by Tillie Cole
“Revenge,” he snarled.
I startled at the severity of his tone, at his rough voice, his voice that caused sparks to ignite deep in my stomach.
“Revenge?” I whispered in confusion, fighting to keep the nerves from my voice.
His clenched hand slackened and once again resumed its place on the jar.
“Revenge … revenge on the man who lied.”
I slowly stood, not knowing what to do, not knowing whether it was right to fund his … revenge. I wanted to push him for more, but he was back to being a statue. I looked down at the money in the jar. He had about fifty dollars, if that. He was never going to raise that kind of money out here on the streets.
It was hopeless. What he was doing was hopeless.
I ran my hand through my hair and almost laughed. What the hell was I doing? And was I seriously contemplating giving him ten grand? For revenge? Up to now, the very thought should have sent me running for the hills, but I was a princess of the Bratva, the only daughter of the Pakhan. Revenge put food on my family’s table; it ensured we all lived to see another day. Revenge was my family’s M.O., my family’s legacy.
And ten grand was nothing to Kirill Volkov’s family.
I could get this amount tonight from the safe at the gym. No one but me knew the cash was there. Hell, no one would miss it. It was the gym’s Christmas donation to the church. But I was in two minds. It was charity and it was earmarked for the church; however, I was now pretty convinced that giving the money to a single man hell bent on revenge, though not the Lord’s original idea of alms, was charity enough. This mysterious man had saved my life. He killed my attacker to save my life.
It was blood money, payment for a sin against the flesh. What was ten thousand dollars compared to that?
Crouching down, I placed the piece of paper on top of his jar and promised, “I’ll be back later tonight.”
Turning on my heel, I jogged back to the truck and, from my cell, called Serge to pick me up. Ten minutes later, he arrived and I made my excuses to Father Kruschev.
I jumped in the backseat of the car and Serge turned his body to face me, worry etched on his face. “Miss Kisa, what’s wrong? Has something happened?”
Shaking my head, I asked, “Serge, I need a favor. Please, can you take me to the gym, then back here?” I looked up at him through my lashes, the guilt of this request playing heavy on my heart. “But don’t tell Papa or Alik.”
Serge stared at me and his gray eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you in trouble, Miss?”
I shook my head.
“Is this going against something you were ordered not to do?” Serge pushed further.
“No,” I whispered. “It’s something I want to do for someone … something to pay back a debt. But Alik wouldn’t be happy. He’d think I would have betrayed his orders.”
Serge blew out a long breath but, dropping his head, turned around and buckled his seatbelt. “I hope you’re not lying to me, Miss Volkova,” he said, and I exhaled a pent-up breath.
“I’m not, Serge. I swear.”
Serge gave a curt nod and silently pulled out onto the street. A while later, we arrived at the gym. Serge guarded me as I slipped inside and ran to my office. I quickly opened the safe hidden in the wall, pulled out the cash, and stuffed it into my purse.
After locking my office door, Serge looked at me with suspicion in his eyes, but I brushed past him without saying a word. Dutifully, he followed me outside into the car.
In another twenty minutes, we pulled back in front of the street where the food truck had stopped, only this time everywhere was deserted. The church truck was gone for the night and most of the homeless were asleep under their blankets.
I went to open the door, clutching my purse, when Serge opened his door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
“Serge? What are you doing?” I asked in panic.
Serge folded his old but still beefy arms over his chest, his black suit looking too tight. “Miss Volkova, I might have agreed to escort you to the gym and back here, even though it wasn’t on Mr. Volkov’s or Alik’s approved list, but there is no way I’m letting you walk around these streets alone at this time of night.”
I stepped forward, a pleading look upon my face. “Please, Serge. I need to give a homeless man here some money and I must do it alone.”
Serge shook his head in exasperation and stormed forward, gently gripping my bicep in his hand. “Kisa, what the hell is going on?”
I dropped my eyes. “I … I…” I blew out a sharp breath and met Serge’s eyes. “Serge, I was attacked last night while doing the church’s work. I was in an alley, alone, where I was told not to go, handing out a care package to one of the regulars, when some guy tried to steal my purse and put a blade to my throat. He … he was going to kill me.”
Serge turned a deathly shade of white, eyes searching all around us. “Who? Who the fuck attacked a Volkov? I’ll kill him!”
“No!” I hissed and shook Serge’s arm. “That’s what I’m trying to say. Another homeless man came to my defense. Hell, Serge, he ended up killing my attacker. I … I owe him, and he needs money. I want to help him in return for saving me.”
“Fucking hell, Kisa!” Serge groaned. I could hear how pissed he was from his tight accented voice. “Why the hell didn’t you tell your father when you got home?”
“I couldn’t, Serge. Alik would’ve found out. He wouldn’t understand that the man saved me. He would think there was more to it. He’d kill the man who saved my life, out of jealousy. You know he forbids me to speak to men.” I paused and let that hang in the air. “You know this, Serge. You know what he’s like.”
Serge checked that the area was clear. “Let’s go. You have ten minutes.”
I took off in the direction of where the man had been sitting. Turning the corner, I was relieved to see he hadn’t moved. His hood was firmly pulled down and his hand was still wrapped around the Mason jar.
“There,” I whispered to Serge. His eyes followed the direction in which my finger pointed … and he reared back in shock when he laid eyes on the beggar’s large frame.
“That man? Christ, Kisa!” he asked.
Without giving him an answer, I trotted over the street, motioning for Serge to hang back a bit. He did so, reluctantly.
Cautiously approaching the man, I let my heels click on the asphalt so he would hear my approach. I kneeled down before him and, exactly as before, saw his hands tense. It was as if he were expecting to be struck … or he was gearing himself up to fight.
“It’s okay … It’s me, again … from before,” I said and rolled my eyes at how stupid I sounded. It was pathetic.
I was pathetic doing this!
The man didn’t say anything, not that I’d expected him to. So I opened my purse and began pulling out the cash, pushing it into his jar.
I started when I saw his head lift slightly, watching me fill his jar to the brim. In a flash, he reached out and grabbed a tight hold on my hand. I didn’t react, afraid Serge would come running. Feeling flushed at the touch of his rough hand, I slotted the last of the money into the jar and picked up the sound of his heavy breathing.
“It’s all there, everything you need,” I said quietly. Suddenly, the sound of a gunshot rang out in the distance. It made me jump and whip my head around to look at Serge.
“Shit! Stay here!” Serge ordered and took off around the corner to check it out, his Beretta pulled from his jacket and now firmly in his hand.
My attention moved to the man again, whose hand had released mine. He was screwing the top onto the jar whilst rising to his feet. As soon as he was upright, I stood before him and tried to gaze up into his eyes. His head dipped again and I wanted to scream out in frustration.
Tucking the jar under his arm, he backed away. I knew he was about to take off and disappear into the night. But in a moment of desperation, I reached out and grabbed his sweatshirt sleeve, pulling him to a stop. He wrenched his arm back
and strode forward, causing me to stumble back in fear. My back slammed against the slick wall and I heard a low, threatening grumble emerge from his mouth, making it clear that I shouldn’t have touched him. For a fleeting moment, I feared he would strike me.
Holding my hands out for protection, his broad chest slammed into my palms, all hard, defined muscles beneath his shirt as he pushed forward, my hands beginning to shake. I could feel his thumping heartbeat against my palm—he was jacked up, fuming on the spot. Every part of me filled with fear, made worse by a street light above us which flickered on and off, illuminating his gritted teeth.
“Wait! I’m sorry,” I said quickly. The man’s body froze. “I … I only wanted to see your face … before you left. I wanted to see the man who saved me.”
The dark hood tilted slowly to the side, and the heavy rise and fall of his chest seemed to increase. He didn’t want me to see his eyes. That only made me more curious. Keeping the jar tucked under his left arm, he stopped pushing against my hands. Taking the chance while I could, I cautiously reached up and torpidly pulled back his hood.
My eyes were trained on his face as it came into view—that strong jaw, that unruly sandy-blond hair, his dark stubbled cheeks, high cheekbones, and …
I waited with bated breath for his dipped head to rise and finally meet my eyes. He did so with painstaking slowness, long, dark lashes downcast, like he was fighting against his instincts, like gravity was keeping his eyes pulled down. Until, with nostrils flaring and his breath blowing hard, he lost the battle to keep his anonymity and his eyelids lifted to reveal the dark irises underneath and his hard gaze suddenly bored into my eyes …
Then everything stopped—time, the ability to breathe … my whole entire world.
Choking on a gasp, my hand flew to my mouth and my legs collapsed beneath me. In a New York minute, my ass hit the hard ground and cold shivers tracked down my spine.
The man’s face was blank as he towered over me, knowing I had been felled by his stare. He was raw, stern, and he was glaring at me like a killer before he rips apart his victim, a predator before he devours his prey. There was no emotion in his expression, no compassion for me now sitting on the sidewalk, no thanks for a generous donation. He was as cold as an arctic winter … but he was a beautiful monster, and he had no idea why I despaired.
Hearing the kicking of a can down the far side of the nearby alley, the man pulled up his hood, his disguise and, in a flash, sprinted away into the darkness.
I failed to pull oxygen into my lungs, wheezing as I tried. Those eyes … those eyes were imprinted into my brain, they were soldered onto my soul. My voice was stolen by the shock of what I’d just seen.
Brown eyes … a pair of rich chocolate-brown eyes, the left iris smudged with a flash of blue … the exact blue from my eyes … just like …
No … how could it be?
He died … He had died over twelve years ago.
That man was a monster, a killer, devoid of emotion, with little ability to communicate. Luka … Luka was my best friend, my love, a Bratva boy … He died …
But … But…?
“Kisa!” Serge’s voice cut through my panic. Suddenly appearing before me, his arms instantly scooped me off the floor. “What the hell?” he spat out before carrying me back to the car, placing me in the backseat. “Shit!”
He asked me several times what was wrong, but I didn’t know what to say, what to believe … My mind kept replaying what I had just witnessed.
Brown eyes … rich chocolate-brown eyes, the left iris smudged with a flash of blue … the same color of my eyes.
“Kisa!” Serge called from the driver’s seat as he fired up the car. “What happened? Were you harmed?”
I shook my head in response to his increasingly frantic questions, all the time gripping my seatbelt with fisted, trembling hands.
“Fuck! Then what?” Serge pushed. “Where did the man go? Why are you crying? Shaking?”
I met Serge’s eyes with my vacant stare, still too busy replaying the scene in my head to really see him. It couldn’t be Luka … It was impossible … He was dead …
My heart exploded like a cannon. Serge slammed his heavy fist down on the steering wheel and threatened, “Kisa! You tell me what’s wrong or I’m telling your father that you took money from the gym and handed it out on the street to a homeless man like it was fucking Christmas!”
Silence filled the Lincoln. I took a deep breath, wrapped my arms around my waist, and I whispered, “I … I think I’ve just seen a ghost…”
8
818
“So are you ready to kill or are you ready to be killed?”
As I sat on the bench in the back room, the cries of hundreds of men shouting their bets beyond the door made my hands shake with nerves. 362 sat in front of me, smiling with a shit-eating grin as he wrapped his hand in a well-soiled white sports bandage.
This guy had been on my ass since I’d arrived a month ago. He was three years older than me, one of the best fighters in his division here at the Gulag, yet he immediately saw me as a threat. Three years his junior, I still matched his size. For a few weeks, the warden took me to a gym, made me train in fight techniques, telling me I would have my first match soon. Every day, I would wake, train, eat, and sleep. I had a routine, but my dreams were plagued with the boy I’d seen in the ring. The one with the dead look in his eyes, his opponent’s guts on the canvas. I knew it would be me soon, forced to kill or be killed.
362 stared me down waiting for my answer.
“I’m going to kill whoever the fuck gets in that ring with me,” I promised. 362’s smile just grew wider at my pissed-off tone. I focused my attention on the white tiled floor, psyching myself up for all that I’d worked for. My legs bounced as the noise from the cage grew louder, and I knew the current fight was coming to a close. My skin was twitching from the shot I’d been getting everyday. My muscles were growing, aching all the time. I was sweating constantly and I was agitated twenty-four-seven, the littlest thing pissing me off.
“You’ll become addicted, you know,” 362 said, and my eyes slammed to his, fiery rage racing through my veins. His long black hair ran down his back, and he jerked his chin in the direction of the door that led to the cage. “Out there, all the men betting on your strength, on your will to survive. You’ll become addicted. You’ll live for the kill … live to see the life force drain from your opponents’ eyes. In that cage we’re both Gods and monsters.”
My mouth tightened and all my muscles tensed. “Never,” I spat back, my voice sounding deeper, rougher.
362 simply laughed.
“This is your first fight. You have no idea how it’s going to feel,” he taunted.
Fists clenching, I said flatly, “I’m going to do what I need to do to get out of here. That’s it. I’m not like you. I won’t like it.”
362 jumped to his feet and approached me. I stood, the concrete cold beneath my feet, and we met face to face. I was Russian; some Georgian piece of shit wasn’t going to best me.
“Not like me?” 362 quizzed. I clenched my jaw and glared into his fucking dead eyes. He smirked, then stepped farther forward until his feet touched mine. “You’re gonna end up exactly like me. You’re gonna die inside. You’re gonna spill so much blood that it’s all you’ll see. At first, you’ll hate it, but with each kill, you’re gonna need it more and more, like some fucking drug. You’re gonna change. Who you are now will no longer exist. You’ll forget who you were. You’ll forget anyone you ever loved.” 362’s lip hooked into a dry smirk, but then his face went blank. “I’ve been here years.” His head tilted forward until his mouth was at my ear, but I held my ground. “And I have no fucking idea who I was before I was brought to this hell. And in time, neither will you.”
My breath came in hard pants, but then 362 moved back. Before I’d even seen him raise an arm, he ploughed his fist into my stomach, my legs buckling as I fell to the ground.
“Enjoy your
first fight … I’ve seen your opponent. You shouldn’t die tonight, as long as you keep your eyes alert and you don’t pussy out.”
Spit landed on my cheek as I lifted myself off the ground and stumbled onto my feet. A sudden boom of raucous cheering erupted from the cage. My heart began to race. The gun in the basement sounded.
The current fight had ended.
One fighter had died.
The other now knew what it was like to kill.
And it was now my turn.
Footsteps sounded down the hallway outside, bolts unlatched, and the steel door flew open, a guard appearing before me.
“Out,” he ordered.
Glancing to the back booth in the locker room, I caught sight of 362 practicing with a sai, his bladed choice of weapon. The thin blade twirled around his fingers as he watched me pass, his face betraying no emotion.
The guard smirked as I strode toward him and held out my hand for him to cuff. My stomach tensed as he looked at me; my skin crawled in disgust.
Once my wrists were bound, the guard dragged me into the dank hallway, pulling me down a set of steep stairs until the door opened and I entered the mob of men surrounding the cage.
My breathing echoed in my ears as I approached the octagonal metal cage where the Gulag’s warden waited. Some posts around the outside of the cage were manned by guards taking the spectators’ money.
The guard at my back pushed me forward. Then he undid my handcuffs. The warden gripped me by the neck and threw me toward a table full of weapons.
“Chose,” he demanded.
Nervously, I looked at what was on offer: blades, axes, sai, chains … and at the end, a bladed pair of silver knuckledusters.
“Choose!” The warden sneered. “We don’t have all fucking day!”
Reaching forward, I grabbed hold of the spiked knuckledusters, sliding them onto my damp hands, the feeling of steel against my skin so strange.
The guard behind gripped my arm and, turning me around to face the crowd, pointed to the number they’d tattooed on my chest—818. Dozens of eyes focused on me, and money began to change hands.