It’s only a graze. I’ve suffered much worse. But it’s also a sign the odds are stacked against us. There’s no escaping a situation like this when we’re outnumbered ten to one.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch another glimpse of him.
The figure from outside Fedorov’s estate. Except now the shadows aren’t masking him. He’s taller and leaner than I first realized, dressed in black.
He’s watching from behind a pillar on the far side of the atrium, practically invisible with the attention solely on us. Long dark hair frames a face I can’t make out.
But I slowly realize it’s not The Deathless like I initially assumed. This is somebody else, hanging back and watching with tattoos and almond-shaped eyes.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s here on a stealth mission too.
A guard barrels into me, knocking me into the wall. I bring my elbow down on the back of his skull and he drops. Two more take his place, and I’m left playing defense as they attack from either side.
It’s no use. There’s no fighting our way through this when we’re already overrun. Our best chance was to fuckingstay unseen, but the second our cover was blown, it was over.
We’re surrounded, guns in our faces. We’ve got nowhere to run and no chance of fighting our way out.
My chest is heaving, my shoulder is bleeding, and there’s a circle of at least a dozen guards with their weapons trained on the three of us.
We gave it everything we had, but it still wasn’t enough.
The guards part like a sea, straight down the middle.
Fedorov Raguzin walks through, a pompous king surveying his domain.
The Bratva’s sovietnik is tall and imposing despite his age, silver hair slicked back and golden cane at his side. His cold eyes survey us, expression flat and unsurprised.
He’s been expecting us.
I grit my teeth and glare back at him, heaving air into my lungs, droplets of blood dripping from the graze on my shoulder.
I want to rip his throat out with my bare hands.
“Ah yes,” he says loftily. “The boxer and his friends, the dead man and the traitor. I have heard so much about you.”
None of us respond. We wait for the Russian boss to go on.
Fedorov smiles, his eyes remaining cold and untouched. “You are wondering how I knew you would come. The answer is simple—I have eyes everywhere. I knew the moment you left your apartment this evening that you would not go to your championship fight. You were coming here, for your precious little stray.
“I must admit, Iamimpressed. Most men would not throw away everything they have worked for over a woman. Especially one as... unruly as my Myshka.” He steps closer, tilting his head. “But then again, you Irish have always been uncivilized, emotional fools.”
“Where is she?” I growl.
“Patience. She will be here soon enough. But first, I have a proposition for you.”
He turns and gestures toward the far end of the atrium. The guards shift, creating another opening. Through it walks a man more than a little familiar.
Ivan Sharapova strides toward us, his six foot five, two hundred and sixty pound frame nothing but solid muscle.
His head’s shaved, a Russian tattoo on the side of his skull where hair would normally grow in. His glower reminds me of a gorilla, his eyes icy blue and complexion even paler than mine.
He’s dressed in the same boxing gear he’d wear at the fight, his hands already wrapped, telling me exactly where the fuck he’s come from.
“You see,” Fedorov says, “when I learned you would not be attending your scheduled bout, I took the liberty of bringing the fight to you. Ivan was more than happy to oblige.”
“What the fuck is this?” Lochlan snarls from beside me.
“This is an opportunity. A chance for the boxer to prove himself. To win back his little stray… if he can.”
