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The Russians decided they would all converge on me, having seen me pick them off one by one. Then, to my relief, I heard a familiar voice say, “Play fair now. The lady gets to beat you one at a time.”
Chapter 4
Alastair
Itwasfuckingdelicious.
After the first round, I leaned back in my seat and crossed my arms, wondering if she had given in to the mafia. I would have been disappointed if she had.
But when that second round started, her coach stepped away. For a moment, she seemed contemplative. Then she shot to her feet, and whatever she was thinking, it must have lit a fire under her ass because she walloped that Russian. She even laughed as she did so, and it was a beautiful, seductive and malicious sound.
She took him down to the mat with a hard thud, mounted him, then punched the living daylights out of him.
The stunned referee stood there, staring at Vasiliev, unsure if he should stop the fight. Vasiliev was no help, putting up his hand to delay the referee’s interference, as if hoping that Morosov would make a magical recovery. I knew he would not.
When Morosov lay on his back, unconscious, she got up, grabbed the referee and forced him to declare her the winner. She said some words to the referee who was obviously on the bratva’s payroll. Then she tossed the man aside, stared into the cheering, leering and booing crowd and let out a banshee scream that was filled with so much anguish.
Then she turned to Vasiliev. The portly man didn’t move, as if he didn’t know if he should be angry, concerned, or worried.
She smiled, her feet shoulder width apart, square, and proud. Her chin lifted. She looked down her nose at the Russian man, then, almost as if she was giving him a compliment, flipped one middle finger. Then the other.
“Merde!“ Hugo chuckled. “She has big brass ones.”
I agreed. That was a woman who wouldn’t break. She’d never surrender. Not to the Russian mafia. Not to another fighter. And not to me. The vixen was made of iron.
It made me hard. It got me so hard, it was disturbing.
The mafia men went after her coach. She jumped the fence. Half a dozen guards in black Prada suits went after her. It was obvious that they wanted to take her alive - probably to make an example of her disobedience.
I casually came to my feet. The stunned crowd was either fleeing or rooted to their seats by the descending chaos. The fight so rarely ever touched the audience that the fourth wall cracking had them unsure if they should freeze or flee.
“Why are we getting involved?” Hugo asked, appearing quite bored by the whole kerfuffle and following me as I went towards the woman.
“Because we’re gentlemen,” I informed him, straightening my lapels. “And we believe in sportsmanship.”
“Fucking Brits.” Hugo said, as he assumed a fighter’s stance. “Whose side are we on?”
“That is areallyexistential question,“ I said thoughtfully, as I punched a nearby man who was trying to strike the woman on the back of her head. “Against Russians? We stand with Ukraine.” I grabbed the man by the hair, and tugged so hard, he lost his balance. “We generally want to be on the side of the angels.” I brought an elbow down between his eyes, and the man started to bleed on my Brioni jacket. “In this particular instance, I think we’re on the side that didn’t just try to rig the bets.”
“Why must the English speak so much?” Hugo said to the sky as if he was asking God above for an answer. It made me laugh.
Three men were converging on the woman. She was ready, her breaths ragged, finally showing the strain. All three men lunged at her.
I grabbed the nearest one by the collar from behind, my finger twitched on the blade on my belt. I got in close, grabbed around his neck, and pulled the back of his shoulders to my chest. He cried a feeble, “What the fuck?”
“Play fair now.” I pulled the blade, piercing below his ribs. “The lady gets to beat you one at a time.”
I twisted the blade up to his heart. He gasped. Then fell in a heap on the ground.
I smiled at my handiwork before putting the blade away. It wouldn’t do to be seen stabbing people in a fistfight, but the man had it coming for trying to gang up on my woman.
Hugo went to the woman’s other side. Our trio and the bratva were numerically matched. If the man I knocked into the seats could blink the stars out of his eyes, they’d have four fighters to our three.
“Bonjour,” Hugo said to the vixen, though his eyes stayed on the bratva men. “My British friend thinks you may need some assistance.”
“I don’t need your help.” She barked.
“Don’t lie to me,” I told her, coming to stand by her side. “I take it as an insult.”
