Chapter 34 Dimitri
DIMITRI
How had I gone years without sex, but it had only taken six days of avoiding my wife to break me?
I paced around the small basement room. I hadn’t planned to come here tonight, but I was out of options.
It was either fighting or fucking, and the only woman I wanted to fuck was off limits.
Every time I was around her, she cut through more of my defenses with her beauty and charm.
If I stayed around her too long, she’d drag me down into the watery depths, and I’d fucking thank her for it.
I stripped down to my shorts, shoes, and gloves. A shiver went through me as the cold air from the vent hit my bare chest. This part never got easier. Not the fighting—that was easier than breathing—but being exposed.
I twisted to look at my back through the dingy mirror on the wall.
The ugly scars were white and puckered, each a reminder of the torture I’d endured.
I shook out my body, loosening my arms and neck.
I refused to allow anyone to see the cracks in my facade, the vulnerability contained in each horrifying slash.
Reminders that I was mortal and could bleed.
The phantom touch of Sienna’s lips ghosted across my skin.
Those days in Paris had felt like my salvation, a bit of heaven I didn’t deserve and would never have again.
Now she was a constant, maddening temptation that had driven me out of my home.
I’d stayed in a hotel downtown the past five nights because of her.
I was pissed, running on a few hours of sleep, and missing her like a fucking idiot.
I ripped the door open with a snarl and was immediately met with Maxim’s disapproving expression.
It made my blood boil. Maxim was the closest person I had to a friend, a brother.
His bastard father had sent him to the compound a year after I arrived for training.
We had survived the cruel years together in Russia and worked together to reclaim Chicago from my father, but standing here, under the weight of his judgement, made me feel like the pathetic, weak boy I used to be.
I shouldered past him, striding down the underground hallway and up a narrow set of stairs, emerging into a different world.
One of the first things I’d done as Pakhan was transform an old Bratva warehouse into an exclusive underground fighting ring where the wealthiest in the city could sate their bloodlust while alcohol and money lowered their inhibitions and loosened their tongues.
A long, gilded bar lined the back wall and topless servers offered drinks and lap dances.
The weight of anticipation hung in the air as wealthy politicians, celebrities, and CEOs celebrated their good fortune at receiving a coveted invitation to Mayhem.
Few people understood that true power wasn’t about who was the most violent; maintaining control over a city hinged on collecting secrets.
Blackmail and manipulation could topple a regime faster than any weapon, so I’d built my own venue for collecting ammunition and staffed it with people loyal to me alone.
All of the women who worked here were ones I had helped rescue from trafficking.
Even when given the opportunity to leave the city and make a new life, many had decided to stay.
Their bodies, once the source of their suffering, were now the keys to their power as they extracted hushed confessions from the clientele.
Most wouldn’t understand their decision to work here, but I did.
I’d been forced to fight as a child, and now it was the only thing that grounded me.
Mayhem wasn’t just about luring in the wealthy of the city; it was essential to my sanity. The only way to beat back my demons. To regain control over the nightmares.
At least, it had been the only way.
I stepped out of the shadows to raucous cheers. Maxim created space around me as I wove through the crowd to the ring and pulled myself up. My opponent was already in the ring, working the crowd into a frenzy. Soon I’d be using my body the only useful way I could—to bring pain and death.
The news that I was fighting tonight had spread like wildfire, and the room was packed even more than usual with people eager to see Dimitri Ivanov, the infamous underground fighter, destroy his opponent.
Maxim finished taping my hands and gripped my shoulders. “Are you sure you’re okay to do this?”
My red-hot gaze whipped to his, but he didn’t back down. I shook off his hold. “Careful. It sounds like you’re questioning me.”
A crackle of a microphone cut through the air as the announcer stepped forward. Maxim left the ring, jaw clenched.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Mayhem!” Screams and applause met the announcer’s shouted greeting.
“You are amongst the few privileged to ever see a matchup like this. Are you ready to witness history tonight? Only three minutes remain to place your bets. Will Dimitri Ivanov, the Winter Wolf, or Yuri Volodin, the Iron Hammer, emerge as victor?”
The room was drenched with money, alcohol, and bloodlust. My opponent, a massive brute from Moscow, turned to the crowd and bellowed, the tendons in his neck red and protruding as he riled everyone up.
I dismissed him with a flick of my eyes.
I never turned my back on a threat, but instinct told me this man was no danger to me.
Onlookers raised their hands in the air to place their bets—a total that would easily skyrocket into seven figures by the end of the night.
This room was filled with the worst of the worst. Rustik had sneered at my habit of fighting in underground rings. He believed a Pakhan’s authority was subverted when he got his hands dirty.
The years had taught me better.
A Pakhan who refused to get his hands dirty would not be Pakhan for long. True leaders were the first to dive into the fray, emerging with bloody knuckles and dripping gashes.
I bounced on my toes, staying warm and limber as the announcer shouted into the microphone. The crowd screamed, and my opponent roared. I tuned it all out. White noise filled my ears, and a blanket of calm stilled my warring insides.
The bell rang, and I stepped forward.