“Nope, not me. She pushes Shihan’s buttons something fierce. You’ve been . . . distracted the past week, but it’s taken me, Ito, and Zach to keep them from takin’ their issues to the mat.”

Distracted was an impartial way of putting it. Ronin had been worthless this past week. Angry, melancholy, on edge—and those were the good days. His instructors hadn’t mentioned the chair-throwing incident nor questioned Amery’s absence.

“Anyway, I’ll get outta your hair. I just wanted to let you know what was up.”

“I appreciate it. If anything changes and you need more time in Texas, take it.”

“Thanks, Ronin.” Deacon stopped in the doorway and turned around. “Look. If you ever need to talk—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get that I can call you.”

Deacon looked horrified. “Fuck that. I was gonna tell you to call Knox because he can be such a girl about that kinda emotional shit. But if you wanna flat-out forget your troubles? Call me. I’ve got a case of Jägermeister and VIP access to Jiggles Strip Club.”

Ronin managed a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

For the next hour, he dealt with dojo business, including trying to find a replacement fighter for the bout Thursday night. Normally he didn’t mix with other dojos, but in the last couple months, he’d refereed events run by Alvares “Blue” Curacao, an MMA fighter who owned ABC, a Brazilian jujitsu dojo. Blue had proven himself different from the other Brazilian jujitsu practitioners in the area, and Ronin respected the man to the point they’d discussed bringing in ABC as part of Black Arts. He and Blue had met privately to talk about possible options before they each brought it up with their instructors. So not supplying a fighter for the main bout, especially against Blue, would give the impression that Black Arts didn’t have a qualified fighter besides Deacon.

Why don’t you just admit it? You don’t have a qualified professional fighter.

Fuck that. He’d figure something out.

Feeling at loose ends in nearly every aspect of his life, he called Amery’s cell phone for the tenth time and hung up when it kicked over to voice mail. He was getting tired of her dodging his calls.

That’s because she’s done with you.

With the voices in his head wreaking havoc, he decided to pursue a more productive mind-set, like spending time in his Zen garden, when two knocks sounded on his office door. “Come in.”

Martel, his UPS courier, bounded in. “Afternoon, Mr. B. How’s it hangin’?”

“Low. You?”

“High. I start my vacay tomorrow. A week in Cancun.” He thrust the cardboard box at Ronin. “Same-day delivery. Signature required on this one.”

He signed the electronic pad and missed the rest of what Martel said because the package was from Amery. He squinted at the block lettering. Jesus. Even her writing looked angry. Especially the PERSONAL notation in the corner—angrily outlined three times with red marker.

As soon as the door shut, he used a carton cutter to slice through the tape. His heart raced as he folded back the cardboard edges and yanked out the bubble wrap.

His heart stopped when he saw the contents: two coils of black rope. The rope he’d left at her place the last time they were together. The rope he’d seen on her floor last week.

He upended the box on his desk. No note. Just the rope. And a pair of scissors.

She’d made her message loud and clear. She wanted no part of him. No reminders of their time together. She was cutting all ties.

Ronin dropped into his chair and stared at the black bundles as fury hit him as hard and fast as a freight train. His current anger-management program—beating the f**k out of a speed bag—wouldn’t dampen his rage this time. He needed something else. Something . . . real.

A plan took shape in his mind. It would require every bit of his focus, leaving him no time to think about anything—or anyone—else, which is exactly what he wanted.

After he retaped the box and shoved the package under his desk, he hit the intercom for the training room. “Shihan? A word in my office, please.”

Knox walked in a few minutes later. “What’s up?”

“Did you talk to Deacon today?”

Knox uncapped his water bottle and drank deeply before answering. “No. I saw him, but he didn’t stop to talk. Is something wrong?”

“He’s got family stuff going on next week in Texas, so he pulled out of the fight Thursday night.”

“Shit.” Knox flopped into the office chair across from the desk. “How much money is tied up in the event?”

“Twenty grand.”

“Shit,” he said again. “This is why we’ve stayed out of the fight-promotion business.”

“I’m aware of that. I’m also aware that Blue runs events like this all the time, and we’ll come across as unprofessional if we can’t pull it together.” Ronin didn’t give a damn about the money. The dojo saving face was all that mattered to him.

“You worried advance ticket sales will drop off when we change the fight matchup?”

“Some. But that’s why there’s the disclaimer about fight matchups being subject to change without notice.”

Knox gave him a contemplative look. “The easiest thing would be to drop the last bout altogether since it’s the only pro matchup.”

“We’re not dropping the main bout. I’ve already got someone who can fight in Deacon’s place.”