35. Vasiliy #2
Her father’s guy, a pretty massive fucker named Dmitri, clipped his opponent’s ear, causing a gush of red to pour down the side of his skull.
Octavia leaned forward to catch a better view of the carnage.
In fact, every time the audience flinched back at a particularly brutal hit or vicious beating, her only response was to squeeze my hand.
If you’re not used to these types of fights, I’d imagine it would be appalling for most to watch the so-called refs stand back and let the violence play out almost entirely on its own. Fights like these don’t really have many rules. Guidelines, at best.
She’s not most people, though.
The second surprise of the night was how taken Octavia is with the…
shall we say, scantily clad card girls. She cheered so loud for their bouncy prances around the ring that she nearly blew out my eardrum.
For a moment there, my jealousy raged to life—I mean, how’s a guy supposed to hold down a hot redhead who plays both teams?
When one of the girls finally took notice, shooting Octavia a suggestive wink, I glared the bitch down. What does she have that I don’t? I’m way over six feet, packed with muscle, excellent with kids, and a great shot.
Boobs.
The answer was boobs.
It’s fine. I’ll double up my chest days.
“He’s amazing,” Octavia says, bringing my attention back to the fight.
It looks like Siderov’s bets are safe for another night, because the mass of flesh currently being pummeled beneath Dmitri’s fist doesn’t even resemble a face anymore.
“I could wipe that kid from the face of the earth with a single hit,” I mutter, tightening my arms around her middle.
A hand lifts to my cheek for a condescending pat. Are you kidding me? “Sure, you could, honey.”
I snap forward, nipping her palm between my teeth. The only effect is a delightful cascade of giggles that drips into my ear like syrup.
“I think you remember exactly what I’m capable of.”
“Maybe I need a demonstration to jog my memory,” she responds with a cheeky grin.
My retort is on the very tip of my tongue when Siderov’s voice slithers between us.
“Morozov, show’s over,” he announces. “Let’s go.”
I don’t want to leave, though.
A sigh leaves my chest, extinguishing the last spark of borrowed joy. The crowd reshuffles around us, preparing for the next fight on the docket. There are too many faces to properly assess for threats. Maybe Sasha was right about bringing her.
“I don’t like this,” I say, thumbing the grooves of my holstered gun. “What if your guys wander off? We’re really going to abandon her in a place this insecure?”
Sasha glares. “That’s exactly why I didn’t think she should come, but all it took was one smile, and she had you folding like a lawn chair.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Octavia growls, pulling out of my arms. “I’ve survived a long time without the help of either of you. I can handle a fucking hour on my own—”
“Not here,” Sasha and I say at once.
Her eyes widen. “Good God, there’s two of them.”
“I think that might be the most offensive thing you’ve ever said to me,” I say, watching Sasha’s face pull into a sour look of outrage.
“Sorry we missed the fight!”
Octavia spins towards the familiar voice. Two of her cousins emerge from the crowd and dip beneath the rope to join our group. At the sight of the youngest Siderov boy, my eyes drift so far back into my head, I briefly wonder if they’ll get stuck there.
Really? Sasha’s big protection plan involves depending on Kirill Siderov?
Octavia was able to flip his ass in her first month of tactical training. At least his brother, Maksim, is also in attendance, hovering a step behind like always. There’s something about the quiet bastard’s quick reflexes that makes me think he could hold his own.
A hand lands on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’ll leave her with the whole unit, too. She’ll have twelve guards watching over her every move.”
“Rude!” Kirill announces, frowning at his uncle’s shrewd assessment. “Maksim and I are perfectly capable of watching our cousin’s back for a night.”
Yeah, right. “Fine. The unit makes me feel marginally better, but let’s make this quick.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Octavia says under her breath, but I lean in anyway.
“Let them know if you need me to come back, okay?”
Her frown thaws. She nods, a strange look glinting in her eyes.
“Alrighty, enough with all that,” Kirill announces, tugging her hand. “Let’s go find some fun!” She lurches away from me.
Within seconds, Sasha and I are left behind, watching the torrent of guards pour into the crowd behind them.
I hate watching her go.
“Yeah. This was a bad idea,” he sighs, breaking the silence. “Let’s get this over with.”
I nod in agreement. The sooner she’s back in my arms, the better.
The back room is exactly what you’d expect.
Boarded windows. Stained floor. The defector is tied to a cheap, metal chair in the center of the room, but it might as well be any of the other chairs nailed to the floor in rooms like these.
The only time the sight of one tainted me was the day I saw a beautiful, defiant girl chained down in the darkness.
I force the image away. Emotions have no use in these situations—not that Siderov’s men understand that.
Three of his soldiers circle the man, trading verbal barbs and random jabs. Each hit is angry. Unproductive. They straighten when they see their boss beside me.
“Pakhan,” one addresses him, stepping forward. Their prisoner collapses back into the chair, sighing with relief at the diversion.
Sasha arches his brow. “Report.”
They have nothing, I assess with certainty. Through the shadows, I can see the spark of resistance still alive and flaring in their victim’s eyes.
“The traitor still refuses to talk, sir, but we’ll get him—”
Sure, you will, little guy.
“No need,” Sasha cuts in, causing his guy’s jaw to clamp shut. Then he turns his head to me. “Well? Can you break him?”
Rude. My reputation used to prevent questions like that.
“You can’t be serious! This guy is one of ours,” his soldier spits, stepping forward. “We deserve the right to deal with him oursel—”
A click sounds through the air, silencing the show of insubordination. Sasha’s gun glints in the lamplight.
“You deserve nothing.” His voice is soft and deadly. “You had three days. A generous three days, in fact, during which you accomplished nothing. You’ve left me no choice but to consider other avenues.”
Cloying silence settles in the wake of his words. It’s interesting that he’d lay everything out in the open like this, right in front of his captive. I suppose the man understands his fate well enough, having worked for the Siderov Bratva before defecting.
“Yes, sir,” the soldier finally gives in. The crowd in the warehouse roars like thunder in the distance.
The Pakhan sighs, slipping his gun back into his belt and nodding my way.
What a mess. You’ve got a defector in the chair who’s prepared for everything an interrogation will bring.
A collection of his former brothers who wish to punish him more than to question him.
A random littering of useless injuries decorating his skin in purple streaks and uncauterized cuts.
They’re lucky this guy didn’t catch an infection and die in the last three days.
I stroll up to the chair, taking in every injury. His brows lower when he catches my approach. There’s a place for violence in this room, but it works best on a specific type of man. One who can already see the peaceful quiet taunting him from the other side, and wants the pain to end.
But this guy? He looks almost gluttonous for his punishment. Guilt fills his eyes as they dart around the room, pinging to the people who considered him family. That’s how Bratvas work. Loyalty over love, bond over blood, my uncle used to say.