Dimitri
Twenty minutes later, we’re crowded around the tiny table, demolishing two large pizzas.
The kids are sprawled out on the floor, pizza sauce smeared on their faces. Lenny’s got a string of cheese hanging from his chin, and Emma’s picking olives off her slice like they’re fucking landmines.
“So, you beat people up for money?” Lenny asks, his eyes wide.
I shift in my seat, the cheap folding chair creaking under my weight. “It’s called mixed martial arts, kid. It’s a sport.”
Emma snorts. “Sounds barbaric.”
“Emma,” Wren warns, her voice low. She’s perched on the arm of the couch, nibbling on a crust. Her eyes meet mine, a silent apology.
I shrug. “Nah, she’s right. It can be pretty brutal.”
Lenny’s practically vibrating with excitement. “So, have you like… killed anyone?”
“Lenny!” Wren and Emma shout in unison.
I chuckle. My eyes lock onto the kid’s. Serious now.
“Yeah, I have,” I say. His eyes go wide. “But not during a fight night. Never.”
“D,” Wren warns, voice sharp.
I turn, shrug at her. What? It’s the fucking truth. Look at her.
I almost laugh when she presses her lips together, eyes widening like she’s trying to swallow a goddamn bowling ball.Blyat, if looks could kill, I’d be a steaming pile of guts on the floor right now. Her glare’s so hot it could melt steel beams, scorching my skin like I’ve been doused in napalm.
But before she can tear into me like a pack of rabid dogs…
“Why do you like to fight?” Emma cuts in.
Blyat. Where the fuck did that come from? I blink, caught off guard by the kid’s question. My mind’s still reeling from the nuclear blast of her sister’s death stare, and now this?
Philosophical shit.Not my strong suit. I glance at Wren, but she shoots me a “serve you right, dickhead” look.
Suka blyad’. I can practically hear her thoughts:Dig yourself out of this one, asshole.Her lips curl into a smirk.
My jaw clenches, a growl building in my chest. Fuck me.
I drag a hand down my face, scrubbing at the stubble on my chin. How am I supposed to explain the high of a good fight to a fucking kid? The way the pain lights you up, reminding you that you’re alive, that you’re not fucking useless, the way the blood pounding in your ears drowns out all the other bullshit. It’s a goddamn addiction.
“I like it because…”Shit. Truth is, it’s where I dump all my rage. But I can’t say that. “It’s about discipline,” I say finally. “Control. Knowing your body and pushing its limits.”
Not the whole truth. But not a lie, either.
Emma considers this, her brow furrowed. “I guess that’s not so bad.”
Lenny pipes up, “Can you teach me some moves?”
“Absolutely not… from D,” Wren cuts in, her tone brooking no argument. “He’s a busy man.”
“But Wren—”
“No buts. It’s a school night, and you both need to get ready for bed.”
The kids groan, but they start gathering up the paper plates and napkins. I stand to help, but Wren waves me off.
