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Yelling and cheering erupt from the audience. Pasha rises, grabs the guy by his ankle, and launches him toward the other side of the cage. The fighter lands on his side and stays there. The crowd goes crazy. The camera focuses on Pasha, but I can still see men in nice suits beyond the cage, jumping up, and clapping their hands. The view switches from the fighters to the big screen mounted above the cage. It’s an announcement for the next match. The one we’re heading to now. Under the words “Big Finale” is a graphic of a red skull and the words “Death Match” are also written in red. The video ends.
I lower the phone to my lap and stare at the road beyond the windshield.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Kostya asks.
“No,” I say, turning my head to look at him. “What does ‘death match’ mean?”
He keeps his gaze focused on the strip of dark ribbon ahead and squeezes the steering wheel. “It means the fight only ends when one of the fighters is dead.”
* * *
I thought I overcame my issue with men in suits.
I was wrong.
The moment we step inside the abandoned factory where the match will take place, I stop dead in my tracks and wrap my hands around my middle. The fighting stage with the chain-link cage is in the center and takes up less than a tenth of the space. Everywhere else, filling the room to near capacity, people are standing in groups, chatting. There are no chairs this time. There must be at least a hundred people, most of whom are men. Some are wearing jeans, like Kostya and me, but most are dressed in swanky clothes. A shiver creeps up my spine, the urge to turn away and run is so strong, I need to gather all my willpower to keep my feet in place.
“Asya?” Kostya asks next to me. “Are you okay?”
I close my eyes for a second. “Yes.”
“You don’t look okay, sweetheart. Do you want . . .?” He reaches out his hand and is about to put it on my shoulder, but I quickly step back.
“Please, don’t touch me,” I mutter. “I . . . I can’t handle it at the moment. I’m sorry.”
“Do you want to leave?”
I look up to find him watching me with concern. “I’m staying.”
“Okay. We’ll stay here, in the back. If you want to leave, just say so. Sound good?”
I nod and move my gaze to the fighting cage. It’s on the raised platform like in the videos. A man wearing black dress pants and a button-down shirt climbs inside and announces the start of the match, but I can’t pay attention to what he’s saying because I’m staring in horror at the mountain of a man entering the cage. I press my hands over my mouth to smother a cry.
“Jesus fuck,” Kostya curses.
We both gape at Pasha’s opponent as he paces inside the cage, flexing his monstrous muscles for the audience. He’s taller than any man I have ever seen.
“Don’t the fighters need to be evenly matched?” I whisper. The guy is more than a hundred pounds heavier than Pasha.
“Not here.”
“What are Pasha’s chances?”
“Before the injury? Fifty-fifty.”
“And now?” I choke out.
“Not good, Asya,” he says and looks down at me. “Let’s go wait outside.”
I want to say yes so fucking bad. That monster is probably going to kill Pasha. I heard it in the tone of Kostya’s voice, and I don’t think I can watch it.
“I’m staying,” I whisper at the same moment Pasha steps inside the cage.
The instant my eyes land on him, the tears I’ve been holding at bay burst out, blurring my vision. I bite the back of my hand, burying my teeth in the skin with all my strength as if physical pain can somehow dispel the feeling of dread. Pasha walks toward the center of the cage and stops, assessing his opponent. I can’t help but compare them. My Pasha is a tall guy and heavily muscled, but compared to the beast standing in front of him? Dear God, there is no way Pasha can beat him.
The referee turns away and exits the cage. There is a ring of a bell. Pasha’s opponent swings his fist, aiming at the head. Pasha ducks and kicks the guy in the stomach with his left foot. The brute doesn’t even move. He swings again, aiming for Pasha’s chest this time. Pasha jumps to the right, but not fast enough, and takes the hit to his side. I can’t breathe as I watch the opponent close in on him. But before the monster is able to strike, Pasha does a three-sixty spin, and the heel of his foot catches the guy on the neck. Pasha’s attack is cut short, however, when a large fist clocks him on the chin.
A scream escapes me as I witness Pasha drop to his knees. He spits out blood and makes a move to stand, but the beast kicks him in the back. The blow is so strong Pasha ends up sprawled facedown on the mat.
