I can tell by the way he moves that he's trained, the way he blocks and counters. But not as good as me. We break apart and circle each other, panting and heaving for breath.
"Back off, Petr. She chose me, and you know it."
That sets him off. He charges with a roar and we're trading blows again, fists and elbows and knees as I dodge the blade like I'm jumping over flames. He's stronger than he looks, and every time he does make contact, it's bone-crushing. My lip splits. My eye swells. But I'm landing hits too, and he's slowing down.
I get him in a headlock and we go down again. He bucks and thrashes but I hold on, squeezing, cutting off his air. Just a little longer and he'll pass out. Then I can finish this cleanly. But his grip on the knife is too firm, and he swings his arm back, at just the right angle. I twist, but the blade catches my side, slicing through my shirt and into flesh. Hot pain lances through me and I release him, rolling away. But the damage is done.
We both scramble to our feet as blood soaks through my shirt. The cut isn't deep but it's long, running from my armpit to my hip. Petr holds the knife in front of him menacingly, and I see my blood on the metal that he grins at like he's won.
"I'm going to gut you," he says. His body shakes with rage and adrenaline. "Then I'm going to take her. I'm going to make her watch you bleed out and then I'm going to ruin her."
Over my dead body…
He lunges with the knife, and I sidestep, catching his wrist in the pass. We grapple for control of the blade until I twist his wrist, forcing the knife to turn in his grip, pointing it back toward him.
Petr is a strong man, but he's a stupid fighter. He spends too much energy to do the job well, and now he's tired, and his opponent has the upper hand.
"You made a mistake," I tell him through gritted teeth as I back him against the garage right where he had her pinned. "You made a huge mistake touching my property." The blade inches toward his face as he begins to tire and lose strength.
"She's mine!" He screams it in my face, spittle flying.
"She was never yours," I growl as I drive my knee into his stomach, and his grip on the knife loosens just enough. I wrench it from his hand and in one smooth motion, I bring it to his throat. The blade presses against his skin and he freezes.
"Please," he whispers, all the fight draining out of him. "Please don't."
"You had your chance to walk away. Now you learn why people don’t cross the Bratva."
Understanding dawns in his eyes, but fear follows quickly on its heels. I watch his face go pale and his grip on my wrist loosens as his poor attempt to defend himself with a final blow to my ribs fails and I draw the blade across his carotid artery.
Blood sprays across my face and chest. Petr's eyes go wide and he clutches at his throat, trying to stem the flow, but it's useless. It's a mortal wound. He's already dead, and we're watching the final grains of sand drop in the hourglass now. He drops to his knees, choking, drowning in his own blood.
I stand over him until he stops moving and his eyes glaze over. A few tremors make him jolt and jump, and the stench of urine wafts upward from his body. Then I run a hand through my hair and try to catch my breath.
There's a body in the neighbor's yard. My blood is on the ground. Petr's blood is everywhere. If someone sees this and the cops come, I'm done. Prison or deportation—and Danica will be alone.
I can't let that happen.
The neighbor's trashcan sits by their back gate, and a quick glance at their window shows no one has been watching. I drag Petr's body over to it, grunting with the effort, and open the lid. The wound in my side screams with every movement, but I ignore it and work around the pain as I dump the body into the can, folding him awkwardly to make him fit, then replace the lid.
It's not perfect, but it'll do until I can come back and deal with it properly.
I grab the shovel and use it to scrape dirt over the worst of the blood. It's dark enough that people won't notice unless they're looking closely, and I'll come back later with bleach to clean it properly. For now, this has to be good enough. I've left her alone for too long, and God only knows if she's called the police.
My shirt is soaked through with blood, so I strip it off and ball it up, planning to burn it later. But the cut on my side is still bleeding, a steady trickle that needs attention now.
I head inside through the back door and Danica's in the living room, pacing. Her neck is bruised, her shirt torn, her hands shaking. When she sees me, her eyes go wide and her lip quivers.
"Vadim."
"I'm okay," I tell her, but there's too much blood to stop and comfort her. I have to get the bleeding stopped and cleaned up so I can deal with the body. "I need your help."
She follows me into the kitchen where I turn on the sink and splash water over my face, watching the blood swirl down the drain, then I grab a rag and wet it thoroughly. She looks terrified as she touches my side lightly, and I wince.
"What happened?" she whimpers. "Where's Petr?"
"Dead." I press the dish towel to my side, wincing again. It fucking hurts. I probably need stitches, but what excuse would I use at an emergency center? "I need you to bandage this."
"You killed him?" Danica sounds terrified, but what other alternative was there? He wasn’t going to stop, and even if he did, what’s to say he wouldn’t come back with Marko and a dozen men and finish us both?
