Viktor’s eyes narrowed. “Your name?”
I stared blankly at the floor. “I have no name.”
Yiv backed away to the exit door and I could hear his fucking condescending laugh. “You have a week and half of training until the contest. You report here every morning and don’t leave until we say you can. You signed up for this. We now own you. You belong to The Dungeon. You leave, we kill you. You talk of this place, we kill you.”
“Understood,” I replied.
Yiv laughed again and looked at Viktor, then at me. “He’s never had a fighter make it past round one.”
Zipping open my sweatshirt, keeping my eyes down low, I saw Yiv’s smile drop from my peripheral vision as he drank in my ripped, scarred, and tattooed body.
“He’s never had a fighter like me before. I bring death.”
Yiv, for a brief moment, looked worried, then immediately walked out the door. Hearing Viktor snort behind me, I swerved, fisted his shirt, and rammed him against the wall. His face reddened as he tried to say something.
“What—”
“You listen to me and you listen good. I don’t fucking need you. I’ll win this alone. I’ll kill Durov alone.”
Viktor’s eyes suddenly lit up. “You want Durov?”
“It’s the only reason I’m here,” I growled.
Viktor tried to smile but I dropped him to the floor. Reaching into my sweatshirt pockets, I pulled out my knuckledusters and pushed them on my fingers; I immediately calmed. These weapons were a part of me.
Viktor rolled to his feet, his eyes huge as he stared at my chest, the color draining from his cheeks. “Wh-what did you s-say your n-name was?” he stuttered. Shrugging off my sweatshirt, I kept my eyes down and spotted a shelf filled with supplies. Walking across the room, I picked up the jar named ‘Eye Black’, dipped my fingers into the grease and smeared the black under my eyes.
Stretching out my arms, feeling the familiar exercises loosening my limbs, I repeated, “I have no name.”
“No name? What has anyone ever called you?” Viktor asked from behind me.
818, I thought, but I dared not say the number out loud. Catching my reflection in mirrors lined against the wall, I saw the tattoo forcibly etched on my back by the guards. Dropping to the floor, I started with a few reps of push-ups.
When Viktor’s feet came into view, I paused briefly to say, “Raze. The only name I’ve ever been called is Raze. Because I’d raze any fucker that got in my way.”
Chapter Nine
Kisa
“Have you paid off the Feds? Are the high rollers on board for all three nights?” I asked Talia through my cell as I got out of the backseat of the car and headed inside the training gym to my office.
“Yes and yes. Everything’s arranged.” She bristled. Talia was efficient and equally as competent as me at arranging fight nights. “We’re still a fighter down. How are we doing with that?”
I pinched my nose as I slumped behind my desk. “I’m on it today. Yiv mentioned a buy-in, some mysterious big psycho who came in showing an interest, so I’m going to try and follow up on that.”
Talia helped Ivan with the finances, the sponsors and the men that chased up any outstanding debts. She never attended the fights. After losing her brother years ago, she couldn’t bear to be around violence and death.
“Good,” Talia said in relief. “Now that’s all done with, how are you feeling after the other night? You seemed quiet last night at church, too quiet I thought.”
My stomach tightened at her words and I sighed, tracing the knots of wood on my desktop with my fingertip. “I’m fine, Talia. You know why I was quiet. You were too. That date… it’s too hard….” I paused, then added, “I feel like my heart breaks more and more each year. People say that time heals, but it’s bull. Time just makes me miss him more, and that ache in my stomach that’s been here for years just grows stronger.”
Talia’s heavy sigh echoed on the phone. “I know. I hate that day every year. Mama never stops crying and Papa never helps; he hides away in his office. It’s always such a fucking mess, and they all look to me to fix it somehow, like I can change what he did. Like I can bring him back from the dead.”
“Yeah,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
Only silence from the other end of the phone came through.
“You okay, Tal?” I asked.
I could have sworn I heard a sniff, a slip of emotion from my normally ice-cold friend, but Talia’s brightened voice soon came through the line. “Always okay, Kisa, always. You know me. I have thick Russian skin. So,” she said, shifting the conversation, as if those words had never been spoken between us. “Seen any more of your homeless defender? I know you went with Father Kruschev again last night.” Talia’s voice was hushed, like she was hiding our discussion from anyone who might be listening.