The Underground Fighter

The lawyer

Damon woke at dawn. His body was filled with pain.

He lay on the couch for thirty minutes, staring at the water stain on the ceiling. His ribs clicked with every breath. His knuckles had swollen overnight. His right eye was half-closed from a bruise he didn't remember getting.

He sat up slowly. One inch at a time. His spine cracked in three places.

The envelopes were still under the couch cushion. Five thousand dollars. He checked twice. Three times. The money was still there. Still real.

He showered. Cold water only. Hot water made the swelling worse. He stood under the spray until his skin turned red and his muscles stopped shaking.

Then he dressed. Clean jeans. A black button-down shirt. The only nice clothes he owned. They were two sizes too big now. He had lost weight. Too much weight. His face was gaunt. His cheekbones stuck out.

He looked like a man who had been through war. Because he had.

""""" """"" """"

Elaine Park's office was downtown. Not the fancy downtown with glass towers and valet parking. The working downtown. The kind with bail bonds shops and check cashing stores and lawyers who took cases other lawyers were afraid of.

The building was three stories tall. Red brick. Chipped paint. A sign on the door that read "Park & Associates" in faded gold letters.

Damon pushed the door open. A bell rang.

Inside was small. A reception desk. Two plastic chairs. A plant that was dead or dying. The walls were covered in law degrees and certificates. Elaine Park had gone to a good school. Columbia. She had worked for a big firm. Then she had left. The articles on the wall told the story. Awards from legal aid societies. Thank you letters from clients. Photos of Elaine with people who looked poor and grateful.

The receptionist was a young woman with pink hair and a nose ring. She looked up from her phone.

"Damon Corso?"

"Yes."

"She's ready for you. Second door on the left."

Elaine Park was not what Damon expected.

She was small. Five-foot-two. Maybe a hundred pounds. Black hair cut short. No makeup. Sharp eyes that missed nothing. She wore a gray pantsuit and glasses that made her look younger than she probably was.

Thirty-five. Maybe forty. It was hard to tell.

She stood when Damon walked in. Didn't offer her hand. She looked at his face. His swollen eye. His bruised knuckles. His too-big shirt.

"Sit down, Mr. Corso."

Damon sat. The chair was uncomfortable. Metal. Cold.

Elaine sat across from him. A desk between them. The desk was covered in files. Stacked high. Labeled with names Damon didn't recognize.

"Leo told me about you," Elaine said. "He told me about your wife. Your daughter. Your in-laws."

"Then you know why I'm here."

"I know what Leo told me. Now I want to hear it from you." She leaned back. Crossed her arms. "Tell me everything. Don't leave anything out. And don't lie. I can't help you if you lie."

Damon told her.

Everything. Olivia's death. The funeral. The Dravens' contempt. The sixty-day ultimatum. The construction accident. The broken ribs. The day they took Lucy. The pit. The fights. Viktor. The Butcher. Tommy. Dante. The money hidden under his couch cushion.

He didn't cry. He didn't raise his voice. He just told the story like it happened to someone else.

When he finished, Elaine was quiet for a long time.

"You've been fighting in an illegal underground ring," she said finally.

"Yes."

"With broken ribs."

"Yes."

"And you've won four fights."

"Yes."

She shook her head. Not in judgment. In something else. Wonder. Or maybe pity.

"You should be dead, Mr. Corso."

"I don't have the luxury of dying."

Elaine studied him. Her sharp eyes moved across his face. Reading him. Deciding something.

"Leo said you have five thousand dollars."

Damon reached into his pocket. Pulled out the envelopes. Stacked them on her desk.

"Five thousand exactly."

Elaine didn't touch the money. She looked at it like it was something fragile. Something that might disappear.

"Do you know how much the Dravens spend on lawyers in a year?"

"No."

"Three hundred thousand dollars. Minimum. They have three full-time attorneys on retainer. They have a judge in their pocket. They have connections at City Hall, at the police department, at the courthouse." She paused. "You have five thousand dollars and a body that's falling apart."

"I also have a daughter."

Elaine was quiet again. Then she nodded. She pulled the envelopes toward her. Opened one. Counted the money. Didn't smile. Didn't thank him.

"This is a non-refundable retainer," she said. "If I take your case and lose, you don't get this money back."

"I know."

"If I take your case and win, you owe me another five thousand within sixty days."

"I'll have it."

"You sound sure."

"I am."

Elaine put the money in her desk drawer. Locked it. Then she pulled out a file. Thick. Heavy. Labeled "Draven" in black marker.

"I've been watching your in-laws for three years," she said. "They've destroyed twelve families. Twelve. Mothers, fathers, children. Anyone who got in their way. Anyone who owed them money. Anyone who knew too much."

She opened the file. Photos spilled out. Documents. Court transcripts. Newspaper clippings.

"I've been waiting for someone to fight back," Elaine continued. "Someone willing to go to war. Someone with nothing to lose." She looked at Damon. "You're not the first person who came to me about the Dravens. But you might be the last."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I'm going to destroy them." She closed the file. Stood up. "But I need you to stay alive long enough to help me."

Damon stood. His ribs screamed. He didn't show it.

"I'll stay alive," he said. "That's the one thing I'm good at."

Elaine almost smiled. "Then we have a deal. I'll file the motion on Monday. The court date is in eighteen days. Don't miss it."

"I won't."

"And Mr. Corso?" She walked him to the door. "Stop getting arrested. I can't help you if you have a record."

"I haven't been arrested."

"Not yet." She opened the door. "But the Dravens will try. Be careful."

Damon walked out of the office. The bell rang behind him.

Outside, the sun was setting. His phone buzzed.

Marcus: "Frank is waiting. Don't keep him long."

Damon typed back: "On my way."

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