Chapter 14
NATALIA
I’m not doing anything wrong.
At least, I don’t think so. Aleksandr has said I’m free to come and go. Still, I can’t imagine he’ll be thrilled with my evening plans.
I got curious about where he disappeared to late at night, so I asked around with some guys at work.
Not Yuri, because I still don’t trust him to keep a secret from Aleksandr. I charmed a burly security expert called Grigor into telling me about it…
by promising him that I’d put in a good word with Aleksandr for a promotion to his team.
As if he’d listen to my recommendations about his work.
“You wouldn’t like it. They beat the shit out of each other. Blood and everything,” Grigor said.
Turns out, there’s a fight club at the docks once a week. That does explain the way Aleksandr is always sporting new bruises.
I nodded my head in agreement. “Sounds awful.” Secretly, I memorized the time and location he told me — one of the empty warehouses down the other end of the port.
I tell myself that it’s probably important information for my father — who Aleksandr is fighting, why, who attends, whether there’s illegal gambling going on. All of it could be used against him.
Deep down, I’m curious to see him fight.
Living with Aleksandr, having him tell me off about my attempts to wash the dishes, and him cooking me breakfast every morning, have all made me start to doubt that he really is the brutal killer that my father thinks he is.
I’m sure the sight of him fighting will snap me back to reality. I need to see the monster that I know I married. For peace of mind.
I want to blend in, so I raid Aleksandr’s closet, throwing on a black t-shirt which hangs to the length of a dress and a hooded jacket.
I sweep my hair into a low bun, hoping that with the hood up it won’t draw attention.
My one pair of black pants are made of latex, but I hope that in low light they’ll be acceptable.
I keep the block platform heels, because otherwise my height is going to look laughable in comparison with the men who I assume are the audience for this kind of violence. Besides, Aleksandr’s shoes are so large that I doubt they would even stay on my feet.
I feel a rush of excitement as I head out into the night. A cool breeze is coming off the sea today, making the port district less smoggy than usual.
Sneaking around isn’t something I have experience with. I’ve never had this much freedom in my life. At any moment, I’m expecting someone to appear out of thin air and demand to know where I’m going.
I shouldn’t have worried. When I reach the abandoned warehouse at the edge of the port, which has the same ramshackle look as Aleksandr’s loft, there’s already a sense of anticipation.
I shove a man the $50 entrance fee and he barely looks at me. The crowd is raucous, already drunk, and no one looks at me twice.
A genuine cheer fills the place, though the crowd can’t be bigger than a hundred — someone winning a fight?
I push my way forward to the front where I can actually see the fight between the heads and shoulders of the men in front of me.
I catch a glimpse of skin slicked with sweat. I’m reminded of the way Aleksandr looked when he came in that night, the sweat drenching him so thoroughly it must have been soaking into his skin.
It’s him. The flex of his tattooed skin, the stories that he won’t share with me, is too distinctive for it to be anyone else.
He pushes his dark hair out of his eyes. The set of his jaw is determined, and he’s laser-focused on the man advancing towards him.
The crowd roars at him, but he barely looks at them. It’s like this is just exercise for him, not the performance that they’re clearly here to see.
Taking a swig of water before throwing the bottle aside, he turns to face a new fighter.
There’s blood on his face, and his knuckles are swollen and split. He must have been doing this for an hour already.
I want to tell him to stop, to take a break, but his face stretches into a lazy grin as his opponent advances again. Almost too fast to see it happening, he meets Aleksandr’s fist in a series of rapid blows.
His eyes spark with energy. The harder he has to work, the more he seems to enjoy it.
The next fight is hard to watch, but it’s impossible to look away. Aleksandr is faster, but this guy is stronger, his muscles impossibly thick. I wince whenever he lands a punch, but it doesn’t happen often. He swears loudly in Italian whenever Aleksandr blocks his hits.
The thud of flesh hitting flesh becomes something of a thrill, once I realize Aleksandr is comfortably going to win. I join in with the cheers, lowering the pitch of my voice to blend in with the crowd.
I understand why people are here, why people would pay to watch this. His violence is hypnotic to watch. I can’t understand why anyone would bet against him when he’s on a roll like this.
It’s not ballet, it’s not a movie, it’s more visceral and real than any performance.
Blood, sweat and pure survival roll off Aleksandr’s glistening, inked body as he takes on a string of challengers.
He barely acknowledges the audience, tilting his chin after each win, as the losses rack up for the other guys.
I can’t look away even when a crack rings through the warehouse.
Pop.
The sound undercuts the cheers of the crowd, cools everything down to a deafening silence.
The crowd freezes with alarming speed, heads turning wildly to identify the source of the gunshot. One thing’s clear, it was aimed at Aleksandr.
His opponent’s shoulder is gushing blood.
Pop.
Yelling starts, some in Russian, some in other languages.
The next bullet skims off the concrete floor before ricocheting against the metal walls.
Pop.
I don’t see where this one goes. Panic has me frozen to the spot. In the next moment, it seems that everyone else has drawn a gun or thrown themselves to the ground, leaving me an obvious target, standing in the same spot. Staring at Aleksandr.
My eyes meet a vortex of furious midnight blue.
With a thud, a heavy weight hurtles towards me and knocks me to the concrete ground. I gasp in a breath and I’m surprised to find that I’m not injured. No bullets, no stab wounds. Instead a voice hisses three rough Russian words in my ear.
“Stay down, idiot.”
It’s Aleksandr. He’s breathing hard. There are more gunshots, but all I can focus on is the heat of him next to me and the clean, strong smell of his sweat. His arm is wrapped around my waist, his hand splayed against my stomach. I’m shaking, but it’s not from fear.
I can barely pay attention to the gunshot happening above us with Aleksandr just an inch to my right.
He’s so close that I can feel his chest rising and falling against me with every breath.
He’s pulls me closer to his side, his hand is wrapped in the fabric of the hooded jacket I took from his wardrobe.
My lungs feel tight, my pulse racing, and it’s not from fear.
When the noise subsides, I pop my head up, but a rough hand on the back of my head pushes me down to the ground again.
“Ow,” I say on instinct.
“Shut the fuck up,” he hisses in Russian, pressing a hand over my mouth.
I hear another bullet behind us and begrudgingly admit that Aleksandr was right.
I guess he knows more about how to behave in a shoot-out than I do.
Still, with his body protectively curled over mine, no part of me feels unsafe.
In fact, I’d comfortably stay lying on this floor with Aleksandr all night.
It’s only when a familiar voice behind us says that everything’s clear that he rolls away from me, releasing my waist and getting to his feet. He offers me a hand up, then unzips my jacket, his hands pushing my t-shirt up to bare my stomach before releasing the hem again.
“W-what are you doing?”
He takes my arm and pulls it towards him, rolling it gently to look at every part of me.
“Checking for injuries.”
He makes a face when he looks at my forearms and knees. “You’re going to have bruises. Sorry.”
I don’t even know how to respond to that. Aleksandr Zhukov saved my life and he’s apologizing that my elbows might be sore tomorrow. He’s surprisingly tender as he checks me for injuries.
When he pulls my hood up and tucked my hair down the back of my neck, but not before glancing disapprovingly at the latex pants. I guess he’s decided to leave my fashion choices alone, because he doesn’t comment.
“Leks,” Yuri’s voice sounds from behind us. “It’s over. Did they get you?”
“Almost.” I think of the bullet which lodged in his opponent’s shoulder, exploding in a gush of blood, and start to feel dizzy.
“Yeah, Merc is getting that wound treated. Lot of blood, even for a fight night.”
It’s only when I turn away from Aleksandr to face Yuri that I realize that the floor of the warehouse is covered in bullets. There was a shoot-out here, and I barely noticed because I was so overwhelmed by Aleksandr’s presence. Chaos had broken out around us, but I had felt safe with him.
Yuri notices me under the hood of the jacket and narrows his eyes. “Hello darlin’. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
A muscle ticks in Aleksandr’s jaw and he snakes an arm around my waist again. “Haven’t you heard about Natalia’s enthusiasm for fighting?”
His voice is dry and sarcastic and Yuri gives a chuckle. I don’t understand how they can be so calm about the fact that Aleksandr just almost died.
Yuri nods his head at me. “Eventful night thanks to y—”
“Did you clean everything up?” Aleksandr cuts him off.
“Six, this time. They’re in the interrogation cells.”
I have no idea what’s going on, but this sounds serious. Yuri gives Aleksandr a meaningful look as though there’s something he’s not saying in front of me.
Aleksandr nods his head, receiving whatever secret message Yuri just sent him with that look. “So they’re escalating.”
“I can go home. If you have other stuff to do,” I suggest. “This sounds important.”
The second the words leave my mouth, he pulls me towards the door. “I think the fuck not,” he growls. “Yuri has got this under control.”
Aleksandr doesn’t speak to me as we walk home.
I can still smell him all over me now. He sticks as close to my side, his arm tightening around my waist whenever we walk past someone. It’s the only sign that he’s rattled by what happened. I’ve never seen him look anxious, not even a little bit.
I fire questions at him, but he just shakes his head, his jaw tense.
“What was that?”
“Who was shooting you?”
“Has that happened before?”
“Are we in danger now?”
Finally, when we step inside the loft, he spins around to face me. He traps me against the closed door, his eyes cool and dark. His hands rest on either side of me, his muscled, inked arms surrounding me like a cage, and I’m suddenly aware of how shirtless he is.
“That was one of your father’s assassination attempts, Natalia.”
I am speechless.
Aleksandr nods, not pulling his gaze away from me.
“Maybe I should tell him his precious daughter was almost caught in the crossfire.” He’s not really speaking to me, but saying his thoughts out loud.
One of his hands pulls down my hood and tugs out my hair tie. “Might make him think twice next time.”
My father is trying to have him killed.
That’s his plan to get me out of this marriage.
I didn’t expect it to be so… violent. I’ve never heard of my father ordering a hit on someone.
My throat feels like it’s closing up.
“One of?” I choke out.
Aleksandr is impossibly calm as he nods his agreement, running his tongue over his teeth.
“The twentieth. We’ve detected one each day since the wedding.”
“Doesn’t that… Doesn’t that breach your deal? Somehow?”
He shakes his head, his lips curving up. His lower lip is busted from fighting, but it doesn’t make him any less handsome. Something sizzles in my stomach as he smiles darkly, twisting a strand of my hair before returning his hand to flatten against the door.
“I’ll be doing the same thing to him soon enough.”
My stomach drops. I’m realizing that I’ve been dragged into the middle of a Bratva war with no choice and no understanding of the stakes.
On one side, my father’s hatred of the man who killed his sons. On the other side, Aleksandr’s supposed side of the story. He still hasn’t told me what happened from his perspective and I’m starting to doubt if it even exists.
“You’ve made a deal. Why do you still have to kill each other?” My voice trembles.
Aleksandr lets a laugh out of his nose. “That’s cute, zolotse. The truth is, whatever we’ve agreed, neither of us will be satisfied without the other’s head on a golden platter. The deal is a temporary arrangement.”
I understand our wedding night better now.
This has never been about me. Even if it would insult my father to touch me, Aleksandr doesn’t want to stoop that low. In some ways, he’s a better man than I thought, even if the fact that this marriage will never be real does feel oddly disappointing.
“I’ll tell him to be more careful,” I murmur, my chest feeling empty.
I don’t like either possibility for where this rivalry between Aleksandr and my father will go.
The listening devices that I’ve been planting every day to help my father…the traitorous flutter in my core whenever Aleksandr comes close to me.
This war is going to tear me in half.
Aleksandr laughs at that, but his eyes go cold. “Don’t think I don’t know that you want me dead, princess.”
I press my lips together. I should want Aleksandr dead, but there’s something unbearable about the idea.
As he walks away from me, he throws a comment over his shoulder.
“Don’t come to fight night in latex pants again.”