“I need you to promise me something,” I say, voice low. Wicker can’t hear this. “Something that’s been bothering me since Maddox dropped his bomb.” His forehead creases. “What?” “Under no circumstances, in no lifetime, will my son be a goddamn gutter-trash boxer, understand?” He grins, silent laughter shaking the bed, but in the dark, I see the shadow of his fist extended toward mine. “Agreed. I’ll go to the death to ensure it.”
