4. Nico #3
I step into the cage and stand under the warm lights. A crowd forms, gawking at me through the chain-link fence.
I’m too drunk for this. Omari will be surrounded by his countrymen, observed by his boss. He won’t go easy on me just because I’m Ottavio Matassa’s son.
I bounce on the balls of my feet a few times before falling still.
I don’t care. He was annoying, groping at that woman so much, standing so straight in the elevator, being a good little soldier for the Bratva.
He’s a worm, and when the pakhan tells him to hold off, don’t kill Matassa’s son, I’ll break his jaw.
Yevgeniy walks up to the edge and looks up at me through the fencing. The track lights shine harshly onto his face. “Before your match, a gift.”
I jump back as two men sling a third into the cage with a heavy thud.
The man groans, mutters something in Russian, and slowly, painfully pushes himself to standing.
When he lifts his head, I recognize him.
“My gift to Nicolo,” Yevgeniy calls out to the entire gathered crowd. “Roman Yezhov, the predatel’ who tried to kill your don. I leave his life in your hands.”
Roman’s eyes widen when he recognizes me—or one eye does, because the other is swollen shut. His face and body are covered in wounds. Not just fresh bruises, but cuts and burns and poorly healing scabs that look to be weeks old. His pakhan must’ve caught him right after the yacht party.
“You,” he says.
And then he runs at me.
His first swing is slow and wide and pathetically easy to dodge.
“I’m not fighting you,” I hiss.
He doesn’t hear me—or doesn’t care—as he swings at me again.
And again.
And again.
Each strike is slower than the last. I glance back at the crowd. Most of the onlookers are frowning—it’s not entertaining to watch a man avoiding a fight. They want blood.
I spot Giovanni. He’s grim. He would end this if I asked.
We both know I won’t.
“Kill him, Viper,” Yevgeniy shouts.
I turn back to Roman. He’s heaving, probably running on fumes, judging by his hollow belly. Bandages wind around his right hand. Blood seeps through them.
I understand my trap now. Roman is a scapegoat.
I kill him, and the Russians can pretend he was a rat who acted outside of orders.
The blame will publicly shift from Valeria’s dad to this dangerous, rogue agent.
I look like a hero, avenging the attempt on my half-brother’s life and protecting my fiancée’s honor. Everyone is happy.
Roman spits blood and meets my eye. He’s exhausted. “Kill me, Viper.” It’s not a taunt. Not a plea. Somewhere in between.
If I don’t kill him, they’ll just drag him back to whatever hellhole they took him from.
At least I can make it clean.
Roman doesn’t even try to escape as I step into his guard and drag him to the ground, winding my arms around his neck. When his instincts override logic, and he scrabbles at my arms, desperate for a gasp of air, it’s already too late.
I leave his body on the ground and head for the exit.
People are braying around me, but I can barely hear them.
“Nicolo, well done!” Yevgeniy comes to my side.
I don’t stop walking. Fuck all of this. I grab my shirt and shoes and make my way to the elevator.
“Your father would be proud,” Yevgeniy says as I reach the elevator doors.
It’s a slap to the face.
I turn toward him. Giovanni stands to the side, watching us.
I smile at Yevgeniy. “Thank you.”
If his instincts tell him my attitude is off, he ignores them. “We are brothers now. Please, stay. Anything in the hotel is yours. They know to offer a Matassa whatever he wants.”
“So generous.” I lift my arms and pull Yevgeniy into a rough hug. He laughs and tightens his arms against mine.
As Giovanni and I step into the elevator, the last thing I see is a slice of Yevgeniy’s smiling face.
“You did not have to do it,” Giovanni says in the harsh silence of the elevator as I pull my clothes back on.
“They would’ve kept torturing him otherwise.”
“You did a good thing. And your father and the pakhan will be pleased.”
The elevator doors beep. The upstairs world is the same—bright, flashing lights, and scores of people hunched over their machines.
When Giovanni heads toward the entrance, I stay.
He gives me a measured look. “You don’t gamble.”
I shrug, looking around at the machines. “I do now.” I turn toward the nearest one and sit on a stool. “You go. I’ll call a ride.”
Giovanni waits a few moments longer, calculating the weight of his decision. I’ve met the expectations of the pakhan, Don Salvatore, and my father. I should celebrate.
“Call me if you get into trouble,” he says and leaves.
A waitress comes by with a bowl of pennies. I play idly for a long time, pulling the lever and watching the numbers spin.
After some time—not that I know how much, given the madness of this place—I stand and walk out the entrance.
Cold winter air whips at my face as I pull out the keys that I picked from the pakhan’s back pocket.
When his car beeps at me from all the others—a red Ferrari—some of that trapped-rat feeling in my chest fades away. I get into my new car and drive off.