Page 89 of Fight for You
BEVERLY HILLS
Mr. R
I liftedthe triple shot of vodka to my lips and drank my family’s legacy. Picked up the bottle of Resnov Water, pouring another. I glanced over my shoulder from my $17,000 couch to where my brother had the soldier tied beneath the wrought iron staircase. This wasn’t like the basements of my past where I got my knuckles dirty from poundinghuman-punching bags.
This was a family basement. Plush pile carpets. Air hockey. A theater room sat farther in the basement. A bowling alley, on account that Cutie Pie had lost all her hair a few years ago. Tired of radiation treatments, she’d wanted to bowl.
She’d only used the room twice. Twice. What a waste of money. Between her and Vassili Junior, they would bleed me dry. If … I wasn’t so rich. Truth? I’d do it again. I’d have taken Natasha’s cancer in my body and beat?—
From my left, the sound of knuckles hitting flesh made my lip curl.
“Calm down, Sim,” I ordered. “I told my daughter I’d give the Marine a chance to speak for himself.”
An uppercut proceeded my brother Simeon’s growl. “I didn’t.”
I laughed. “You know what? The second the girl he took awakens, Cutie Pie will bring her down for reckoning. If Jordyn sees him spitting up blood, I’m not gonna hold my baby back from you. You won’t either.”
My brother didn’t say another word. He’d gone soft too. Where it counted. Family. The Resnov Bratva. He’d dismantled all the Resnov Castles he’d once owned before marrying Anastasiya. The evil in him, too.
Simeon slunk over and took my bottle off the glossy coffee table where I rested my feet. He choked the neck, swigging down the vodka.
I kicked him.
He firmed his hands, the flesh underneath pink from a few minutes with that big Scot. Kid could’ve gone the Ultimate Fighting Championship route like me. It was better for me to hunger for UFC belts since I never wanted to take over for that piece of … my father.Anatoly is dead. I no longer hated him, so no need to piss on his name.
Anyway, this dude could’ve made a real life for himself. A real, good, clean life for himself.Nyet. He claimed women. Stole them.
“Just admit it, Vassili,”—Simeon pointed a finger at me—“the only person you fear more than your wife is that little girl upstairs.”
I took on Natasha’s condescending tone, which she slung in my direction way too many times. “ ‘Ugh, Uncle Sim, I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m eighteen—nineteen. Uh, twenty.’ ” I grimaced with a laugh, realizing how old she was.Maybe I did baby her too much?
“Twenty.” Natasha slowly walked down the west side of the basement steps, farther away. The girl we saved at her side.
Ugh. This basement had too many entry points. “I know, Cutie Pie.”
“Don’t call me that anymore, either. I’m too old for it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I rolled my eyes.
“Where’s Jamie?” Her friend gazed around the room.
They were facing the left side of the basement—toward our captive. Why the trick question?
Simeon turned around and expired a breathy “Oh?”
My glare slid to the left. The wire swung slightly from underneath the top of the staircase. Jamie MacKenzie no longer swung from it. The soldier had vanished.
“I think we have a problem.” I removed the gold-plated custom MP-443 Grach from the back of my suit pocket.
“A very big problem,” Simeon agreed.
“Wait,” the girl croaked.
I gave her a look—Who are you? Of course, I knew who she was. Natasha had begged us to save her after seeing her on television. I had my enforcers on the job, and just for kicks, Simeon and I got them once a goon found them at a restaurant in Lakewood. Paid the server to give them laced mimosas too.
But did Jordyn know whoshewas? Many assault victims weren’t right in the head. Maybe all the hits.Should I hold it against her? Nyet. I’d had numerous concussions when tight-fisting my heavyweight UFC belt. And I was wearing my favorite Vicuña today. So, no need to get my hands dirty or my suit.Be honest with yourself, Vassili. You’re a forty—okay, maybe a forty-something Russian bull, and this dude’s half your age.
Nyet. I didn’t need to be honest with myself because I still received requests to enter the octagon on occasion. Okay, that wasn’t honesty. That was pride.
