Fearless III

by Amarie Avant

  “Why are you so happy?” I plaster on a smile, needing to make an inquiry with him before all the tattered nerves in me begin to crash.

  Samuel is all white teeth against his gorgeous dark skin.

  “That’s a look of a man in love,” Connie says of her uncle.

  Our boss rubs a hand over his face. “I plead the fifth.”

  Dang, I consider my mom for a moment. In this sucky ass world, Samuel only ever loved one woman—his wife. She and my mom were good friends. After she died, very young, my mom always mentioned that Samuel was “falling out of love” with another woman. She’d been joking. Had to be. She and dad were meeting for another first double date with Samuel. My mentor has crossed paths with a swarm of gorgeous women since. I kind of thought Zamora and Samuel were getting close.

  “Well, does she call you ‘Sammy’?” I grit out beneath my breath. For my mom, for my current circumstances, hell, I am acting like a certified hater.

  A few minutes later, Samuel sits at the table with me. “Zariah, can we all get together?”

  “Who is we?” I drown the perfect French toast in more pecan syrup.

  “Me, you, Vassili. Ms. Mora, if you’d like?” he huffs.

  Tyrese settles down across the way. “You’re still in mediation, Zariah?”

  Samuel glances at him, almost like a father would when someone speaks accusatorily to his child. He clears his throat. “Yes, they’re working it out.”

  “No, we’re not,” I grumble, almost calling Samuel ‘dad’ like I’ve done on occasion. When I do, he backs off.

  “Alright,” Tyrese shrugs. “I’m helping Zariah with the process—the divorce process that is. This is family law. Who wants to draw up the papers for themselves?”

  “Zariah, not as your employer but as someone who cares a great deal about you,” Samuel begins, “I suggest you take your time.”

  “I have to,” I grit out.

  “Why do you feel that you have to?” he asks.

  Tyrese chortles.

  I do too. “Sammy, don’t offer the spiel like some would-be client coming into the office. I’m dissolving my marriage; it’s the best thing that could happen to me.”

  I rise from the table. The workers at the couches have all stopped shoveling food in their mouths to glance at me as I walk out. I can hear Tyrese telling Samuel to ‘allow’ him. I’m halfway to my office, and in a few short strides, Tyrese has my arm, he guides me inside and shuts the door.

  He’s close as hell to me, his eyes sweeping across my face. Something akin to trepidation crosses his face. He inquires, “You’re not playing me, are you?”

  “What the fuck?” I gasp. “What do you mean, I’m not playing you!”

  “At the funeral, you blew my cover, Zariah. Then we have drinks—”

  “You blew your cover, Tyrese, or whatever the fuck your name is.”

  He rubs a hand at the back of his neck. “I’m going to share something else with you.”

  “Why?” I gasp. Under any other circumstance, I’d take any information he’d give me. My entire agreement to return to my father’s home was to implicate him, hell, the LAPD as a whole if necessary. It would be nice to have a federal agent on my team, but this has been a hard day. Very hard day, and it’s not even 10 am yet.

  “Because I want you to understand the severity of the Resnov Bratva, Zariah. Maybe you and your husband are clashing. Maybe he put you up to this. A man like him has to understand that I’m not the only Fed who is interested in putting him and his family down.”

  Leaning against the door, I gulp. “Okay . . .”

  “Approximately two years ago, you married Resnov.”

  “Vassili,” I murmur.

  Tyrese leans against the front of my desk and crosses his arms. “I had an inside man at The Red Door.”

  Unable to contain myself, I spit the truth. “That place is legit.”

  “It wasn’t until you married a Resnov, Zariah.”

  Pinching the bridge of my nose, I feel inclined to agree. Instead, I blink. “Okay.”

  He laughs softly. “Brilliant, how you chose your words. That inside man doctored numbers . . .”

  The thought clicks in my head as to who he is speaking of. The first night Vassili and I reacquainted, he’d gone into Malich’s office and came out livid. Later, we found that a female bartender had been the perpetrator. “She’s dead.”

  “Yes.” His head tilts, his gaze searing through me. “You knew her?”

  “I did not. She was a bartender. She was skimming money and—”

  “Yup, the bartender. Karsoff was working with us and working us all.” Tyrese huffs. “Karsoff was the only opportunity that we had into The Red Door. We learned about how Malich and Vassili Resnov were sex trafficking women. Bottle service was the bottom line. Had Karsoff not gotten greedy, she would’ve helped us take at least two slimy Resnovs off the streets. Maybe more.”

  “I’m a Resnov,” my tensed lips pull into a sneer.

  “So, you don’t want a divorce?” Tyrese’s eyebrows knit together in distrust.

  Damn! With my hips swaying like the ocean, I step toward Tyrese. I stop once his cologne sifts into my nostrils. The faint sound of his breath hitches is at my ears.

  “I still love him, Tyrese,” I say, pressing my hand against his chest. His skin is warm beneath his linen shirt, warm and taut. I glance up at Tyrese through my eyelashes. “I’m still in love with my husband. That aside, divorce is best for me because . . .”

  “Has he—” his deep voice is steady and measured. Tyrese’s knuckles skim up my biceps. “Has he done anything to you?”

  “Not physically.” My throat clutches for a second, I hate myself for the deception. I’m not willing to bet on how good this Federal agent is since we’ve been able to see through each other thus far. Well, I wasn’t able to see through him until recently. Taking into account how Nicks and I helped Ms. Noriega and her children, I have a gut feeling about him. I need this ally. Vassili and I need this ally more than my husband can ever know. So, I let my eyes water with misguided tears.

  He clasps my hands that are at his chest, his thumb roving over my wrists.

  “I’m supposed to be your new angle,” I say. “Since Karsoff is dead, you wanted to use me to get closer to my husband?”

  He licks his lips with a nod.

  “I have something better for you.”

  We’re so close that Tyrese’s strong abdominals pitch as he laughs against me. “You have something better for me than ridding the streets of any Resnovs.”

  “Any Resnovs? I bet if you had Anatoly Resnov . . .”

  I glance up through long lashes into sparkling, hungry eyes. I can almost feel his cock rising against my stomach. Yeah, that is Tyrese Nick’s biggest motive.

  “You know where he is?”

  “Not at all times,” I shrug. “He’s on America’s Most Wanted—tippy top of the list, right?”

  “That’s not the only list he’s wanted on. Interpol for starters.”

  “Then help me help you, Mr. Nicks.”

  “How?”

  I back away. “Tyrese, it’s logical to say that when it came to Ms. Noriega’s safety and the gang that came through here, we connected.”

  “I’d like to see that you and your daughter are safe.”

  I stop myself from clutching a hand across my stomach. “So, as I’m learning about you, you’re learning about me. I need your help on something first.”

  He takes a few steps forward. “What? How can I help you?”

  “My father.”

  Eyebrow arched, Tyrese stares at me. “Is he alright?”

  “Yup, Maxwell Washington is doing very well.” I plaster on a grin. “Chief of Police.”

  “I know.”

  “Running the biggest gang that the West Coast has ever seen.”

  Tyrese begins to lean against my desk again. He folds his arm, eyes shaded in thought. “I don’t . . .”

  “I’ll prov
e it to you; you help me clean these streets. Then . . . once I’m divorced,” I pause again. That damn lump forming in my throat once more . . . then I deceive him. Albeit, only one part of my statement is a lie as I say, “I have a soft spot in my heart for my husband. Always will, but I’ll help you find his father.”

  We begin to shake hands, he yanks at me, pulling me to him. He licks his lips, dimples at the ready. “Do not cross me, Zariah Resnov.”

  “I’m pretty sure you understand that if you cross me, that you will have not only marked my life but yours too.”

  23

  Vassili

  The speedbag torpedoes the tips of my knuckles, sending it spiraling around in a flash. With all eyes on me, I stop myself from obliterating the damn thing. The people that were once my people at Vadim’s Gym haven’t said a single word to me since the fiasco with Rhy. The little bitch has a vice grip on my championship belt. Even if I hadn’t tossed a haymaker at him last month, they’d have to pick sides. A brand has to choose between its two biggest franchises—there I fucking said it. Apparently, Rhy became a franchise when Gotti snatched my belt and showed the world about my knee.

  Vadim had first agreed that I’d train with Nestor, and he’d train Rhy for a match between the two of us. Now, I have disrespect against me and a bitch who’s afraid to lose his belt. I’ve disrespected Vadim. The old man is over it, not the Three-Headed Monster or any of these mudaks.

  The speedbag lobes in the opposite direction as I issue one last cross with my left fist. I rub my warm right knuckles against the bristles of my jaw. My mind is on the wraps that I didn’t put on my hands when I turn around. Everyone’s gaze flies toward their individual machines. Those thick necks, square heads mudaks won’t say shit.

  I glance over at Rhy. He’s five minutes into my time with Vadim.

  “C’mere, moy syn,” Vadim calls out, calling me ‘my son’ in Russian. When my father does that, it’s a different motherfucking situation. The Old Man was there from day one, nobody else.

  I nudge my chin as my cell phone vibrates in my pockets. Zariah has called me nonstop from a blocked number. My good girl doesn’t understand that we will get to us later. I’m surprised to see a text from Danushka.

  The Bitch: Having fun working out?

  I start to slide the iPhone back into the pocket of my sweats when it vibrates in my palms again.

  The Bitch: That Bitch better fight you.

  I start to chuckle. Funny how she’s given Rhy the same name I’ve given her. Three dots ping on the iPhone as my delusional ass sister appears to be typing. So far, I’ve learned that her marriage is open. Horace is banging girls somewhere in Europe while she’s sleeping with all the men on her team. Maybe Grigor—her full-blooded brother.

  But she can’t be fucking him all the time because Grigor stays within a sniper’s radius from me. Anatoly’s still depressed about how Grigor crossed him for Danny. All our lives, Grigor was his brains. I was his brawn—even though I never lifted a fucking finger for him. The bastard is delusional, too. Except, he plans to hand Danny, Horace, and Grigor their asses.

  Nyet. I’ll do in Grigor. He marked my mother-in-law’s head with a sniper rifle.

  When the time comes, I’ll do in Danushka too. The Bitch creeps me out, and I only trust myself to know that she’s dead.

  Instead of more text messages, Danushka has sent a few screenshots of social media. That Twitter thing that Yuri use to handle for me. Damn, I miss my kuzen. And the rest of those sites that my closest kuzen once managed. It’s been two months since we’ve said a single word to each other. I think about shooting him a text but begin to read the different posts.

  The MMA world is on fire with the fact that the commissioner reinstated me, even though Kong is still in a coma. People on Twitter are gunning for Rhy with GIFs about him running from me.

  She has to have spent a reasonable amount of time screenshotting all of them. I slowly scroll, another message pops up from her.

  The Bitch: We can make him fight . . .

  The Bitch: One way or another

  The Bitch: Or . . .

  The Bitch: If he dies, who gets the belt by default?

  Though I hadn’t anticipated responding to her, I reply, “Leave it,” and push it through. The iPhone goes off more in my fisted palm as I head toward the cage.

  A tiny moon darkens beneath Rhy’s eye. I never had a shiner last so long, but he’s a different breed. Not a real Russian. I’m a bull. He’s a cricket—loud and useless. Vadim clucks his tongue. The takedown between Nestor and Rhy ends. The little shit doesn’t even offer his teammate help. Nestor rolls over in his padding and gets up.

  I pull out of my sweatpants with tight trunks holding me in.

  Rhy grunts as I begin to weigh down my hands. He doesn’t step foot into the gym without his T-Rex hands wrapped up. He whispers that only “dummies” don’t prepare for practice.

  “We all can’t have precious, dainty fingers,” I shrug.

  “Close your cunt, Vassili,” Vadim shouts.

  I glare through my coach. We both know that the little shit-head masked his words. Gripping the side of the cage, I climb up and over, landing on the canvas with a thud. Nestor offers me a nod.

  “Don’t say shit to Rhy,” Vadim orders under his breath, though he smiles at me and pats the back of my neck.

  I sniff.

  “He’s sensitive, dah?” he shares under his breath, pretending to check my wraps.

  “Who’s sensitive!” Rhy calls out.

  Damn, how did he hear us? The idiot has one cauliflower ear—hardly lifted off his career but he’s sporting that nasty ass ear of his. And he’s standing a few yards away.

  “You choose! Vadim, you choose now! Me or that!” Rhy shouts to Vadim. He scours up the cage, straddles the top, then does a backward somersault landing right in front of me. Showoff.

  I rub the bridge of my nose, thinking, don’t try me. Don’t fucking try me, piz’da. Don’t try me, you little mudak!

  My mind goes to Zariah, and that doesn’t help one bit. The craving for her controls me enough to have Rhy in a hospital bed on life support next to Kong. Then I think of Natasha as Rhy argues with Vadim to pick between us. To throw me out like he said he’d do weeks ago. A half-smile brightens my face. The Little Bully has helped me from matching his aggression.

  “Why you smiling?” Nestor asks.

  “What?” I rub a hand over my face.

  “Why are you smiling,” Rhy parrots.

  “Rhy,” Vadim says in an attempt to calm the moment, “We should all talk in my office—”

  “Nyet! Nyet! Nyet,” the fighter’s fists jar at his chest.

  Now, Nestor knows why I’m smiling because he chuckles under his breath. There’s nothing left for Rhy to do but fall onto his tummy and have an all-out temper tantrum. I can almost hear my kuzen shouting that the piz’da isn’t from Russia at all. He acts like a little Pasadena brat.

  “You pick, Vadim, you choose between him or me.”

  “How about you two fight!” The Three-Headed Monster says.

  “That’s a good idea, Sergy,” I nod.

  “You say you can wipe the floor with Killer Karo,” he points a finger at Rhy. “Make some money—do it!”

  Nods and ‘dahs’ from half the weight team trickle over.

  Chin up, Rhy steps toward me. Let him be on guard. I stand there, hands loose, chin down. He can have the first strike. I’ll allow that.

  “I’ll fight you. I’ll keep the belt too,” he spits the words.

  “We can set something up,” Vadim sighs. “Nestor, you and Rhy . . .”

  “Nyet.” Rhy sniffs. “I will only work with you. Why would you give me to this fucking Ukrainian—”

  “I’d rather work with Vassili, eh.” Nestor rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve got a baby on the way at home, no need to deal with one at work.”

  Rhy stares incredulously at all of us. He gawks at all three of us before heading to the doo
r of the cage. The rest of the men have made two lines that lead him toward the door.

  Sergy is the first to give him the one-finger salute on his way out.

  “That means you two are good?” Sergy asks.

  All eyes fly toward me. Could I have pegged them wrong? They have always been Team Killer Karo. Shit, these days feels like only my wife is behind me—and that’s okay. You don’t disrespect Vadim’s Gym, even if you’re a motherfucking Resnov. They were all waiting to see that the coach and I were good again.

  “Khorosho,” I nod.

  Vadim wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Long live the King!”

  Every other second, I pull the tie away from my Adam’s apple. Bright lights click rapidly to my right and to my left candles glow. Danushka sits across from me as we have a window seat at Urban Kashtan.

  “These are good times, brat.” She reaches across the table to grab my hand.

  To keep away from her touch, I grab the bowl of borscht. I press it to my lips to drink some of the broth.

  She murmurs, “One day, when you and Grigor are on better terms, we will all come here.”

  “He’s an outsider, right?” I glare as she puts the bowl down.

  “Nyet,” Danushka’s eyes twinkle. “Hey, I need you to keep smiling. You’re out on the town with—”

  “My sister.” As much as I hate to give her the title, it’s a reminder for her crazy ass.

  “Dah. And you have a crowd of reporters and paparazzi outside. They’re in love with you too. They want to hear how you’ll put down that little bitch, Rhy, is it?”

  “Dah,” I mumble.

  Danushka turns toward the window. The bright lights flash harder, hypnotizing her. She offers a pageant wave. The bitch turns her hand into a fist, symbolizing the fight that I’m consigned to with Rhy. He’s blasted on social media that I need to be ‘prepared,’ and a bunch of other words that he assumes was ominous. His little cunt is all wide open. It’s a shame that he’s made MMA all about his mouth and not backed it up. I’ll keep quiet, sign a contract that works for me too, and then put his ass to bed. I’m too old for shit-talking. I’m at a time in my life where I’m ready to pounce.