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For the first round we dance around each other, each of us landing a few blows. I want to learn what kind of man he is, how he fights one-on-one, before I hand him his ass. He has good technique, but it’s from formal training, not from fighting for his life on the streets.
In round two Boris’s meaty fists bruise my ribs, and he lands a vicious right hook across my jaw, making my ears ring. The calculated excitement in his beady eyes tells me he’s assessing my skills as much as I’m judging his. He knows exactly what he’s doing and what’s at stake here.
This motherfucker is going down.
The crowd’s roar dims as my focus narrows in on Boris. He comes in close, moving faster than I expect, and suddenly I’m on my back with him throwing punches at my face, chest, and ribs.
My raised arms protect my head as he pummels me. I taste blood in my mouth, and I grunt from the impact of each jab.
He’s relentless, going for one soft spot after another. And for a second that feels like an eternity, I wonder if I underestimated him. When I feel a crack, that I know is one of my ribs, the bitter taste of defeat sours my tongue.
I can’t let him win, or else I lose everything.
I’m as good as dead if I don’t get up, don’t get him off me before it’s too late.
I drop my guard, going on the offense. My legs wrap around his hips and we roll until I’m on top.
My head swims, my vision blurring as I try to focus on him, and I jam a fist into his face. His head jerks to the side, blood spurting from his lips. I grin, satisfied to wipe that cocky expression right off.
The brutality that I normally keep on a short leash, I release on Boris. This ublyudok thought he could publicly humiliate me, take my place as Pakhan, and try to kill me in my own fucking club?
Not tonight, you piece of shit.
Only when I’m being pulled off of him by the referee do I realize that Boris is lying limp on the floor. Blood flows from his nose and mouth. I can’t tell if he’s dead or alive, and right now I don’t fucking care either.
The audience is chanting, “Finish him! Finish him!”
That’s it. This is done.
I turn to the ref. “If he’s still alive, put him in storage and let me know when he wakes up.”
“Yes, sir.”
Shit, my second in command now needs to be replaced. As I watch him being carried out of the cage by two big guys, I wonder if he’s the man I’ve been searching for, the snake who killed my uncle.
I’ll find out soon enough when I question him, one way or another.
CHAPTER 7
Arianna
Groggy, I roll over only to find out I’m not in my own bedroom. I sit up and gasp, taking in the unfamiliar, masculine space. My mind races to reconstruct the events of last night. I went on a date with Connor Bane—the man who might be my mysterious rescuer from two years ago—but something tells me this isn’t his room. No, this bedroom doesn’t fit his personality at all.
The colors are too stark and cold. It lacks personality with its bare minimalist furnishings. This is the room of a man who has no heart, no warmth, and doesn’t want to showcase who he is at all. A man with no soul.
I can’t quite put my finger on what… That’s it, the place looks staged. Like a property listing photo. Too clean and perfect.
I think back to last night’s blurry details and confusion furrows my brow. Connor walked me to his car, after my stalker texted me?—
Wait, where’s my phone?
I reach beneath the blanket at the same time as I glance around for my clutch, only to find that I’m wearing nothing. My green dress is gone. Underwear and a bra would have shown lines beneath the dress so I’d gone without them. Last night, someone took my clothes off. Horror makes my chest clench and my pulse pounds in my ears.
More details surface. There was a car chase, and then I ran when I saw him.
Oh my god.
Dimitri Kozlov. I tried to fight him off when I couldn’t outrun him, but he caught me anyway. Then someone drugged me. Vague images of his face swim in my mind’s eye, then the inside of a church, and a… tattoo parlor.
