I slip out of bed and wrap my arms around him from behind, pressing my cheek against his back.
“I love you,” I whisper.
“I love you too.” His hands cover mine where they rest on his stomach. “No matter what happens today, remember that.”
“Don’t talk like that.” I squeeze him tighter. “You’re going to win. You’re going to come home to me.”
He turns in my arms and kisses me, deep and desperate. When we break apart, there are tears on both our faces.
“Promise me something,” he says. “If I lose, if Torrino takes you, promise me you’ll find a way to escape. Take our child and run as far as you can.”
“Mikhail—”
“Promise me, Sophia.”
I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
The steel mill is exactly as ominous as I imagined.
Rusted metal and broken windows, the smell of decay and old machinery thick in the air.
Torrino’s men are already there when we arrive, forming a circle in the center of the vast space.
Marco stands in the middle, stripped to the waist, his muscled body covered in scars that tell the story of a lifetime of violence.
Mikhail removes his shirt, and I see Tony’s eyes widen at the fresh bruises mottling his ribs.
He’s been training too hard, pushing too far.
He’s not at full strength.
Torrino approaches us, his gray eyes cold. “Mr. Artyomov. Are you ready to settle this debt?”
“I am.” Mikhail’s voice is steady.
“Then let us begin.” Torrino gestures to the circle. “The rules are simple. No weapons. No outside interference. The fight continues until one man cannot continue or submits.”
Mikhail squeezes my hand once, then releases it and steps into the circle.
Marco grins at him, cracking his knuckles.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” Marco says.
The fight begins with a flurry of movement. Marco is fast, faster than I expected, and his first punch catches Mikhail in the ribs.
I hear the impact from where I stand, and Mikhail staggers back.
They circle each other, trading blows.
Mikhail lands a solid hit to Marco’s jaw, but Marco barely seems to notice.
He’s bigger, stronger, and he’s been doing this his whole life.
I watch in horror as Marco drives Mikhail back, landing punch after punch.
Blood streams from Mikhail’s nose, and I can see him favoring his left side where Marco’s fist keeps finding his bruised ribs.
This is wrong.
