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If he lost the respect of these White Flowers around him, he lost his status. If he was no longer Roma Montagov, heir of the White Flowers, then he could not protect those he actually cared to keep safe.
He had already failed Alisa.
He didn’t want to keep failing.
“We will not tolerate the Scarlet Gang!” Dimitri was pumping his fists up and down, his handgun raising and lowering callously, riling up the spectators. “We will kill them all!”
A long time ago, Roma had told Juliette that her anger was like a cold diamond. It was something she could swallow smoothly, something to be placed upon other people, gliding along their skin in glitter and glamour before they realized far too late that the diamond had sliced them into pieces. He had admired her for it. Mostly because his own anger was the precise opposite—an uncontrollable wave of fire that knew no subtlety.
And it had arrived.
In two quick motions, Roma lunged for Dimitri and disarmed him, throwing the gun into the crowd.
“You didn’t give the American a fair fight,” Roma said. He gestured for Dimitri to approach. “So I’ll let you make it up.”
The crowd screamed their approval. Dimitri stood still for a second, trying to decipher Roma’s motivation. Then, with a glance outward into the cheering, he cricked his neck and charged.
Roma refused to let this descend into the monstrous, bestial grappling that these places were known for. As soon as he slammed his arm up for his first block, he remained quick, light on his feet, each one of his punches thrown with intent. The ring was rocking with the intensity of the spectators, the entire club raging so loudly that its sounds were ringing with a faint echo.
To the observers, everything was a rapid blur.
To Roma, it was all instinct. He had spent years pretend sparring with Benedikt, and it was finally counting for something. Roma switched from offense to defense within heartbeats; his right arm came up to block a punch and his left arm tore forward at the same time, landing a hit so solidly upon Dimitri’s jaw that the other boy stumbled back, a mania playing in his eyes
.
It did not matter how furious Dimitri was. Roma was not tiring. It almost felt supernatural, this exhilaration rushing through the lines of his limbs, this pulsating, absolute need to win against the favorite, to have the people remember who was the actual Montagov and who was the fraud, who was the one deserving of dignity as the heir.
Then Dimitri got a hit on Roma’s cheek, and something stung, far more than he expected.
Roma hissed, stumbling back three steps to gather his bearings. Dimitri swung his arms, rolling out his shoulders, and under the lights, a flash of something glinted between his index and middle fingers.
He has a blade between his fingers, Roma realized dimly. Then, as if it was new information: Cheater.
“Ready to give up?” Dimitri bellowed. He thumped his chest. Roma could not look away from the glinting flashes of the blade. He couldn’t stop the fight now without losing face. But if he continued, all it would take was one swipe of Dimitri’s fist across Roma’s neck to kill him.
The panic set in. Roma started to get sloppy. Dimitri kicked out and Roma took the hit. A fist flashed in his periphery, and in his haste to get away, Roma dodged too hard, overjudging his balance and stumbling. Dimitri struck again. A flash of the blade: a slit opened on Roma’s jaw.
The crowd jeered. They could sense Roma’s energy depleting. They could sense that he seemed to have given up before the fight had even finished.
Are you a Montagov, or are you a coward?
Roma tore his gaze back up, steeling his throbbing jaw. What was he fighting so damn fair for? What kind of deluded world was he living in where the White Flowers wanted someone who ruled by honor, instead of sweat and blood and violence?
Roma reached out and grabbed a fistful of Dimitri’s shoulder-length black hair. Dimitri hadn’t been expecting it. Nor had he expected Roma to slam a knee right into his nose, to take his arm and twist backward until Roma had a grip on his neck and a foot stomping down on the back of his knees.
Dimitri fell flat to the ground of the ring. The crowd rushed for the ropes, shaking and shaking and shaking the ring.
Roma had him now. With his hands positioned where they were, he could snap Dimitri’s neck if he wanted. He could do anything and play it off as a mere accident—a slip of the moment.
“Roma Montagov, our victor!” the woman with the chalkboard announced.
Roma leaned down to Dimitri, close enough so Dimitri could not mishear his words over the roar of the crowd.
“Don’t you forget who I am.”
With that, he stood, wiping his forearm across his bleeding mouth roughly. He ducked under the ropes and landed solidly amid the crowd. This place was a boiling pot of volatile activity and emotions. Roma couldn’t get away fast enough.
“You,” he snapped. A man with a white handkerchief in his pocket jerked to attention. “Get someone to take the American’s corpse out of here.”
