Page 78 of Vitaly

I pull the photo of Mila and Nikita from my back pocket, getting to the point. “Tell me,” I start, handing over the photo to him. “Did you get me released early too? Because I still had two years, eight months, and sixteen days left of my sentence when they spontaneously let me go.”

Alik’s eyes narrow as he studies the photo, then the writing on the back. He studies it so closely, it winds my chest. He studies it like someone who has never seen it.

“When did you get this?” he asks.

I look off, allowing myself a moment for the disappointment to weigh heavily inside of me. Mila tried to tell me it wasn’t Alik. I knew it was possible. Still, I hadhoped…

“A week before I was released.”

Alik looks in the distance as he searches his mind then looks carefully at the handwriting only a moment before I snatch the photo back and put it in my pocket. Once again, my old best friend is the enemy.

His eyes narrow. “Did you really think I would lure you back here with a whore I knew you never wanted?”

“Don’t call her that.”

Alik’s canines flash as he laughs. “You coming back was anightmarefor me. If I thought I could’ve stood to see your spoiled fucking face before, I would’ve gone to Russia to kill you myself. And now I wish I had.”

He’s a grown man standing before me, but his words are one of a child. The equivalent of a teenager screaming that they hate their parents. If he wanted to kill me, he’s had plenty of chances.

Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he has bigger things planned, more pain.

Either way, his words piss me off.

Spoiled.

I am getting sick of people calling me that.

“I bet you’re a big man here, Alik,” I say in a mocking tone. “A real assassin. But you areadorablebelieving you could kill me.”

Alik laughs, bending to hike up the cuff of his pants to reveal a knife sheath. He slides the blade out before tossing it behind him, making it clatter on his kitchen floor.

“Two hands,” he says, showing me his palms. “That’s all I need.” He tips his head to the side. “Probably one.”

“One hand, wow.” I nod, my brows raised like I’m impressed. Like I haven’t been sleeping with one eye open for the last decade. “All right… Well, I don’t have any weapons to dramatically toss to the side, but let’s do it.” I raise my arms at my sides in a ‘come and get it’ gesture. “Give it your best shot.”

He turns his head to the side and lets out a little laugh, like this school-yard beef is ridiculous, and if I didn’t feel the intensity he brings to the room, I might believe it. But when he snaps toward me, fist-raised, I’m not remotely surprised.

I jerk my head to the side and pull my knee up, connecting with his gut, then send an uppercut to his jaw. He stumbles backward while I lift my fists, bending my knees into a fighting stance while I wait for him to recover.

He touches his jaw while shooting daggers with his eyes, but when he drops his hand, he lunges again, this time with much less predictability.

I dodge his first two swings and land a blow to his kidneys, but he manages to land a punch to my diaphragm and follow it up with an elbow up my jaw. The wind sweeps from my lungs, my body instinctually pausing, and I barely move in time to avoid the punch to my face.

I grab behind his neck and knee his gut three times before he forces me off with a shove that propels us both to the floor. Our bodies thump against a side table and knocks over a lamp that shatters on the hardwood while we race to see who can gain the upper hand first.

He’s fast and scrappy, but I have more muscle and am able to hold his arm back while I ram my fist into his nose, painting my knuckles with his blood. He responds by slamming his skull against mine. White light flashes, but when he goes to get on top of me, I roll us, pinning him to the floor with a hard thud as my hands wrap around his neck.

My breathing is heavy and wild while his stops altogether, but he isn’t done fighting. His thumb finds my eye socket, despite my efforts to pull away, and I growl as he digs hard enough that my hands release his neck.

He punches my throat, once again stopping my lungs and shoves me off, but I still don’t let him get the upper hand by climbing on top of me. Once someone is on top and they start punching, it can be over. There’s little you can do.

I would never do that to Alik. I don’t hold that kind of anger inside me.

I can’t say the same for him.

When he goes to land a blow to my face, I jerk to the side and let his knuckles connect with the floor. He groans while I take his arm and flip us to put him in a hold that strains his shoulder socket. If I move it any farther back, it’ll dislocate.

He struggles and grunts with frustration as he tries to break free from my hold, but this time, it’s useless. He’s on his stomach, I’m over his back, out of sight, my vulnerabilities out of reach. I’ve got him.

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