The canvas floor bears dark brown bloodstains. Though the ring’s washed down between fights, the canvas covering isn’t changed out until it’s worn. The stains add to the aesthetic, just like the heavy ropes that enclose the square. The ropes are rough. It’s hell to fall against them and have more skin abraded and torn. But the more blood, the more wild the crowd and the higher the bets.
Behind the ring, there’s a mural on the wall. The painted scene is of a pair of gladiators locked in battle. One of them has a face that looks suspiciously like my own.Jesus Christ.
There are a couple of armed men sitting at a table. It’s clear they recognize me because their hard expressions turn to ones of grudging respect.
“Polasky?” I ask.
“In back,” one says as he holds out a piece of paper to me.
It’s in Russian. I can speak and understand Russian, but I can’t read it very well. Taking the paper nonetheless, I can tell it’s a list of terms.
I open the door and duck my head to enter the side room. I know it. It’s one of the places where I prepared before a fight, changing clothes and having my hands wrapped. The room’s about five hundred square feet. Behind it, there’s a small office whose door is closed at the moment.
Egorov sits at a desk, with a bodyguard standing sentry, but my full attention isn’t on them.
Against the far wall, there’s the carved oak cage that’s inlaid with metallic gold paint. It hangs from its decorative iron stand. Locked inside is the exquisite Natalia. She appears naked, but she’s sitting with her arms around her bent knees, so I can’t tell from my brief glance.
When I turn my attention to Egorov, I find his brows are raised. Of course he’s surprised. I’ve ignored at least a hundred email invitations to attend fight nights in the club.
Egorov stands, and his shirt strains over his bulk. He’s not fat exactly, but he’s thick around the middle. The bags under his eyes though could hold spare coins. At forty-eight, he looks like another decade’s creeping up fast. Five years ago, he still had the vitality of his younger years when he did his own killing with an icepick.
Heavy footfalls pull our attention to the doorway. Ducking under the exposed beams, Vlad, the current champion, enters. His look is scarred and battle-ready like a mutant soldier. His reach rivals mine, and our heights are about even. At first glance, there’s no obvious vulnerability.
“I didn’t know you were interested in fighting again,” Egorov says. “I hope you got an offer worth your time.”
I don’t correct his assumption that I’m here for some big payday from a rich kingpin.
“Who’s your new owner?” he asks.
No one has ever been my owner, and no one ever will be. “The man I fight for prefers to stay anonymous until the night of the fight.”
Egorov shrugs. “If his bid wins, there’s only one day to go before we’ll know.”
I don’t respond to that prompt. Instead, I say, “He sent me to look at the girl.”
Egorov’s smirk is half sneer. “Yes, my little cat. You remember her, don’t you? Come have a look.” Egorov waves for me to join him at the cage.
It pisses me off to hear him call Natalia his. He hasn’t won her, and she clearly doesn’t belong to him or she wouldn’t be up as a prize.
As we approach I catch a glimpse of enormously wide blue eyes. She appears upset for a moment when she sees me. Then she seems to catch herself and glares at Egorov and me. Natalia continues to sit with her arms around her legs. Upon closer inspection, I see she’s wearing a pair of sheer pink underwear, and there are faint blue bruises circling her upper arms. If I had to lay a bet, I’d put my money on those being from Egorov’s sausage fingers. One day someone with bigger hands is going to remind him what bruises feel like.
Egorov tells her in Russian to stand up and put her arms over her head. She tells him to go to hell. It’s stupid of her, but I like her for it.
Egorov chuckles. “In less than forty-eight hours, she’ll have her smart mouth wrapped around my cock. Then she won’t have so much to say.” He unlocks the cage and reaches in. When she starts to open her mouth to bite his hand, he grabs her by the throat and squeezes until she closes her lips.
“Let her go,” I say, my voice low and grim. What I want to do is cold-cock him in the head.
My muscles contract. Even if it wasn’t Natalia, I wouldn’t like this kind of bullshit display of force. What’s impressive about overpowering a trapped teenage girl? I can be old-fashioned when dealing with a pretty girl who misbehaves, but choking a woman to get her to submit is not my style. It shouldn’t be anyone’s style if the woman doesn’t enjoy it.
The Serb moves closer so I’m flanked by them.
Natalia fights until Egorov twists her arm hard enough to make her wince.
My hand reaches out to knock him sideways, but I catch myself.
Be smart. Be patient.“Bruising her is bad business.”
She slaps his arm. “Leave me alone. I don’t belong to you!”
