matching us by weight? And who decides when a man’s had enough?”

A length of broken timber lay beside the crates, its nails sticking up. I nudged it over with my shoe. Wouldn’t fancy finding that barefoot, never mind with somebody hanging onto my neck. Beyond it, the floor stretched back into the dim part of the building. Plenty of room. I tried judging the distance across a ring and couldn’t quite settle on it.

“What’s the entry money? And what does a win pay?” I paused. “Suppose I ought to ask how many rounds before worrying about collecting.”

My shirt was already sticking beneath the arms. I left the coat on.

“If you need benches hauled in, I can come down beforehand. Done enough carrying to manage that. Just give me a time.”

I glanced towards the woman without walking up on their table.

“I won’t hold up your business. You taking names yet, Mr. Rossi?”

Sal listened to Ruby's proposal without interruption, his expression remaining composed despite the occasional glance toward the questionable rafters overhead. There was certainly merit in what she offered. Security, experienced men, and connections that could prove useful were all things a man building a fighting operation could appreciate. However, when she began discussing percentages and speaking as though the arrangement were already settled, Sal leaned back slightly, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

"Ruby, I'll give you credit. You've come to the table with a practical offer, and I respect that. Having your men help manage the crowd while giving them opportunities to train and compete in the arena is something I can see working. You won't have to twist my arm on that part."

He paused, his eyes settling firmly on hers.

"But let's be clear about one thing. We're discussing a potential partnership, not celebrating one that's already been agreed upon. I appreciate your enthusiasm, but there's still business to discuss before either of us starts making assumptions."

Sal adjusted his jacket and continued in a measured, confident tone.

"As for the fifteen percent, I'm afraid that isn't something I'm prepared to agree to. I'm all for doing business, and I understand that connections, security, and resources have their value. But this is my operation, my investment, and my responsibility to get it off the ground. Before I start handing out portions of the profits, my family gets first consideration in any business dealings. That's not a personal slight against you, Ruby. It's simply how I intend to operate. My people come first, just as yours come first for you."

He gave her a small nod, acknowledging the value of her offer without backing away from his position.

"If you've got men willing to work security in exchange for training, I'm happy to explore that arrangement. If you've got connections that can help us navigate the difficulties of opening a place like this, then by all means, let's talk about them. I'm certainly interested in learning more. But any future financial arrangement will need to make sense for both sides. I won't promise away a piece of the pie before I've even put it in the oven."

At that, Sal's attention shifted toward Jacob. His expression hardened a fraction, and he motioned toward the man with two fingers.

"Now, Mr. Soderlund. Jacob, was it?"

He let the question hang for a moment.

"I appreciate a man who wants to work, and offering to help haul benches tells me you're not afraid to get your hands dirty. That's a good start. But walking into a private business meeting and interrupting without so much as waiting for an invitation? That's a poor way to introduce yourself. Confidence is useful, but knowing when to speak and when to wait is just as important. Remember that if you intend to do business with me."

Sal glanced briefly toward Ruby before returning his attention to Jacob.

"As for fighting, the rules, the purse, and the number of rounds, those details are still being worked out. I'm not going to give you numbers I've yet to settle on. Weight classes, stopping a fight before someone gets seriously hurt, and fair compensation are all matters that need proper consideration. If you're serious about stepping into that ring, there'll be an opportunity to put your name down once I've got things organized."

He gestured toward the damaged warehouse around them.

"And as you can see, we've got a few things to sort out before this place is ready to host anything. If you're genuinely interested in helping, you can leave your name and contact details with me. We'll discuss what work might be available once I've finished my current business."

Sal waited until Jacob had a moment to consider his words before looking back at Ruby. His tone remained respectful, but there was a firmness beneath it.

"And Ruby, one last thing. I hope you understand why I drew that distinction. Your willingness to discuss security and resources is appreciated, but the way you addressed Mr. Soderlund, as though he were already a prospective employee under an established agreement between us, was a little premature. I haven't agreed to bring you into this operation yet, and I certainly haven't agreed to let you begin making decisions on its behalf."

He tapped a finger against the table, then offered a restrained smile.

"I prefer to build business relationships on clear terms, mutual respect, and a proper understanding of who's responsible for what. I believe there's something worth exploring here, Ruby. Let's not spoil it by getting ahead of ourselves."

He leaned back in his chair, the old warehouse creaking around them as another draft swept through the broken windows.

"Now, if we're all clear on that, I'd suggest we get back to the business we came here to discuss. Provided the roof doesn't decide to join the conversation again."

Sal Rossi listened without interruption, his expression settling into something between amusement and approval. He'd dealt with ambitious men before. Some mistook aggression for strength, others mistook patience for weakness. Ruby, at least, seemed capable of recognizing the difference when it was pointed out to her.

He leaned back in his chair, resting one hand against the armrest.

"Miss Ruby, I appreciate a woman who knows what she wants. Even more, I appreciate one who knows when she's pushed a little too far and has the sense to correct herself."

A faint smirk crossed his face.

"Family comes first. That's not a negotiating tactic for me. It's a rule. If my people can provide what I need, that's where I'll start. But if I find myself needing additional security, I'll remember your offer."

He glanced toward the damaged ceiling before returning his attention to her.

"Now, your arena proposal is something worth discussing. Experienced men willing to help prepare fighters, separate from their regular duties? That's a reasonable place to start. If your men step into the ring on their own time, earn their own prizes, and understand the risks, I see no reason to object."

Sal adjusted his cuffs.

"As for your political connections, I won't pretend those are without value. A man can build the finest establishment in town, but if the wrong people decide they don't like it, he'll spend more time fighting to keep his doors open than making money through them. Having someone who understands those relationships could prove useful."

He paused, allowing his words to settle before continuing.

"And I agree with leaving percentages until there's something worth dividing. I'm not interested in promising away pieces of an empire that hasn't been built yet. Neither should you be interested in investing your people into something that hasn't proven itself."

Sal leaned forward, placing both hands on the table.

"So here's what I propose. We begin with your men assisting in the training and preparation of fighters. You introduce the connections you believe can help keep this establishment operating smoothly. In return, your men gain experience, recognition, and an opportunity to establish themselves in a legitimate venture. Once the arena is running and we have actual numbers to examine, we sit down again and discuss compensation or a formal partnership."

His eyes narrowed slightly, not with hostility, but with the focus of a man who took his business seriously.

"And one more thing, Miss Ruby. You don't need to apologize for looking for an advantage. That's business. Just remember that a good deal should leave both parties believing they've gained something worthwhile. Otherwise, you're not building a partnership. You're simply waiting for the other person to realize they've been beaten."

He extended his hand across the table.

"I believe there's enough common ground here to get started. Let's see what we can build together."

Sal accepted the papers with a slight nod, glancing over the names and dates before carefully folding the list and slipping it into his inside jacket pocket.

"Then I believe we understand one another, Miss Ruby. You open a few doors, and I'll see to it that the opportunities behind them aren't wasted."

He offered a faint, knowing smile, straightening the cuff of his suit.

"And don't trouble yourself over being a complication. I know how to behave in polite company, even if I might be more comfortable in a warehouse than a ballroom."

Sal gave a quiet chuckle before meeting her gaze again.

"I'll make arrangements for a proper tuxedo and look over these events. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that a man's name can carry him only so far. Sometimes, it's who knows his name that matters."

He extended his hand once more, his expression settling into one of genuine appreciation.

"I appreciate the opportunity, Ruby. Let's see what we can build from this."