My father looked down at me and aggressively flicked his chin. He was ordering me to stand, to clap, to stand like a fucking regal God at the window, to show the fuckers jamming up the Dungeon that I was the Bratva knayz, the Russian Mafia prince. The sole heir and the one destined to take charge. We constantly had to show our strength.
But I couldn’t move. This suit I was forced to wear was fucking suffocating me. This silk tie, although loose, still feeling like a damn leash tying me to this Bratva role I couldn’t bear to embrace.
I tried to move, but I couldn’t force myself to lift from this chair. Memories of 362 bleeding out below me were stabbing harder at my brain, stealing my fucking breath.
My eyes squeezed shut, sweat pouring down my cheeks. I was losing it, I was fucking losing my shit.
Six months of this fucking torture. Six fucking months of slowly going insane, too many painful memories and flashbacks scourging the fuck out of my brain.
I abruptly lurched to my feet, and the Pakhan darted his gaze to me. “Luka?”
The room began to spin, the walls fucking closing in on me.
My father stepped forward. “Son? What’s wrong?”
But I couldn’t answer them. I had to get out, needed to get the fuck out of this tiny fucking box.
Staggering to the steel door barricading us in, I used all my strength to smash it open, snapping the top hinge clean off the frame.
“Luka! Come back!” I heard my father shout as I disappeared into the dark hallway. I ignored him as I turned to race down the steep staircase that led to the packed crowd.
“Mr. Tolstoi?” one of the byki called as I ran past him. Heads turned as I pushed through the mass of scumbags trying to get to the side of the cage to fucking see the carnage inside. But all the fuckers moved out of my way, sensing that I’d rip them in two if they got in my fucking path.
I headed for the hallway, the familiar hallway that I’d walked down when I was Raze, the death-match fighter I’d been conditioned to be since a child. The hallways where I’d lived as a Dungeon fighter, stayed each night, only one focus in my mind: revenge on Alik Durov, my childhood friend that, along with his father, had condemned me to a life of killing.
Ignoring the trainers and fighters filling the narrow space, I staggered to the locker room I used to occupy. Smashing my shoulder into the door, it burst open and I slammed it shut, blocking out the world.
It was quiet in this room, no noise fucking with my head. This locker room made me feel safe.
Walking into the center of the room, I kicked off the leather shoes from my feet, feeling the cold from the asphalt ground. Tipping my head back, I stood in the sliver of moonlight slipping through a crack in the wall and ripped off my tie. Hands shaking, I roared when I couldn’t undo the buttons of my shirt. Gripping the expensive material, I pulled hard, the shirt slicing in two, shreds drifting to the floor.
Bare on top, my chest heaved at the severity of my breathing. I tried to calm down … to think of my life now, away from all the gulag shit, but it wasn’t any fucking use.
Walking to the wall, I slammed my palms against the cold hard stone and closed my eyes, just trying to fucking breathe. But this room made me feel like the old me. I felt like him, Raze. I felt like the death-match fighter 818. I felt like the Georgian gulag’s bringer of death. Luka fucking Tolstoi was a stranger to me. The knyaz of the New York Russian Bratva was a total fucking stranger.
The same feelings of how to kill, how to position my bladed knuckledusters just right to cause the most pain, circled my mind … and I fucking embraced it. It was familiar … it felt like … me.
Suddenly, a hand gripped my shoulder. Sensing the familiarity of a gulag guard attack, years of being a “fuck thing,” a punching bag for those abusive pricks taking me back to that lost kid I used to be, I turned and gripped the fucker’s neck under my hand, smashing him back against the wall. A red mist fogging my eyes, I gritted my teeth and lifted the asshole off the floor.
No one would hurt me again … ever. I was stronger now, tougher. I was a built and conditioned fucking stone-cold killer.
Fingernails raked at my skin; wheezing breath filled my ears. But my hands squeezed tighter, the familiar feel of draining a life pumping me the fuck up.
The flailing cunt in my hands began to go weak and I tightened my grip, almost snapping his neck. This fucker would die. He wouldn’t get to rape me no more. Wouldn’t get to push me in that cage and kill another innocent kid. I was an innocent kid, too. This fucker would die. This fucker would die slowly, painfully, under my hands. They wouldn’t touch me anymore. They wouldn’t push me in that fucking ring anymore—
“Luka!”
Too focused on the kill, on the rush that came with feeling a pulse slow to a stuttered stop in a neck, I didn’t hear the door open behind me. My mind was a damn slide show of images, fucked-up images of my kills; kids begging for their lives, guards pointing their guns in my face if I didn’t finish those kids off. Pain, torture, rape, blood, so much fucking blood—
“Luka, stop!” A distant yet familiar voice broke through into my stormy mind. I shook my head.
“Luka, put him down.” The voice was soothing. I knew that voice. That voice made my heart slow down. It calmed me … who … what…?
“Luka, lyubov moya. Come back to me. I’m here. Come back. Fight the memories. Fight them, just come back.”
Ki … Kisa … my Kisa…? My eyes snapped shut at the soothing voice and new memories flashed through my mind … a boy and girl on a beach … kissing … making love … blue eyes … brown eyes … one soul … love lost … love found … a wedding … love … so much love …
Kisa.
Gasping, my eyes flew open, the free hand at my side shook and my skin was drenched with sweat. My other arm was elevated high, and when I followed the length of that arm, it was gripping a neck in an iron vise … the neck of a man, a man my head told me I knew.
Confused at what had happened, I stepped back, my hand releasing its grip on the man and he fell to the ground, wheezing, gasping, fighting for breath.
I staggered back farther until my back slammed against the opposite wall. Feet moved beside me, but I couldn’t look up. I was frozen on the floor, my knees tucking into my stomach and my head falling into my hands.
“Viktor? Viktor? Are you okay?” The female voice from before made me look up, and there she was, my Kisa, my solnyshko, bending down, running her hands over the man’s—
My stomach fell.
Viktor. Viktor, my trainer, the man who helped me to defeat Alik Durov.
Feeling as though the gulag tattoo across my chest, the bold and broad 818, was on fire, I watched Viktor’s eyes close and Kisa call to the byki for help.
Two of the Pakhan’s men ran in, and I watched them as if they were moving in slow motion. Kisa stepped back as they helped Viktor to his feet. The byki dragged him out in seconds and I felt a pain as sharp as a dagger’s strike slice through my stomach.
My fists clenched as I realized what I’d done. I’d almost killed Viktor.
The door softly clicked shut and I heard the locks turning, two iron bolts being slid in place to keep me inside.
Quiet footsteps came toward me and the soothing scent of sweet flowers washed over my body and filled my nose.
Solnyshko.
Gentle fingers suddenly ran over my hand. I flinched and dragged them away as I fought back my instinct to kill, to hurt, to maim, to slaughter.
“Luka, look at me,” Kisa ordered, but I kept my head low.
“Luka,” Kisa repeated in a sterner voice, “look up.”
Gritting my teeth, I looked up and my gaze found a set of perfect blue eyes.
Kisa. My wife.
Head tilted to the side, Kisa’s eyes filled with tears and she reached out her hand to touch my face. “Luka—”
“No!” I snarled. I sank back farther against the wall, swatting away her hand. “Don’t touch me! I don’t want to hur
t you.”
Kisa reared back. I knew she was staring at me. I could feel her gaze burning through my skin. We sat in silence for what seemed like an age, my fists still taut, my blood still boiling with rage. Then, suddenly, Kisa stood, my muscles bracing for her to leave, my heart beating fast again at the thought of her leaving me alone.
But she didn’t walk away. She didn’t head for the door. She didn’t leave. She stayed silent, only a rustling of material to be heard.
I didn’t look up. Instead I focused on trying to calm the rage erupting from inside. But then a hand took mine and my palm met hot flesh.
Whipping up my head, I found Kisa kneeling beside me, the top of her sleeveless long black dress pulled down to her waist, her perfect tits on show. Her hand held mine over her bare breast and I tore my gaze away from the sight—the sight that was fucking destroying me—to meet her eyes. They were filled with a mixture of steely determination and love, fucking filled with nothing but love.
She bulldozed through all the barriers I had.
Taking control, Kisa squeezed my hand tighter around her tit, my cock hardening at the feel of my woman under my palm. Shifting her legs, Kisa released her hold on my hand, her eyes telling me not to move it from her tit, and lifted up her dress from the bottom.
My breathing quickened as her lace panties came into view, and then I fucking lost all anger when she untied the lace bows at the side, the panties falling to the floor.
I was struck mute as my wife—my fucking beautiful wife—straddled my thighs, her bare pussy dragging down my stomach.
My hand on her warm breast tightened as my solid dick pushed against my pants. Kisa’s breathing hitched as her clit ran down my torso and her mouth lowered to my ear. “I love you, baby. I have you. You’re okay. I’m here.…”
My eyelids shut at the relief her words brought, and just like that, I was calmed.
“Kisa…,” I whispered in response, my words clogging my throat.
Kisa pressed a finger over my lips. “Shh, lyubov moya, just … just … love me,” she said almost silently. “Let me love you with everything I have. Let me make you feel safe, with me. Be my Luka, the boy whose soul matches mine.”
And she did. I made love to her on the locker room floor, and she brought me back to myself. She chased away the demons and pain.
As we both fought for breath in the aftermath, I reached up, never moving my gaze from hers, and said, “I’m … I’m sorry.”
Kisa’s face softened. “Never be sorry. You’re my husband, my heart, my soul.”
The reality of what had just happened began to hit home and I shut my eyes in embarrassment. Kisa must have felt me tense as she tensed, too. Inhaling a shaky breath, she whispered, “I love you so much, Luka. Do you know that?”
The hurt and sadness in her voice was sharper than any weapon I’ve taken into the cage.
“Luka?” Kisa probed my silence and slowly drew back her head to look at me. Her eyes were filled with tears again. “I love you.”
Kisa placed her finger under my chin and forced my head up. “Talk to me. Let me in.” Her eyelids fluttered, chasing away tears. She sniffed back her cries and wiped at her eyes. “What happened tonight? What happened with Viktor? Why did you run from Papa and Ivan? You neglected your duty to the Bratva.”
Feeling drained, I exhaled a shuddering breath.
As more seconds passed by, I heard Kisa sigh in frustration and her hands cupped my cheeks. “Look at me, Luka.”
Reluctantly, I forced my gaze up and fixed my attention on her face, she was so fucking beautiful. Taking her hand, she reached down to my wedding ring, and lifted it to my face. “You see this? We’re married. We vowed under God and in front of our families to be there for each other, for better or for worse.” She then took my hand and, holding my index finger, ran it over my left eye. “We were made for each other. That means sharing your pain, telling me when and why you’re unhappy.”
The sadness on Kisa’s face was too much. Squeezing our joined hands, I brought them to my lips and kissed the back of her hand. “I’m happy with you. I…” I took a deep breath and added, “I never knew I could be happy before you.”
Kisa’s tears splashed onto her bare chest. “Solnyshko, don’t cry,” I rasped out.
“But you’re not happy. I hold you when you sleep. I see you when you pace, dark thoughts plaguing your mind.” Kisa kissed my cheek and gazed into my eyes. “You’re getting worse, lyubov moya. Something’s on your mind.” A quiet sob slipped from her throat and I instinctively pulled her into my chest.
“Don’t cry,” I begged in a cracked voice. “I can’t see you cry.”
“Then tell me what you see in your mind. Tell me what is haunting you from being happy in our new life?”
“362,” I pushed out. “I promised vengeance on those who wronged him. On those who put him in the gulag.” My fists clenched behind Kisa’s back. My hands were beginning to shake. The frustration, the anger was coming back as I pictured 362’s bloodied dead face.
Kisa stiffened in my arms. “Our papas are searching for the men responsible.”
“It’s been too long,” I said, harsher than I intended to.
“I know,” Kisa said quietly.
“I have to do this. I have to make it right.” I tensed, knowing what I was about to say. “I have to kill them. I have to, to move on.”
Kisa froze in my arms. I knew she hated the idea of me killing again, but she would never understand what 362 had done for me.
“I don’t even know his name. He died as a number. A fucking slave. His grave has no name.” I inhaled through my nostrils thinking of the unmarked headstone. “The man that kept me alive as a gulag child, the man that taught me how to survive and freed me as a man. He was my brother and he has no name in death.” My fists shook with the fire igniting in my stomach. “He has no honor. He lost it when he died under my ’duster’s spiked blades. I am the one he asked to restore that for him. Me. No one else.”
Kisa pulled back without saying a word, but I could see the understanding in her eyes. Her gaze traced down to my chest and over to my right arm. Her fingers lifted and ran over my skin. “Your arm needs cleaning.”
I glanced down and saw my skin was ripped from Viktor’s fingernails, drying blood covering most of my scarred skin. My eyebrows pulled down and I asked, “Was he hurt bad?”
Kisa’s roaming finger stopped. “He’ll be okay.”
My head lowered and Kisa wrapped her arms tightly around my neck, her body flush against mine. Unclenching my fists and exhaling a long sigh, I wrapped my arms around her bare back, kissing along her slim neck.
“We’ll find out who 362’s captors are, Luka. I promise. We’ll figure out a way for you to live, out here on the outside. How to make you into the best knayz you can be.”
2
TALIA
I usually avoided this place like the plague. It smelled of death. That was the only way I could explain it. The scents of blood, sweat and dead animals permeated every inch of this underground hell making it almost impossible to breath in the thick stagnant air.
Straightening my shoulders, I walked through the training gym of the Dungeon, forcing myself to nod politely at the new fighters’ trainers and sponsors filling up every inch of spare space. Well, I say “fighters.” They were mostly rapists, murderers, and generally just sick motherfuckers used by various mobs and career criminals to make a quick buck. No one would miss them if they died in the ring. In fact, it would be a blessing to society, in my opinion.
I didn’t mind my job. I was good at it. I was the sponsor recruiter for the Dungeon. My duty was securing the sponsors, arranging collections on gambling debts and finding only the best fighters for our enterprise. And I never failed to deliver excellent fighters, season after season. That didn’t mean the sight of these men didn’t make my skin crawl. I generally worked from home, thank God. Being in this place of death day by day would drive me insane. I had no idea h
ow Kisa did it. I sighed in relief that I was finally getting a break. I was getting to leave Brooklyn for the next couple of months. I was using my long overdue vacation days to just check out of this life for a short reprieve.
After everything that had happened over the last year I needed a breather. I needed to not be Talia Tolstaia, the great Ivan Tolstoi’s daughter, just for a while. I needed to be somewhere new. I just hoped my father wasn’t going to flip his shit when I told him I was going.
Heading into Kisa’s office, I walked through, shutting the door behind me. Kisa was sitting behind her desk typing away on her computer. “Hey, Kisa,” I called, and moved to sit in the chair in front of her.
Kisa lifted her head from her work and I frowned. “You okay? You look kind of green,” I said, seeing Kisa run her hand over her clammy head.
She batted her hand in front of her face. “I’m good, Tal. Just feel like I may be coming down with something.”
“You sure? Seems you’ve been like this a while,” I questioned.
Kisa threw me her usual bright smile. “Yeah, honest.”
Lifting off my chair, I took the register of new fighters and their sponsors for the Dungeon’s fighting ring and laid them on her desk. “Here’s all the information you’ll need while I’m gone. If you need anything else, I’ll only be a phone call or an e-mail away.”
Kisa took the folder and placed it in a drawer before leaning back in her chair. “Thanks, Tal.” Her eyes dropped to the table, then she looked at me again. “I wish you weren’t going. I know you’ll only be a couple of hours away, and Christ knows you deserve the rest, but I hate the thought of not seeing you every day. It’ll be weird.”
Moving around the room to drop my ass to the edge of her desk, I winked playfully. “It’s my winning personality, Kisa. You’re addicted to me.”
Kisa laughed and patted my knee. “I am. There hasn’t been a vacation in our lives that we haven’t gone on together.”
My smile faded and I squeezed her hand on my knee. “I know, dorogaya moya. But after this past year—Luka coming home, my parents coming to terms with the fact their son was turned into a straight-up killer, and now the recent news that the Jakhua Georgian’s are back in Brooklyn to probably start a war with us, I just need a fucking time-out from it all, you know?”