Josh Flynn came triumphantly out of the ring waving his arms in the air and dancing from foot to foot, but inside he felt completely fucked. The minute he was out of sight of the raucous New York crowd, the bouncing and crowd-waving dropped from him like a cloak. He slumped into his dressing room and all but collapsed on to a bench there. The room was spinning, he was so exhausted.

‘You did good,’ said Benny, one of the older blokes from the gym he used when he was Stateside, who was acting as his second. ‘Beat his arse like a real pro.’

‘I thought he was going down in three,’ said Josh. Everything hurt. He was used to that, but these last couple of bouts had felt hellish, overlong. He was in his forties now. His hair was turning grey and he had wrinkles around his eyes. Maybe he was, finally, getting too old for all this shit, just like his boy Connor kept telling him.

But bare-knuckle fighters didn’t retire. They kept on fighting the next challenger, and the next, until they got knocked down and couldn’t get up again and had to stop. Josh’s opponent, a muscular black man eight years his junior, had hung on until round ten; he was a true street fighter, straight out of the Bronx, and wouldn’t give up until his back smacked the canvas and he couldn’t pull himself to his feet again without help.

‘I just wanted to put the fucker down,’ said Josh, still panting as Benny rubbed at his chest with a white towel. It soon turned red. He was scratched and cut and battered all to hell. The middle knuckle on his left hand felt sore as fuck; he’d busted that joint more times than he could count over the years, and now it ached every winter. ‘Bastard kept coming.’

‘You did him good.’

‘Yeah,’ said Josh, and the door swung open.

‘Hey!’ objected Benny, then he saw who it was and shut up.

Two men came into the room, both of them Latin-looking, one bulky, one slim and younger. Both were dressed in immaculate dark suits and crisp silk shirts and ties. It was Spiro and his younger brother Nikos, the Constantinou brothers. They were club owners and bare-knuckle promoters who’d been buying Josh drinks, taking a keen interest in him and his team of fighters.

‘Josh, you did good, my friend,’ said the biggest, Spiro, with a grin, coming forward and throwing his arms wide.

‘Thanks,’ said Josh, dragging himself to his feet and getting enfolded in a bear hug despite all the blood and sweat he was covered in.

‘Everyone said you were good but they didn’t say how good. Now we know. You’ll dine with us tonight? Celebrate the win?’

‘Sure,’ said Josh, when all he wanted to do was go back to the hotel and fall into bed.