My feet are moving before I’ve even made up my mind. I slip the knife into my gun’s holder, unwilling to part with it just yet. My hand stays on the handle, just in case. Only when I’ve shouldered past a handful of idiots does my hand drop to my side, stunned by the sight.
Kroshechnaya devochka.
It isn’t a child, though it’s worth noting that she’s basically five feet tall. There are tears streaming down her face. The only parts of her body in motion are her mouth, quivering like a kitten in a thunderstorm, and her hands, clenched into white-knuckles fists by her sides. She stands surrounded by a whole troop of men who are various degrees of wasted.
Well, this wouldn’t be a first for this place. And I’m not one to judge what people get their rocks off to. I’m ready to turnaway until I get a closer look at her. It isn’t just that her arm is disturbingly slick with blood. Though it isn’t an insane amount. She won’t be bleeding out any time soon. Still, it’s enough to tell me someone’s hurt her in a way she’s never been hurt before.
There’s an element of shock to her features, like she can’t believe this is happening to her.
I’ve seen that look before. As another occupational hazard, I’ve caused it on enough faces—albeit none like hers. All softness, and wide, wet, expressive eyes that conceal nothing. She looks a little like that children’s cartoon,Bambi.
Her face, at least. The rest of her is... Well, does it make me a sick fuck to admire the voluptuous curves of her body in that flimsy red dress? It crosses over her chest, tied together with sashes that meet in a bow tied at her ribs. The deep V of her neckline leaves little to the imagination, revealing the deep valley between a magnificent pair of tits.
My attention splinters when someone sways into me. I shove them away with a grunt.
When I look back at the woman, that’s when I spot the targets. An array of what looks like small wooden boards is positioned all around her—atop her head, by her right hip, one by each of her thighs. One by her left shoulder… The red circles painted on the crudely cut boards are still glistening, signaling fresh paint.
“Who’s next? Whooo’s next? Step right up! Who’s gonna step up and take a shot next? Who thinks they can win this?” a voice is booming from the corner, egging the crowd on.
I track the sound and find him off to the side—the ringleader of this circus, if the wad of cash in his fist is anything to go by. He pumps it in the air enthusiastically. His other hand comes up to wipe at his nose. His movements are jerky. His handtremors, too—but for a different fucking reason. One I know well. I don’t need to get a look at his pupils to know he’s high as a fucking kite.
Besides, I know him. Cillian Driscoll. He’s the founder and owner of the Pit.
Realization slots into place, like a dagger finding its mark. That girl—young woman,I’m sure, despite her height—is his daughter. That’s his fuckingdaughter,he’s looking at the way my brother Leonid’s Dobermanns look at his steak.
His antics only rile the crowd up. I have to move to catch sight of her again. My momentary pivot is all it takes for Mick to spot me again and take the look on my face as an invitation to approach me.
Bad idea.
He ambles over cheerfully. When I look away, he follows my line of sight to cock his head over the bleeding mess of a girl. “You want in, man?” he drawls, eyes too eager. “Only five hundred. That’s fuckin’ chump change for ya, huh?”
“What’s the prize?” I ask flatly.
His clumsy grin unveils most of his teeth. “Her.”
A dark cloud gathers in my chest. Before I know it, I’m digging into my jacket pocket and fishing out my wallet. Mick wasn’t wrong. It’s chump change to me. In my world, cash is the only thing that flows freer than the blood. And I’m not the Yuri with a talent for negotiation. I slap a stack of bills into his chest, shoving him out of my way.
“Sure,” I sigh. “Go tell Driscoll I’m in.”
“Aight, aight,” he says, words tumbling over one another. “You gotta hit every target though, man. All of ‘em. And if youdraw blood, you’re out. That’s how Kavinsky got tossed outta the competition.”
Despite the black fury rotting my guts, it’s my lips that curl into a smile now.
I may not be the Yuri with a talent for negotiation.
But I have plenty of others at my disposal.
Chapter 2 - Janella
I am twenty-four years old, and I am about to die.
All I can think of is how all those books, movies, and songs tell you that your life flashes before your eyes right before the end. Is this all I have to show for my life?How did I end up here?Is this really all it’ll ever be? AllI’llever be?
There is no way out.
Behind me, there’s the unrelenting wall. Around me, the targets act like pushpins. All of these men surround me, their faces distorted and blurred by tears I don’t want to give them. Yet here I am, whimpering and weeping anyway. Powerless in one more way.
What does it say about me that it is my own father who’s thrown me to the wolves?
