Raze & Reap (7 page)

“Good, Papa. All the trainers have fighters, except—”

“Who do you fucking think?” Alik interrupted me and laughed. Abram, Alik's father, smiled in response as Alik added, “The fucking Georgian Albatross! Lost another of his guys in the first warm-up fight. Fucker got his throat slit by Sav's man at the start of the first round. I'm telling you, the prick's cursed. Five seasons of first-round losses. No fucker will fight for him this year.”

“He must have a fighter,” Ivan said calmly. “The Dungeon must have all the scheduled fights. We have too much riding on this year for Viktor to fuck it up. Biggest income we've ever had. We're only getting bigger and bigger, which means better fighters, more fighters.”

“We'll work it out,” I said. Ivan and my papa gave me wide smiles. Papa leaned forward and patted my hand. “You have this place running like a well-oiled ship, Kisa. I know you'll get it done.”

A knock sounded on the door and Yiv, our head trainer, entered. Although Alik's personal trainer, he was responsible for all the new fighters who came through The Dungeon's door.

“Yiv, we were discussing the Albatross,” Abram said smugly. Yiv ran a tired hand down his face.

“Yeah. He already lost this year's man and his sponsor's pulled out. Fucking lot of money too,” Yiv explained.

“We got any replacement prospects?” Ivan asked, all business. The Dungeon, the Bratva's underground gambling ring, was their principle source of income. They had several sources, mainly drug running and arms dealing, but this place was the cash cow. There was too much at stake to mess up. The Dungeon ran all year round, low-level fighters, more dirty street fights than anything else, but for three nights each year, The Dungeon held its championship—it was three nights of nothing but death, money, and only one winner.

Yiv shook his head, then stopped and said, “We had a guy drop in this morning. Said he wanted to fight in the cage. Big fucker too. Russian. Seemed fucking insane.”

Papa turned his head to face Yiv. “How did he know we were here? Not an undercover Fed, is he?”

Yiv shrugged and paled slightly at my papa's pissed-off tone. “No idea. But that guy looked soulless, dead inside. My gut tells me he just wanted to kill some fucks for fun.”

“And?” Abram pushed. “Did you trial him or do we have to bring someone in from outside? We're running out of time.”

Yiv edged closer to the door. “Told him he'd have to buy in. He left, but I'm pretty sure he'll be back. Something in his dead voice told me he needed in that cage. Probably some serial killer who wants to shed blood without being locked away.”

“Like all us Dungeon fighters, you mean?” Alik joked, causing all the men in the room to laugh, well—all except Ivan. My blood ran cold. Alik was a straight-up killer; he wasn't lying. And if he didn't have this underground life as an outlet, I was pretty sure he would still need to kill. It was the part of him I feared most. The part of Alik that needed to take another person's life for him to keep sane.

Papa stood, as did Ivan and Abram. Papa turned to Alik. “You're needed tonight again. We got business with the Chinese. Need to smooth some shit out after you gutted one of their soldiers for staring wrong at my girl.”

All the blood drained from my face, and I turned to face Alik. “You killed someone for just
looking
at me?”

Alik shrugged as if he'd done nothing wrong. “Caught him watching you from across the street when we went to dinner. Remembered his face. When I saw him at the deal last week, decided I wanted to see his intestines on the ground at his feet.”

I closed my eyes and tried to breathe slowly through my nose, stopping the nausea climbing up my throat. When I opened them again, Alik was staring happily at his hand on the nape of my neck, not a care in the world.

“I'm busy tonight,” Alik said to my father, but I couldn't stop feeling sick.

Alik had zero remorse.

He had no sense of right and wrong, no moral compass or conscience. He terrified me at times.

My father's fist slammed down on the desk. “You
will
be there tonight. You
do not
disrespect the orders of your Pakhan! You may be a champion fighter, Alik, the most lethal one we've got, but cross me and I'll fucking gut you.”

Papa seldom showed anger. If he did, those at the receiving end didn't live to regret it. Alik was in a unique position. He was the only surviving heir of the Bratva. He
had
to keep breathing.

Alik tensed at my father's wrath. “I need to see Kisa tonight. I
need
it!”

My papa's eyes narrowed. The room fell silent. “You're coming, Alik. That's final.”

Alik's hand suddenly gripped my neck, and I almost whimpered at the pain his hold brought. “Then she stays at my place tonight,” he demanded.

I closed my eyes. Again, I tried to breathe slowly through my nose in a monumental effort to stay calm. Papa would
not
allow it, could
not
allow it. Alik would flip and I would end up beneath Alik on this desk—again—until he'd worked off his rage.

Papa's eyes flared and his mouth tightened into a thin line. “You're not married
yet
, Alik. She stays at
my
home. You won't make a whore out of a Volkov!”

Alik began to shake with rage. I placed a hand on his thigh, trying to cool him down. But when he jumped from his seat, fists flexing and face reddening with anger, I knew he'd blown all his fuses.

“I'm fucking through with it,” Alik yelled. “We've been engaged for two years and it's about fucking time she lives with me! You've made us wait too long!”

My father's silent response told me how pissed he'd become at Alik's display of disrespect. Abram lunged forward before my papa had a chance to, and with cupped hand, struck Alik on the lip, drawing blood.

“Enough! Show some fucking respect, boy, or I'll do more than cut your fucking lip,” Abram hissed, embarrassed by his son's outburst.

Alik gritted his teeth, saying nothing in response. He would never say anything back to his father. Alik was his father's puppet.

I stood, legs shaking, and cleared my throat. Alik glowered at me. Flashing Papa an appeasing glance, I stepped up to Alik and, taking a tissue from my desk, pressed it to his lips. He didn't flinch when I pressed the tissue to his cut, but his crazy possessive eyes bored holes into mine.

“Go with our fathers tonight, Alik. I'll be fine alone.”

Alik pushed away my hand and fisted my hair. “What will you do …
alone
?”

Lowering my eyes, ignoring his suspicion, I shrugged. “Go to church.”

Alik's hand twisted my hair, but I didn't raise my eyes. He knew the reason I was going. After all these years, it was amazing how my childhood connection with Luka drove Alik to insanity.

“Alik! She's going to church. You'll come with us and take care of this family. It's your duty,” Abram commanded.

Alik grunted in anger, pressed a rough kiss to my head, and abruptly left the room. I heard the men follow him out the door to check on their fighters. When I looked up, Ivan hovered at the exit, watching me with a sympathetic gaze.

“Talia and my wife will also be at church tonight, Kisa. They'll be happy to see you there.”

I nodded and offered a small smile. “I hoped they would be, Papa Ivan. I'll … I'll be happy to see them too … I'm glad you came in today. I love to see you too … I…” I trailed off, my throat clogging with emotion.

For a moment, I saw raw pain reflected in his eyes, but he left without another word, and I slumped down on the seat behind my desk.

First things first, I had to organize the fighters and make sure The Dungeon's business was done. Then I would take myself to church and mourn the boy I was supposed to hate … but could never find it in my heart to do so.

 

6

KISA

Serge dropped me off outside our Russian Orthodox Church. I stepped out into the stuffy night, black headdress and long-sleeved, calf-length skirted dress firmly in place as orthodox tradition demands. I quickly ran up the steps and went through the large doors, entering to the sound of the choir singing hymns from their rehearsal room upstairs. The large church was dark, a dark challenged only by the soft glow of candlelight. As always, when I entered this place, I glanced up to the paintings on the ceiling, images of the saints, of Mary holding Jesus.

A hand pressed gently on my shoulder. Looking to my left, Father Kruschev's kind smile greeted me.

“Father,” I greeted and pressed a kiss to the back of his hand.

“Are you joining us on the food trucks tonight, child? We are a volunteer down and I could use your service,” he asked hopefully.

My heart began pounding at the thought of my defender sitting on the street, holding that jar. Before I had time to consider the consequences of my actions, my head nodded in agreement.

“Excellent,” Father Kruschev said, gesturing for me to light a candle. I walked past and he added, “It pleases me to see you so dedicated to helping the needy, Kisa. It will purify your soul.”

I offered a tight smile but scurried away as fast as I could. I wasn't trying to save my soul tonight or trying to help the needy. I was serving my own selfish desire, a desire—no, a pressing
need
to see that man again, to see his face, to ask who he was … why he was on the street.

Taking a long candle, I lit the wick with that of another and offered a silent prayer to my Luka. May he forever rest in peace.

Moving to the end of the pew, I crossed my chest to the crucifix hanging somberly on the wall. Clasping my hands, I closed my eyes.

Feeling as though my chest would crack, I was transported to the past …

Twelve years ago …

The New York summer was stifling, the humidity too much to bear. I lay on a towel as the sun blazed down on Brighton Beach. We always came here for the summer. The Bratva kings descended on this little slice of Russian heaven from our houses in downtown Brooklyn. Papa and his “associates” would spend the summer months “discussing and taking care of business” while the kids and mothers would spend it lazing on the sand and eating ice cream.

I liked summer. It was a time I could get away from our rigid life in Brooklyn, a time that “the heirs” wouldn't be called away to learn their craft, a time when Rodion, Luka, and Alik could relax … a time when I could hang out with Luka all day long.

Closing my eyes, I smiled at that thought as I soaked up the rays in my secluded spot. Suddenly, a dark shadow fell over me, bringing a brief moment of coolness to my scalding skin.

Cracking my eyes open, hand shielding the sun, my stomach sank when I saw Alik smiling down at me, his board shorts hanging low on his hips.

I didn't say anything, just balanced on my elbows as he slumped down beside me on the towel, his thigh rubbing against mine.

Alik's always harsh narrow eyes surveyed my body, and I no longer felt the warmth of the sun. Shivers ran down my spine as Alik's finger gently trailed down my arm. His nostrils flared, and I froze in fear. Alik always made me feel this uneasy. His eyes tracked me wherever I walked. He would beat up any boy who so much as looked my way. He threatened them and told them I was
his
girl … Well, all except one. The one who truly
was
mine, the one whose eyes showed a piece of my soul.

“What're you doing, Myshka?” Alik asked. I swallowed at his pet name for me—
his little mouse.
He'd called me that for years, for as long as I could remember anyway.

I glanced around to see who was nearby, but no one was in sight. Alik's hand suddenly wrapped around the back of my neck, and I gasped in shock.

“I said,” Alik pronounced in an angry voice through gritted teeth, “what're you doing? Don't ignore me. I
don't like
to be ignored.”

I caught sight of Alik cracking the fingers on his right hand. I also glimpsed a large black-and-blue bruise on his thigh, hidden under his shorts. My gaze snapped to him in surprise. What had happened to him? It looked terrible.

Alik noticed what I was looking at. He quickly covered his bruise, jaw clenching in anger. Alik turned away his head momentarily, and I internally cursed. It must have been his papa. I knew he hurt Alik. I heard his screams coming from his room as we visited his house growing up, then witnessed Alik's bruises, limps, and occasional broken bones after “meeting” with his papa when he'd done something wrong.

Alik was never anything but angry, never anything but hateful … except toward me. Something changed in him when I was around. He was never calm, but a softness crossed his eyes when he looked at me.

“I … I was laying out in the sun,” I said softly, and the iron grip he had on my neck loosened, but he didn't let go. Alik was fourteen, but his incredible strength was more like that of a full-grown man.

Alik dropped his hand. “I'm going to lay with you.” I didn't dare question him, so I offered him a timid smile and rested down on the towel.

I lay motionless, then jumped when I felt Alik begin tracing the edges of my bikini top. “Alik, what are you doing?” I asked, trying to bat away his hand.

Alik's hand caught my hand in a grip. “Get off, Myshka. I'm touching you.”

“But—”

“Shut up! You'll do as I say,” Alik snarled. I did as told, too terrified to fight him off when he commenced tracing the triangle edges of my bra. “So pretty,” Alik murmured as tears built in my eyes.

My hands began to shake, yet I just closed my eyes and let Alik touch me, feeling his lips press onto my stomach. I wanted to cry for help, but I couldn't. As stupid as it sounded, I often felt sorry for Alik. I didn't want him to be beaten any more by his father. My complaining would do just that. Physically, I couldn't fight off Alik and I certainly didn't want to anger him further, so I let it happen. After all, it wouldn't be the first time.