Page 7 of City Of Thieves
It’s been a forced hiatus for not playing by Bratva rules.
Popping the blade on a pocketknife, he slices into the apple. “You are overdressed.”
The sound of his stilted accent is like sharp nails down a dusty chalkboard. I have to fight to even my tone.
“Not here to fight.”
“Sex club is upstairs.” He chuckles, shoving a wedge of fruit into his mouth.
“Not here to fuck either,” I add coolly.
“Then get out.”
His attitude is shitty but not unwarranted. After all, my last visit cost him a lot of prize money, not to mention a finger.
I’d been following a string of dead ends until the morning of Nero’s funeral when I got word of movement by thestronzowho set me up. I’d chased that Russian bastard toYamawhere the coward barricaded himself inside The Pit’sBratva-steeled walls. In a whiskey-fueled rage, I’d attempted to shoot my way in, firing three bullets into the door and two into Belov’s best men.
It was an act punishable by death, for any other, but as The Pit’s major source of income, I got off lightly, with a three-month suspension and a warning to take my vengeance elsewhere.
Unfortunately, for Vasily Belov, all roads to my brother’s killer stop atYama’sbasement door.
“I just want what I’m owed.”
“You are owed nothing but a bullet between yourglazami!” he hisses, tapping the tip of the knife between his blond eyebrows. “Just like yourpizdabrother.”
“Watch your fucking tongue,” I warn, my gaze dropping to the knife in his hand. “I’ve cut out many more for far less.”
Vasily’s eyes narrow, a heavy silence stretching between us before he flashes a dark smile. “I am not an unreasonable man, Marchesi,” he states, pocketing his knife, “but Iama businessman.”
No shit.I didn’t walk in here believing one demand would punch a hole in the Bratva’s inner circle. Especially since the missing piece in this fucked-up puzzle happens to be Vasily’s older brother, Oleg. He’s not going to simply hand hishead over to me on a silver platter.
I nod. “Name your price for your brother’s location.”
“How long do you give this match?” He nods toward the cage where some poor asshole is staggering around like he’s following the bouncing ball to the afterlife.
“Two minutes, max,” I answer without hesitation. “Your boy in green took too many throat punches after a roundhouse kick to the chest. One rear chokehold and it’s permanent lights out.” I survey the sets of packed steel bleachers, where shouting spectators are stacked like a bloodthirsty house of cards. “Which, from what I can tell, will go over like a whore in church.”
Scowling, Vasily hitches his arm back, sending the apple sailing from his hand into the concrete wall beside us. “Thatmudakwas supposed to win, not get beaten like a dog.”
He’s practically foaming at the mouth about it, which tells me the pulverized dickhead in the cage has a king’s ransom riding on him.
“It’s no wonder the crowd is about to revolt. They thought they’d bet on a sure thing.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize where this is going.
“The next fight is too evenly matched,” the Russian notes, his gaze shifting toward the increasingly irate mob. “It could go either way. If those who lose big on thatmudakalso lose on fifty-fifty shot”—he waves a dismissive hand—“more than one body to clean.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “So, what do you want me to do about it? Play cage-side referee?”
“Nyet. Fight.” He gestures toward the stands again, his expression turning feral. “If I take one man out of the next match and put the Widow Maker in, then my guests will empty their pockets.” He slides me another slow smile. “Walk away alive, and I will give you what you want.”
Fuck.
Seven years ago, I stepped inside that cage and in six days turned twelve white-clad brides into black-veiled widows, earning me the nicknameWidow Maker. From that moment on, my blood thirst became an unstoppable addiction, and I became Belov’s main attraction.
But I haven’t fought since Nero’s funeral. Not since the morning I held my own against four Bratvapatsansfor daring to spill Russian blood. When I finally showed up at the church, I lied about the cuts and bruises, but my father knew where I’d been. That same night, he made me swear on my brother’s grave that I wouldn’t fight again.
But sometimes you have to break a promise in order to keep an oath.
