Page 9 of Dance of Devils
But he recoversinstantly, and this time, it’s me who groans when he swings at my now-unprotected midsection.
Fuck.
The wind slams out of my lungs as the motherfucker pounds me in the upper abs, just below my rib cage.
Common sense would dictate thatnowmight be a good time to call this. After all, masks or not, I’m fairly sure—based on his ability, the liquor on his breath, and the massive horned bull tattoo on his chest—who my opponent in the underground ring is tonight.
All the more reason to call it quits.
Roman Nikitin has a few inches and about twenty pounds of solid muscle on me. Not to mention, he’s about fifteen years younger. I’m starting to get fatigued from all the punches, meanwhile this guy is just getting warmed up.
Besides, I don’t really give a shit about any of this.
Not about the bets still being placed by the screaming crowd around us. I’ve got money riding on this fight, too, because why not. But at this point in my life, I could care less about that part.
I’ve got more money than I could spend in ten lifetimes. I could lose afortuneon this fight and not even notice.
Same goes for the “glory”. I’m no stranger to the whisperings of one’s ego when it comes to combat. I’ve been fighting since I was literally a child. The streets of Moscow taught me that pride and honor are things you’re not allowed to lose, even if you don’t win. Then, later, six years in Zavolzhsky Penal Camp Eighteen in Siberia taught me that winning iseverything, because to lose is to die.
Both are a bit different from the refereed, gloved, “fight only until a tap-out” ring I’m currently in. But still—when you’re ready to give in, you dig deeper to find fear or hatred…any emotion you can forge into anger, which in turn fuels the fury.
Today it doesn’t take much digging.
All I have to do is think of Dimitri.
Do we have a deal, Mr. Nikolayev?
Even if my knuckles weren’t currently throbbing, my hand would still feel the sting of the handshake from earlier today, cementing thatdeal.
Ostensibly, my new agreement with Dimitri Moskovic is a mutually beneficial one. After something like four decades of conflict between our families, Dimitri and I have finally come to a ceasefire agreement, with, quite honestly, completely reasonable terms.
No more rivalry. No more violence. No more continuing the stupid fight that our fathers started long before either of us was running our respective empires. Hell, before they could even becalled“empires”.
There’s just one problem.
My lips curl as I suck in a ragged breath of air. Sweat trickles down my bare chest. I hear the jeers and roars of the men around us. Feel the muscles and tendons of my arm and shoulder contract as I turn the anger in me into fury and fuel.
Roman—well, probably Roman—grunts when I explode into him, my right cross slamming into his jaw and almost knocking the fucker off his feet.
The problem with this perfectly reasonable agreement between Dimitri and me?
It’sme. And I am not, most of the time, a reasonableman.
I don’t want anequitableresolution. I want conquest. Victory. I want towin.
A lion doesn’t have any interest in making anarrangementwith a wild boar for future food deliveries on a schedule. It wants to tear that fucking pig in half and bathe in its blood so that the whole jungle remembers who is king.
I don’t care that this deal basically boils down to Dimitri staying out of the U.S., me staying out of Russia, and me using myconnections to help his daughter, Inessa, get into the ultra-eliteBallet Imperiya Korona.
It’s not like anyone’s cutting any big checks, or giving up important territory. I barely visit my country of birth anymore, and the business I conduct there is inconsequential. The same goes for whatever small pies Dimitri has his fingers in here in New York.
So why the actualfuckdo I feel cheated? Like the lion being forced to make a handshake deal with his dinner?
Roman…or whoever…shakes off my hit, rolling his neck with his teeth bared and his fists up. But just then, we’re saved by the proverbial bell.
DING-DING-DING!
That’s five rounds, which is the limit imposed on tonight’s fights. There are other fights that these promotors throw whichdo nothave limits of any kind, but that’s not really my scene. I preferliving, personally.
