Vincent stood and walked to a row of framed photographs.
He removed one from the wall.
Patrick Gallagher was twenty-five in the picture, lean and smiling with one glove raised. Behind him hung the same Kelletti Athletic Club sign.
Cassidy took the frame.
She had never seen the photograph.
“He was good,” Vincent said.
“He told me he was average.”
“He lied.”
She looked up sharply.
“He was good enough to make people money,” Vincent continued. “That became the problem.”
Cassidy set the frame down.
“What does Dominic have to do with it?”
Vincent leaned against the ring.
“Back then, Dominic wasn’t muscle. He handled bout scheduling, cash purses, travel, and bets for men who liked pretending they were only sportsmen. My father owned the club. I was twenty-two and thought being the owner’s son meant I understood everything happening inside it.”
“You didn’t.”
“No.”
The answer came without pride.
“Patrick found irregular payments,” Vincent said. “Fighters being asked to lose late rounds. Opponents changed after betting lines moved. Cash disappearing from purses. He refused to participate.”
Cassidy’s hands became fists.
“What happened?”
“Dominic said Patrick was the one stealing.”
“And you believed him.”
Vincent looked at her.
“Yes.”
The word landed harder than an excuse would have.
“My father lost everything because of boxing.”
“I know.”
“No. You know a name.”
“I know he was barred from every Kelletti-backed event in the city. I know other promoters followed because they didn’t want trouble with my father. I know Patrick took jobs unloading trucks at night while still training kids during the day.”
Cassidy stared at him.
