TWENTY-FIVE Killian #2
None of us respond. We wait for the Russian boss to go on.
Fedorov smiles, his eyes remaining cold and untouched.
“You are wondering how I knew you would come.
The answer is simple—I have eyes everywhere.
I knew the moment you left your apartment this evening that you would not go to your championship fight.
You were coming here, for your precious little stray.
“I must admit, I am impressed. Most men would not throw away everything they have worked for over a woman. Especially one as... unruly as my Myshka.” He steps closer, tilting his head. “But then again, you Irish have always been uncivilized, emotional fools.”
“Where is she?” I growl.
“Patience. She will be here soon enough. But first, I have a proposition for you.”
He turns and gestures toward the far end of the atrium. The guards shift, creating another opening. Through it walks a man more than a little familiar.
Ivan Sharapova strides toward us, his six foot five, two hundred and sixty pound frame nothing but solid muscle.
His head’s shaved, a Russian tattoo on the side of his skull where hair would normally grow in. His glower reminds me of a gorilla, his eyes icy blue and complexion even paler than mine.
He’s dressed in the same boxing gear he’d wear at the fight, his hands already wrapped, telling me exactly where the fuck he’s come from.
“You see,” Fedorov says, “when I learned you would not be attending your scheduled bout, I took the liberty of bringing the fight to you. Ivan was more than happy to oblige.”
“What the fuck is this?” Lochlan snarls from beside me.
“This is an opportunity. A chance for the boxer to prove himself. To win back his little stray… if he can.”
My glare darkens. “What are you talking about?”
“A simple wager. You fight Ivan. Here. Now,” he explains. “If you win, you may take the girl and leave. If you lose... you will die, and she will remain mine forever.”
“What’s the catch? What’s in it for you?”
His eyes flicker with cold amusement. “I enjoy making wagers, and I seek to be entertained.”
“Where is she?” I grunt. “How do I know you haven’t already harmed her? That this isn’t some game?”
He turns to the blond soldier on his left and barks a command in Russian. The soldier dutifully bows and then rushes out of the atrium, only to return seconds later. He’s no longer alone, dragging a woman with him at gunpoint.
My pulse spikes at the sight of her.
One look at Jhene, and I can tell she hasn’t been treated well—her clothes are dirtied and torn, her glasses scuffed and curls tangled.
I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve barely been feeding her properly. By how she moves, it seems she’s weak.
“Killian!” she screams.
She wrenches herself free of the blond guard’s grip and runs toward me. I step forward to meet her, my arms opening.
The blond guard intercepts her before she can reach me, yanking her back by a fistful of curls.
“AHHH!” she screams, stumbling backward.
“LET HER GO!” I roar, lunging forward.
Half a dozen guns swing toward my head. I freeze, chest heaving, barely able to hold myself back and keep from blacking out.
After what I just witnessed, it would be so fucking easy.
“Ah, ah, ah.” Fedorov wags a finger at me as if I’m a misbehaving child. “She is not yours yet, Mr. Boxer. My men may do as they wish with her until you win her. Those are the terms.”
The blond guard smirks, his fist still tangled in Jhene’s hair.
Rage fills me up, hot and volcanic. I’m about to blow, barely holding on by a thread.
“So,” Fedorov says, “do we have a deal?”
It only takes me a second to decide. I ignore the dozens of other eyes on me, from Lochlan and Aleksei to the Russian enforcers watching on. I focus on Jhene and Jhene only as I answer Fedorov.
“Deal,” I say.
We’re taken to a room deep in the bowels of the estate. The moment I see it, I know Fedorov’s done this before. He’s likely had men fight to the death here.
Probably his soldiers. And his enemies.
The Russians are well known for their interest in contact sports and gambling. This is just another extension of that.
The room’s a chamber, circular in shape, with stone walls that look centuries old. At the center of the room is a raised platform that serves as a makeshift ring. Except without the usual ropes and padding.
The guards shove us inside and take up positions along the walls, their weapons still trained on Lochlan and Aleksei.
Jhene’s dragged in behind us, the blond motherfucker still clutching her tight. She’ll be afforded a front-row seat to whatever happens next.
Her eyes find mine across the room, wide and terrified behind her glasses. I remain as calm as I can given the fucked-up situation, doing my best to silently reassure her it’ll be alright.
I’m going to fight like hell. I’m going to win this… or die trying.
Fedorov stands at the front with his cane, his men flanking him. From the glint in his gaze, he looks pleased with himself, already thoroughly entertained by the spectacle.
He’ll be watching firsthand as Roman emperors once did when they watched gladiators tear each other apart.
“Let us begin,” he announces. “May the best man win.”
Sharapova steps onto the platform, rolling his boulder-like shoulders and cracking his neck from side to side. He’s a machine built for one purpose only. For destruction.
Good thing I’m not easy to destroy.
I pull my shirt over my head and cast is aside. My shoulder’s still bleeding from the bullet graze, but it goes ignored.
Pain almost ceases to exist when I’m in fight mode. It becomes a mental state of mind where you have to check out of it and focus on defeating your opponent.
I step onto the platform and face the man I’ve been training to beat for months.
“I am going to enjoy this,” Sharapova rumbles in heavily accented English. “Breaking the Irishman who thinks he can challenge me.”
“You’re confused,” I say. “The only one about to be broken is you.”
He comes at me fast.
For a man his size, Sharapova moves like a freight train—once he gets going, there’s no stopping him or his momentum.
His first punch is a haymaker aimed at my skull. I duck under it just in time, feeling the wind of it whistle past my ear.
I counter with a jab to his ribs, putting my full weight behind it. It’s like punching a brick wall. He doesn’t even flinch.
Shit.
He swings again, a brutal hook that catches me on the same shoulder with my graze wound. It sends me staggering sideways. Pain shoots through my already injured shoulder. I grit my teeth and keep bobbing and weaving.
The last thing I need is for him to corner me. For me to let him pin me down.
If he traps me, it might be over.
I dance around him, using my speed to stay out of reach, looking for openings. He’s strong, but he’s slow and heavy footed like most men the size of mountains.
I’m no small man myself, but compared to other heavyweights, I’ve got an advantage.
We miss each other a few times ’til I’m able to land a jab to his face. I follow up with a hook to his body, then another jab, snapping his head back.
The Russian bastard merely laughs.
“That tickles,” he grunts, and then he retaliates.
His fist collides with my head and damn near knocks me off my feet. I’m able to catch myself as I stumble several paces back, vision swimming for a couple seconds.
Jhene screams my name, obviously concerned by watching me take that kind of heavy hit.
I’ve got to ignore her. Ignore any outside noise if I’m going to find a groove and defeat Sharapova.
We go at it some more, trading and dodging blows. If this were a professional boxing match—or even most amateur fights—we’d have finished a round minutes ago.
But there’s no break to be had as we launch our fists at each other and see who falls first. We’re two titans pushing ourselves to the limit.
I’m able to stay half a second ahead of him. I’ve tapped into the strategies Malone’s taught me, the training paying off.
…’til I miscalculate the next fist Sharapova throws at me.
I weave left when I should’ve gone right, and his fist collides with my jaw.
This time I’m unable to catch myself. I’m unable to even stay on my feet as the room spins and I go crashing down to the ground.
The hit’s so fucking brutal I’m dizzy for seconds to come.
Get up.
I move my arms to push myself up.
Get the fuck up! Now!
I try again, arms shaky and legs giving out once more. Darkness edges my vision, the fight to stay awake quickly slipping beyond my grasp.