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Surveying the room, Andrei concludes, "Everyone knows their role. We're not just up against the Romanians; we're up against time. And remember, we do not fail in this."
I look around, finding strength in the determined faces that surround me. We're all bound by a common purpose—to get Samuil back.
The heavy thud of my heart feels as if it's about to break through my ribcage. My palms are sweaty, and I can feel a tremor in my hands as Viktor laces up my gloves. The vicious roar of the crowd feels like a tidal wave crashing against my psyche, the sound too loud, too eager.
"Ana," Viktor's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts, grounding me momentarily. "You’ve got this. You've trained hard. You know your strengths."
I meet my brother's eyes, searching for comfort, for reassurance. "I can't think straight," I admit, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on me. "Samuil—"
Viktor places a hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently. "He's strong. Andrei and Damien are on it. You focus on your fight. If you get distracted now—"
"I know, Vik, I know," I interrupt him, taking a deep breath. It’s all so overwhelming—the danger Samuil’s in, the stakes of this fight, and the realization of my growing feelings for him.
To calm my nerves, Viktor begins discussing strategy, going over moves, reminding me about various sequences and maneuvers. "Remember the patterns we practiced. Feint. Dodge. Use your speed. Don't let him corner you."
As he continues, a match attendant enters the room, carrying a tray with a bottle of water and some towels. "For you, ma'am," the attendant says, holding out the tray to me.
I take the bottle, nodding in thanks, and swallow a few mouthfuls, hoping the cool liquid will calm the burning anxiety in the pit of my stomach. The attendant nods and quietly leaves the room.
Viktor, tries to inject some positivity into the conversation. "After this, we'll go out. Eat like there's no tomorrow. Laugh. Dance. Just like old times."
I smile faintly, trying to imagine a world beyond tonight, beyond the fight. "Sounds good, Vik."
We continue discussing tactics but as the minutes tick by, a peculiar feeling begins to take root. My head feels fuzzy, my limbs slightly heavier. The locker room seems to tilt slightly, making me grip the edge of the bench for support. "Vik," I whisper, my voice barely audible, "Something's not right."
He looks at me, panic evident in his eyes. "What do you mean?"
I try to pinpoint the feeling, the sudden wave of dizziness that washes over me. "I think something was in the water."
Realization dawns on Viktor's face. "Damn it!"
Holding onto my consciousness becomes a battle, and every second seems an eternity.
The world tilts with every step, and my heart feels as though it's been sealed within a vice, squeezing tighter and tighter with every beat.
My limbs feel weighted, each movement a struggle, and yet, there's a fire igniting within me—a fire forged from anger, desperation, and vengeance. Because if this is how it’s going to end, I won’t go down without a fight.
Viktor’s voice is a distant echo, words of concern lost in the throbbing in my ears. He's trying to convince me to retreat, to seek medical help, but the noise, the lights, the tension in the arena, they all pull me toward the center stage.
I catch a glimpse of him from the corner of my eye—the Romanian brute they've matched me against. He's known as "The Wolf," a name that paints a vivid picture of his fighting style: ruthless, unyielding, predatory. They probably think I’m an easy win tonight, given my condition.
The announcer’s voice booms, momentarily drowning the din of the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, introducing tonight's main event! From the right corner, weighing in at 205 pounds, the terror of Transylvania, The Wolf!"
The roar from the crowd is deafening, a cacophony of cheers and boos. My vision blurs, but I force myself to remain upright, to remain conscious.
"And in the left corner, Moscow's own, the diamond of the Bratva, weighing in at 130 pounds, the Tsarina!"
There's a thunder of applause and shouts. My name. My people. For a brief moment, pride swells within me, pushing back against the encroaching darkness. This is my turf, my arena, my fight.
The bell rings, signaling the start of the match. Every second counts. The poison—whatever it is—is fast-acting, and I canfeel its icy tendrils wrapping tighter and tighter around my consciousness. I have to end this quickly.
The Wolf lunges, confident and hungry. But I’m the Tsarina, and I’ve been fighting my entire life. Not just against opponents in the ring, but against expectations, against the very world that sought to define and confine me.
We trade blows, his power against my precision, his brutish strength versus my lightning-quick reflexes. Every punch I throw is with purpose, every dodge and weave calculated. My movements become a dance, a rhythm only I can hear.
He lands a punch, pain exploding across my face, but I use it, channel it. With the crowd chanting, the spotlight on us, I realize this might be my last stand. If that's the case, then I will go down fighting. They will remember the Tsarina—not for her defeat, but for the valor she brought to the very end.
Chapter 22
