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Chapter 1
Anastasia
“Where the hell is he?”
Rain pelts the tin roof of the decrepit warehouse like a barrage of bullets. Each drop sounds like an accusation, a reminder of the path we're forced to walk. I hate the rain. In this world of underground fighting, the noise it brings is just another layer of distraction on top of an already tense situation.
As I pace the dimly lit room, shadows cast by the flickering lights overhead play across the walls. Every now and then, a roar erupts from the crowd, punctuating the atmosphere with its raw energy. Somewhere close by, bones crunch and flesh impacts flesh, the symphony of a fight reaching its climax. The room is heavy with the scent of sweat, blood, and anticipation.
Beside me, Samuil Nicolaevich’s massive frame looms like an anchor in a tempest. The tattoos covering his arms tell stories of battles fought, allegiances made, and pain endured. Every now and then, he shoots me a glance, his green eyes searching mine for answers. I avoid his gaze, knowing he’s equally worried about my brother’s absence.
"Where the hell is he?" I mutter once again, more to myself than to Samuil. Viktor should've been here by now. Everyminute he's late is a minute closer to forfeiting our chance at the Death Match.
Samuil’s voice is a gravelly rumble. "He knows the stakes, Anastasia. Viktor wouldn't let us down."
I clench my fists, trying to swallow down the rising panic. "We need that money, Samuil. We can't afford to lose this chance."
He shoots me another one of his searching looks. "There's more riding on this than just the million-dollar prize, isn't there?"
My eyes dart away, unwilling to divulge my deepest concerns. There are things even Samuil, as close as he is to our family, doesn't need to know. "It's just... Viktor has been acting strange lately. Ever since the rumors about the Death Match started circulating, he’s been distant."
"I've noticed," Samuil admits. He runs a tattooed hand through his beard. "But I’ve also noticed he's been training harder than ever."
I nod, taking a deep breath to calm my nerves. "He mentioned something about this being our ticket out, our way to finally break free from all of this," I gesture vaguely around us, to the grimy walls and the raucous crowd beyond.
The weight of responsibility presses down on me. As much as I want to break away from the dark clutches of the underground world, there's something keeping me here. The thrill of the fight, the rush of adrenaline, the lure of the prize money—it's all a heady cocktail that's hard to resist.
Samuil moves closer, his voice softening. "Look, whatever's going on with Viktor, whatever reasons you two have for needing the money, I'm with you. We'll find a way."
Before I can respond, the announcer's voice booms through the hall, echoing over the relentless assault of the rain. "Next up,the qualifier for the Death Match! Viktor Zaitsev, please make your way to the ring!"
My heart leaps into my throat. Every second feels like an eternity. He has to show up. He just has to. The crowd's restlessness is intense, their hunger for violence growing with every passing moment.
I grab Samuil’s arm, my nails digging into his skin. "What if he doesn't show? What if something's happened to him?" I’m not the panicking sort, never have been. However, when it comes to my brother, things are different.
"We'll figure it out," he promises, his voice thick with determination. But as he speaks, I can see the worry etching deeper lines into his already rugged face.
I shake my head, fighting back tears of frustration and fear. "If we don't compete, if we don't win... I don't know what we'll do."
The rhythmic pounding of the rain grows fiercer, mirroring the tumultuous whirlwind of emotions inside me. The cold seeps into my bones, and I find myself shivering despite the warmth of the crowded room. As the minutes tick by with no sign of Viktor, a sense of dread tightens its grip around my heart.
Samuil leans in, concern evident in his deep green eyes. "Ana," he begins, using the affectionate nickname he's called me since we were kids, "if it's about the money—"
I immediately cut him off, already knowing where he is headed. "Samuil, don’t."
He holds up his hand, signaling me to let him finish. "I can help. I can give you and Viktor the money. You know I can."
I look up at him, searching his face. I see genuine concern, the warmth of someone who has always been there, watching over me, even when I pretend not to notice. "I can't accept that," I whisper.
He moves closer, his voice soft and urgent. "Why not? If it helps you and Viktor start anew, then—"
"It's not about the money," I reply, feeling the weight of my pride pushing down on me. "I won’t take handouts. Not from you, not from anyone."
Samuil sighs, raking his fingers through his hair, frustration evident in his movements. "It's not a handout, Ana. It's me trying to help. You're like family."
I blink back tears, feeling a surge of warmth at his words. But that warmth is also tainted with a pang of guilt. "I know you mean well, but I can't. It’s not the way I was raised. Zaitsev’s earn our keep, no matter how hard the path."
The atmosphere between us grows thick, both of us lost in our own thoughts, the silence only broken by the storm's fury outside which seems to mirror the chaos inside me. Thunder growls in the distance, punctuating the heaviness in the air.
