Raze & Reap (6 page)

My silence encouraged him to step forward, sizing me up. “You Russian?”

His question caught me off guard. I didn't fucking know. My number was 818. I was raised in the Gulag. I was trained to kill. I had slaughtered over six hundred opponents. This was all there was to me. No history, no name, no family.

Just numbness.

The guy said something to me, only this time it was in another language. “I said are you fucking Russian?”

He'd spoken a different language than the guards, but somehow I understood it. He was speaking Russian? How the fuck did I know Russian?

Without thinking, I replied yes in the same language, and the guy's face lit up.

“You haven't got a sponsor, which means you'd be a buy-in.”

“What have I got to do?” I asked, the strange language pouring from my lips. My body tensed with the fact that I might get a way into this hellhole, this fucking heaven on Earth to me.

“You need to pay. That's the only way in. We got a trainer that's just lost a fighter, but it's going to cost you.”

“How much?” I asked. Yiv jerked his thumb at the guy who handed me a slip of paper with a number written down.

As Yiv was walking away, he shouted, “You get that cash, you're in. Training has already started for the rest of the men. The Dungeon begins in two weeks. It's a three night ultimate battle to the death. The survivors fight in the final. You win, you win big. You have until then to get it together.”

The Dungeon.

Two weeks.

Revenge.

Alik Durov.

Kill.

I was going to do anything to get that cash.

Slamming the doors open, I fisted the paper in my hands, secured it in my pocket, and tried to think of what to do next. Then I saw a bunch of men sleeping on the street, hats out in front of them, begging money from passersby.

In a split second, I headed in that direction, grabbing a candle jar off some house's tree. Tipping the candle to the ground, leaving it in my wake, I found a spot on the street, sat down, pulled my hood farther over my head, and placed my jar on the ground.

Two weeks.

I had two weeks to get the cash.

And I'd do anything to get in that cage and slice open Durov's chest.

 

5

KISA

“Are you okay, miss?” Serge asked as he drove me through the awakening streets of Brooklyn toward the docks.

I pulled my gaze from outside the window and nodded my head, offering Serge an appeasing smile.

“It's just a hard day. That's all.”

Serge's expression turned sympathetic in the rearview mirror. “Luka Tolstoi's birthday,” he said, and I momentarily lost my breath just hearing those words out loud.

I stared down at my fidgeting fingers and nodded my head. It always pained me to think of Luka. Twenty-six years ago, the three Bratva bosses were all married and each had a son. Luka was born first, then Alik only a few months later. My brother Rodion and I followed a year later—we were twins. And finally, a year after that, Talia was born, Luka's sister.

We all grew up together, the heirs of the New York Russian underground. We played together, spent days together in school, or hid together in secret when a threat to our
mafiya
was made by a rival. It was during these years that I became obsessed with Luka Tolstoi. He, my brother Rodion, and Alik were tight, the three male heirs to the Bratva rule. Rodion was destined to lead, Alik was second to him and Luka the third and final heir.

Luka and I shared something special. From toddlers, we were best friends. Then as the years passed, I knew I had fallen in love with him. I may have only been a child, but I loved him completely. Heart-crushing love.

Mama always said the stars aligned when we were born, that God made us a match. From the first time we saw each other, Luka took me in his arms and swore his protection over me to my mother. Mama used to say she caught him staring into my crib only hours after I was born. Then when she asked what he was doing, he asked her if he could have me. My mama joked and told him it would be my choice when I was old enough to crawl, and from the minute I
was
old enough to crawl, my mama told me I only ever crawled to one boy … Luka Tolstoi.

I'd agreed to let him have me. After all, God had created us to match.

Luka had a kind smile and the most beautiful dark-brown eyes. But it was Luka's upper left iris smudged with a small splash of blue that made our mothers think we were destined to be. Mama said God placed a piece of my eye within his so we would always know we shared one soul. Luka was my protector. I adored the way he always held me close, making me feel safe, especially from Alik.

Alik was jealous that Luka had my heart.

When the three boys became teenagers, it all went to shit. In one fateful night, I lost Rodion and my Luka, leaving Alik the sole heir. That was when he immediately staked his claim on me.

Still now, at twenty-five, I missed Luka as if he'd just died yesterday. The pain was still as raw as the day I'd been told he was gone forever. A part of me just never believed that he did what he was accused of. I just couldn't think him responsible for killing my brother.

“Keep your head up, miss, and the day will pass by just like any other,” Serge said sagely. Laying my head against the leather, I closed my eyes.

I was sick of so much loss … so much death.

Ten minutes later, after a silent journey, I entered the gym, my black-skirted business suit firmly in place, and headed to my office. I passed by the busy room of shirtless men training, punching bags, and lifting weights. I searched the room. A certain pair of light-blue possessive eyes locked onto mine and a slow, determined smile curled on a familiar set of lips.

Yiv, Alik's trainer, was pushing him hard at a renegade, his every muscle in his tight, packed body straining with the technique. Throwing the fifty-pound dumbbells to the ground, the thud echoing around the gym, pulling fighters from their programs, Alik's eyes flared with need and he thundered toward me—no
, stalked
toward me until I'd backed up into my office. Dropping the fighters' personal files on the table, Alik stormed into the office, slamming the door and closed the blinds.

“Myshka,” Alik growled in a graveled, craving voice as his hungry gaze ate me up. His flushed skin glistened with the sweat from the intensity of his workout, his thigh muscles protruding under his shorts. “Fucking missed you last night, Myshka. Don't like sleeping alone.”

My stomach churned with apprehension. I was always fearful of Alik when he was in one of
these
moods. He was always possessive, that was just how he was, but pumped by the workout's fueling of his inner violence and his veins filled with The Dungeon's fighters' daily cocktail of creatine, protein shakes, and testosterone pills, Alik wanted to fuck me, own me … and do so as rough and as hard as possible.

Alik's huge frame moved forward and cowed me. His hand reached out and in a second, he'd ripped the buttons from my jacket and hitched up my skirt, my ass now balanced on the lip of the table.

“Why do you look so sad, Myshka?” Alik asked coldly as my hands began to shake. Every year. Every year on this day I would endure one of his “hard fucks.” He knew I was sad that it was Luka's birthday, and the jealous rage rooted in every fiber of his being always manifested on
this
day.

“Alik, baby. Please. I'm not sad.” I tried to soothe, but I felt his cock harden and rub up against my pussy.

Alik's fingers dipped into my panties and began circling my clit as his other hand yanked off my bra, his mouth immediately sucking on my breast, only removing it to hiss, “You're a fucking liar. You're thinking of that murdering cunt.” His lip curled in disgust and he bit into my breast, causing me to cry out in pain. He smiled and said, “Don't worry. I'll fuck the sadness out of you. I'll remind you who you belong to.”

He became this aggressive whenever we'd been apart, even if it was only for several hours, but on
this
day, I had to lie back and take whatever punishment he deemed fit.

Alik's teeth again bit on my nipple. Then he wrenched his mouth away. “I go insane when you're not near me, when I'm not all you're thinking of. I go insane wondering what you're doing, which fucker is watching you, picturing your pussy, him fucking this sweet cunt.”

Alik rammed his fingers into my channel, causing me to throw my head back and release a long strangled moan. His hard cock was suddenly free from his shorts. Taking my wrists, he pushed me flat on the table and slammed inside me with a guttural groan. He began pounding into me, teeth bared in pleasure, eyes burning with aggression.

Lifting his left hand while strumming my clit with his other, he grabbed my face and hovered above me. “You didn't call me last night, Myshka. You fucked up. Did some fucker look at you last night? Did you talk to anyone? I couldn't stop thinking about you out on the streets last night, men getting hard for what's mine. You forgetting you got a man at home, a man that owns every fit piece of this body?”

My heart flipped as I pictured the man who had defended me. The large homeless man clutching a jar, the man I had dreamed about last night, the one I couldn't get out of my head. The man I'd fallen asleep thinking of … forgetting to call Alik in the process—a grave mistake on my part.

Alik's gaze hardened and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. He could sense my lie. He knew, but no, how could he know? I had to reassure him, to assuage his concerns. Had to make him think it was all about him. Just him and me … no Luka and definitely no hooded rescuer.

“No, baby,” I whispered, my eyes rolling back as pressure from my approaching orgasm built between my legs. “Only you. Only ever you. I belong to you. You'll have me forever soon.” My voice was frantic as I begged, strived to think of anything that would calm his jealous rage.

A crazed but satisfied hiss slipped through his lips, his thrusts picking up speed. “I own you, Kisa. There'll never be anyone else for you but me. I fucking own these tits.” He squeezed on the plump flesh, ripping a cry from my throat. “I own this ass.” He continued as he slipped his hand under my ass and pushed his finger inside. I gripped his shoulders and dug my fingernails in deep at the unwanted sensation. Alik suddenly stilled and squeezed his hand tighter on my cheeks until the pain made tears well from my eyes. “And this cunt, this tight, wet cunt … Who owns it, Myshka? Who. Owns. It?”

I stilled, all actions suspended by this threat-laden question. Alik's dick lay in wait at my entrance. His fingers built an almost unbearable pressure on my jaw, his unwavering stare boring, until I said, “You, Alik. You own it.”

His stern expression softened, allowing the softer Alik a brief moment of play before he slammed into my pussy, his finger searching my clit, unrelenting in its movement. My legs stiffened, my back arched, and I came, my channel choking Alik's cock. I hated that he knew how to make my body react to his touch. I didn't want such pleasure when he was like this, but I knew fighting the inevitable was pointless.

Alik's thrusts became furious and he gripped my thighs so tightly that it would definitely leave a bruise. “Fuck, Myshka … FUCK!” he called out and spilled into me. His eyes were crazed with possession … with inert possession.

Alik pressed a consuming kiss to my quivering lips, then abruptly pulled out of me, righting his training shorts as if nothing had happened.

“Get dressed. Our fathers will be here soon,” Alik ordered coldly. Panicking, I jumped from the table, pulled on my skirt, and fastened my shirt just as a loud double knock sounded on the door.

My father. I knew that distinctive double knock.

Alik smirked and dropped down to casually drape onto a chair as I flustered, straightening my long brown hair. A couple of seconds later, the door opened and my father walked through, followed by Abram Durov—Alik's father. Ivan Tolstoi—Talia and Luka's father—came through last. He was the quietest out of the group, kept to himself. I always thought it was because of the shame he carried over Luka. For his son to kill the Pakhan's son, then for him to die too, was like a sentence in itself. Ivan was the finance man, the one who handled the mob's money. He had little to do with The Dungeon. He handled the books from his home office along with Talia, attended the matches through duty. But he rarely came to the gym, never really took an interest in the fighters. In fact, I was surprised he had even showed today.

Alik stood and greeted each of the infamous Bratva bosses with a triple kiss. Then my father's—Kirill “The Silencer” Volkov—gaze fell on me and a wide smile spread on his lips.

“Kisa!” he greeted. Smiling at the happy face of my father, I walked around the table and he pulled me to his chest.

“Papa,” I greeted in reply, then moved to greet Abram and finally Ivan, whose hug always squeezed me just that little bit too hard and lasted just that second too long. I had always loved Ivan like a father. He was a kind man, the conscience, the calm of the Red bosses; Luka had been just the same in nature.

But Abram, no, there was always something off about the man. He brought violence to the Bratva. He forgave no one; he ensured dirty deeds got done. Alik was pissed most of the time due to his inability to do anything right to please his father. We were all aware that Alik's anger came from the violence meted out by Abram to Alik from when he was a kid.

“Please, sit, papas,” I said, gesturing to the chairs. All of the Bratva—my family—took their seats as I moved behind my desk to take mine. Alik pulled his chair next to me.

“So,” my father said as he turned to me, “how are we looking for this season?”

Alik smirked. He ran his hand up my back to rest his grip on the back of my neck. It was a possessive move, a move to assert his dominance, all to show his worth to the Bratva.