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Kostya sighs. “He’s fighting again.”
“What?”
“Yeah. I tried talking to him. It didn’t go well. Roman called him, as well. He even went to his last match. Pasha doesn’t want to come back.”
“But . . . why? He told me he quit fighting ten years ago!”
“Pasha is a very closed-off guy, sweetheart. Who knows what’s going on in that head of his?”
I bury my hand in my hair, squeezing it. “Are those matches dangerous?”
He doesn’t reply.
“Are they, Kostya?” I scream into the phone.
“It’s underground fighting, Asya. What do you expect?”
“I don’t know! I’ve never been to a boxing match!”
“It’s not a boxing match, sweetheart. Boxing has rules. These fights don’t,” he says in a grim tone as my phone pings with an incoming message. “I sent you the link to the club website and a password to access it. Search for ‘Pavel Morozov fights’ and see for yourself. But skip the last match.”
“Why?” I choke out.
He takes a deep breath. “I know you like him, sweetie. Please, don’t watch the newest video.”
When Kostya ends the call, I open the message with the link and click on it. At first glance, the website looks like an ordinary gym promo site with images of exercise equipment and people stretching or lifting weights. In the upper right corner, I find a login button. I click on it and enter the ten-digit password Kostya sent with the link. A new window pops up and I immediately notice the chart. The first column shows names, and I spot Pasha’s listed second from the top, just under another guy’s name. Next to the names are rankings and number of wins. Pasha is currently ranked second. Below the standings chart is this month’s schedule. I scroll to the bottom and note there is only one match left this month, set for tomorrow night. It’s between Pasha and the guy ranked first. I scroll back up to see the number of wins. Next to Pasha’s name is twelve. I glance at the number for the other competitor and my blood goes cold. It’s fifty-four.
“Jesus fuck.” I sink to the floor and lean my back to the wall, then type “Pavel Morozov” into the search. A collection of videos pops up. The oldest one is dated a month ago. I hit play.
I’m not sure what I expected. Probably a fighting ring and some people standing around it. At least, that’s how I imagined boxing matches to be like. What I’m seeing looks nothing like that. The video starts with the view from above, showing the inside of some abandoned factory or a warehouse. In the center, set on a raised platform, is an octagonal cage. Around the cage, men and a few women are seated on cushy chairs. All of them are impeccably dressed as if they came for a business meeting and not to watch a fighting match. Some even have bodyguards standing nearby.
A metal door across from the cage opens and two men enter. The camera zooms in on the fighters, and I almost don’t recognize him. Pasha shaved his hair—all of it. But somehow, that’s not the biggest change. His posture, the way he walks, and the grim expression on his face make him look as if he’s someone else. He climbs into the cage and takes the spot on one side while his opponent heads for the opposite end. The referee signals for the start.
Pasha and his rival circle each other. He swipes at Pasha’s side, but Pasha dodges and grabs the man’s head, kneeing him in the face. Blood bursts from the guy’s nose, and I look away from the screen. When I gather enough courage to look again, Pasha is standing over his opponent, pressing the fallen man’s face to the floor. I’ve never watched a boxing match, but I had the impression those lasted for at least half an hour. This one is done in less than two minutes. The referee signals Pasha’s victory and the video ends. I steel myself and click on the next recording.
It takes me almost an hour to watch the first ten videos. I have to pause and collect myself several times before continuing. So much violence. Blood. Broken bones. Each video is more violent than the previous one. It’s killing me to watch my Pasha become so vicious. Bloodthirsty. I don’t recognize this person as the man I spent three months with. What happened to him? Why is he doing this? There’re two videos left, but I can’t make myself watch them. It hurts too much.
Sometimes, I wish Arturo hadn’t found me. I know it would have destroyed him and my sister. Sienna still blames herself, even though I’ve explained at least a hundred times that it was me who made the decision to remain at the bar that night. Still, sometimes when I can’t sleep, which is often lately, I imagine what my life would be like if my brother hadn’t come and I stayed in Chicago.
I still don’t understand why Pasha pushed me away. I tried to think of a reason for his behavior, but I can’t.
It’s almost seven in the morning, but I can’t sleep. Not after what I’ve just watched. I’ll wait for Arturo and Sienna to wake up, then try playing the piano again. I haven’t been able to complete a full melody since returning home. At least twice a day, I’ve gone to the ground floor and sat in front of the big black piano, staring at the keys. Most of the time, no music came, and I left it as quiet as it was when I arrived. Other times, when I actually tried to play, every note came out wrong.
I take my cardigan off the chair and leave my room, heading downstairs to grab some breakfast. As I’m passing Arturo’s room, I overhear my name being mentioned, so I stop. He’s talking with someone on the phone. I lean forward and press my ear to the door.
“She’s not the same, Nino,” my brother says. “I don’t know what to do. She barely leaves her room.”
There are a few moments of silence while he probably listens to what Nino is saying.
“No!” Arturo barks. “I’m not calling that son of a bitch. I told him what I thought about him and his attempt to keep Asya from us. Hiding my sister and not allowing her to contact us? What kind of sick bastard does that?”
What?! I grab the knob and throw open the door, heart pounding a rapid tattoo against my ribs. My brother stands by the bed with the phone pressed to his ear.
“What exactly did you tell Pasha, Arturo?” I shout.
“I’ll call you later,” he mumbles and throws the phone on the bed.
“What?” I yell.
