No Mo' Poker, It's a Fist Fight

“Marc, this is insane,” Sinead hissed softly. She was clutching onto Marc’s arm tightly even though she was otherwise putting out an air of calm intensity. “We can just fucking leave.”

“Ah, we could,” Marc sighed. “But then I would have let that man put his hands on you, ma petite rebelle, when you didn’t want him to.”

“I told you I could have handled it myself,’ she said.

“And I told you that I knew that was the case, but that you shouldn’t need to,” Marc replied. They were out on the metal stairs outside the loft that held the gambling hall, walking down into the warehouse proper. The big bouncer woman and the scrawny rat-faced man were watching the parade coming down towards them with interest. Victor was in the lead with Liam and the skinny Italian, trying to work out whatever issue that this whole episode could cause for him or his relationships. Marc and Sinead were next, a few steps behind, followed by several of the guests and other onlookers who hadn’t stayed up by the tables.

“Fucking hell,” Sinead said, shaking her head. “Fucking men.”

Marc stopped at the bottom of the stairs and pulled her aside, away from the others as they headed more towards the centre of the mostly empty warehouse. “Sinead,” he said. “This is about your honour, but it’s not just about your honour. And certainly not my ego. Right now Victor and all of his contacts think I am just another one of his business world contacts, here to gamble away my money as I swim in dangerous waters for the fun of it. By doing this, I may draw the attention and respect of other criminal elements that I can then pass off to your capable hands.”

Sinead worked her jaw for a moment, obviously wanting to tell him off but still trying to process the completely new vector of explanation. To be fair, Marc had only really come up with it on their way down to the warehouse floor, but it was a pretty good one.

“Just…” she started, then shook her head. “Do you really think you can take him? Do you even know how to fight?”

Marc sucked in a long, slow breath and then let it out. “I haven’t trained nearly as much recently as I wish I might have, but I attained a black belt in karate about a decade and a half ago.”

“That’s not going to work in a street fight!” Sinead whispered angrily. “Marc-”

“I know,” Marc said, taking her by her upper arms and holding her firmly. “I know. This isn’t a tournament with rules for points, and respect. I’m not going to fall into that trap.”

Someone had thrown a switch and a few banks of lights in the centre of the warehouse came on with a mechanical clank and a hum of power, illuminating the bare concrete.

“Come on, you French fuck,” called the Irishman cockily. He’d already stripped off his suit jacket and was rolling up his shirt sleeves.

“What am I supposed to do if you actually get hurt?” Sinead asked sincerely.

“Take me to a hospital,” Marc said with a little smirk, trying to keep himself calm. Five minutes ago he was playing poker and it was a fine night. “Here, hold these for me please.” He took off the cufflinks from his shirt and handed them to her, then decided to take the shirt off entirely. Not letting the continued jeering from the Irishman rush him, he casually and neatly folded his shirt and handed it to Sinead, leaving him in his slacks and shoes. After a moment he decided to kick off the shoes as well - they were leather-soled dress shoes and were more likely to slip on the concrete than grip.

“You know, going out there completely naked would really establish your dominance,” Sinead said, a smirk creeping into her expression.

Marc snorted and then barked a laugh, just thinking about the look on everyone’s face if he did that. Instead of stripping down, he slid his arm around Sinead and pulled her close so that he could kiss her firmly. It felt astoundingly heroic to do that, and he left her gasping a little in exasperation as he turned and marched towards the three men in the centre of the warehouse.

“Come on then, you fuckin’ geezer,” the Irishman called, waving him closer with both hands. His forearms weren’t particularly bulky but he was wiry and had some tattoos that had been hidden by his sleeves. His shirt was half unbuttoned, showing off his equally wiry chest. “You fat French fuck. When you’re out cold on the floor, I’m gonna bend that little fire crotch bitch of yours over and fuck her ass, and she’ll be thankin’ me for showing her what a real man feels like.”

“Marc,” Victor said, holding up both hands as he stepped in the way. Everything in his voice said he was apologising for this, but wasn’t in a place to stop it.

“It’s fine, Victor,” Marc said, shifting the man out of the way and looking at the skinny Italian beside the Irishman. “Your compatriot upstairs said I won’t face any repercussions for this, other than what this is.”

The skinny man made a slight face, then frowned and shrugged as he nodded. “Fair enough.”

The Irishman glanced at his friend in mild surprise - he certainly seemed to think he was important enough to be protected by whatever honour code his Calabrian friends held to, but Marc had guessed that there was a major difference in the ‘no touch’ policy Liam had protected himself with and what was actually implemented.

And Marc used that momentary shift in the Irishman’s attention to lash out.

He could have punched the man in the face, though other than a strike to break the nose that was generally a bad idea with bare knuckles. He was more likely to break his own hand on Liam’s face than do significant enough damage. Marc also didn’t kick, though he might have had time to.

Instead, Marc slapped the ever-loving fuck out of the Irishman. It was a full-handed blow, the heel of his palm catching the chin, his palm striking across the cheek, and his fingers wrapping all the way up to the man’s temple. The speed of it sent a cracking clap sound through the warehouse, and the **** spun Liam half around and staggering to the side. Marc wondered if he might have actually cracked one of the man’s teeth, or given him a mild concussion; it hadn’t been the most powerful strike he could have made, sacrificing some raw strength for speed, but it had been effective and landed so cleanly.

Liam spit and turned back towards Marc, his lips bloody and his expression a rictus of rage. His cheek was already a bright pink-red. He growled and lifted his hands into a boxer’s stance, coming at Marc with murderous intent.

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