Page 8 of City Of Thieves
A riotous roar draws my attention back toward the cage where, as expected, the bastard in the green shorts hits the mat, DOA.
“Switch the matchup.”
Belov scans my dark denim jeans and black T-shirt, then nods toward the locker room. “You have fifteen minutes. Go change.”
I slip out of my leather jacket. “Don’t need to.”
The Russian cocks an eyebrow. “You are giving your opponent an advantage.”
“Good. Then maybe it’ll be a fair fight.”
* * *
Most men would hesitatebefore entering a modern-day gladiatorial massacre. Not me. Murder is easy to commit when you see the man who sent your brother to his death in every opponent’s eyes.
Oleg Belov.
Vasily’s brother approached me one night after an exceptionally brutal fight. I’d heard he had his hands in some dirty pots, but when my sources found him clanging around in Nero’s backyard, I paid attention. He claimed to have a private buyer interested in one of Nero’s paintings.
Every lie he told checked out.
Now Nero’s dead, Oleg’s missing, and every finger in New Jersey is pointed at me.
The crowd’s primal chants become background noise as I deliver punch after punch to the bloodied man trapped between my fists and a metal wall. After a hard right hook, I step back, watching fear, then acceptance, flare in my prey’s eyes.
It’s useless blood on my hands, but unavoidable.
“Till the end, Nero,” I murmur, justifying my actions by solidifying my vow.
With one final punch, the sound of snapping cartilage and bone crushing fills my ears. Blood splatters across my face as my opponent hits the mat.
Somewhere amidst the raucous roar of the crowd, I hear a bell ring. Dragging the back of my hand across my mouth, I wipe the blood from my busted lip, then stagger to the door. A stone-faced Bratva guard unlocks it from the outside, swings it open, and nods as my bare feet hit the concrete.
Catching Vasily’s eye again, I close the distance between us.“Tell me where Oleg is hiding.”
Shaking his head, he turns, motioning me to follow him. I’m too fucking exhausted to argue, so I stagger behind him, blood dripping off my fingertips like a trail of red breadcrumbs. At the end of a darkened hallway, he unlocks a door to the right and waddles inside.
“Sit,” he instructs, settling behind an ugly mahogany desk while gesturing to the two chairs in front of it.
I clench my stained fists by my side. “No.”
Shrugging, he opens a drawer to his right and pulls out a stack of money and drops it on top of his desk. Then another stack… then another one. After the fourth transfer, he sits back like a proud king.
“What the fuck is that?”
“Your earnings.”
Circling one of the chairs, I gather one of the stacks in my hands, my blood staining the bills crimson before I’m hurling it back at him.
He slams his fist onto the desk. “You are being ungrateful.”
“I don’t want your fucking money,” I growl, navigating the desk like a hungry lion until I’m standing right in front of him. “I want your brother’s location…now.”
For once, the bastard isn’t smirking. His heated stare drills holes in me as he pulls a slip of paper from his desk and scribbles on it. “Here,” he mutters, shoving it toward my chest. “I have honored my word.”
I don’t dignify that with a response.
Glancing down, I scan the address.1499 Patterson Avenue.
