The fight continued, one asshole after another coming for me. Even though I managed to get off several blows, refusing to give in, the sheer number of men issuing one blow after another made my body start to wear down.
There were at least five more, one going down with a single shot between his eyes, but they closed in, one of them laughing as they did.
Another blow to the head and I fell as if in slow motion to my knees.
As a bag was shoved over my head, all I could think about was my sweet and beautiful little healer.
My Rafaela.
CHAPTER 15
Kazimir
Black Dolphin Prison—Sol-Iletsk, Orenburg Oblast, Russia
Thirty-seven months later
Time.
That’s all I had. Time and brutality. Other than ninety minutes a day when prisoners were allowed out of their cages for the guards to check for contraband, we were forced to stand inside our hell of a universe, no sitting allowed.
I threw several air punches, hissing when pain shot up the length of my arm to my shoulder. It had taken months before I’d been able to use my arm again, finally able to rebuild strength in my muscles. The agony ghosted through me occasionally, mostly from the dampness. Being tortured until I’d almost died had managed to etch a strong memory in my bones.
The wounds had never fully healed, leading to several scars, which didn’t bother me. In a world where men registered strength by the success of surviving brutality, I’d become a legend.
The fuckers had wanted to break me, learning quickly no man on this earth had the right or the ability. They’d paid for their senseless decisions by experiencing a level of pain no one was capable of surviving. That’s when I’d become a legend behind the hallowed, moldy walls.
I dropped to the floor, shifting into my daily pushups.
At least I was no longer challenged by the savage guards when exercising. They knew better than to pick a fight with me. And why had I been shoved into a maximum-security prison deep in the trenches of Russia?
I’d had some accountant-type asshole with wire-rimmed glasses provide me with a list of reasons I’d been brought to the worst prison system in all of Russia, but I hadn’t been inclined to pay much attention.
This was the kind of place where attorneys made no difference. While I’d been given a false name upon entrance, I knew enough about the facility to know to keep my mouth shut.
My earned reputation had done the talking since then.
Given the beard that I’d had when dumped into the hellhole, I wasn’t recognizable to the rest of the inmates. While I’d carefully calculated a reputation as being a demented killer so no one would fuck with me, so far no one had challenged who I was and where I’d come from.
That led me to believe the punishment could be reversed.
I’d had nothing but time to try to determine who’d betrayed me and it had little to do with Demarco Marichetti. The harsh treatment of prisoners had been a legend outside the compound, the location near the Kazakhstan border, and the barren, often snowy location prevented escape. There’d been a couple of prisoners who’d tried during my time spent, one dying in the snow, or so I’d overheard through the great grapevine.
And the other?
Well, let’s just say the methods of torture were ones I would use once my hunt was completed.
For now, I bided my time, keeping my body fit and my mind sane. Many inmates lost their minds. While there were some visitors, very few relatives dared make the trip. Doing so was dangerous, bandits living in the surrounding woods.
Yeah, I knew a hell of a lot about the prison and surrounding area since my grandfather had been incarcerated here for ten years. He’d been a legend, avory v zakone, roughly translated to ‘thieves in law.’ While an old system from long before I was born, the mark was given to those men who coveted the highest respect of bosses in the Soviet Union.
Those anointed acted as keepers of strict, traditional code, something my father had loosely followed. While every time a prisoner was brought to the facility or taken between buildings he was blindfolded so as not to learn the layout, I knew every nook and cranny.
It had been a requirement as a young soldier and now I was glad I had. Even with strict surveillance, guards had determined I was someone of importance. From day one, I’d heard a few whispers of men who’d been desperate to learn my identitydetermined I was a younger generationvoryand why? Because I had a small eight-point star on my shoulder.
The ink had been my own doing, not an honor bestowed and I’d been beaten severely by my father for being so disrespectful. Now, I was glad to have the faded cheap-ass ink. It had probably saved my life.
Or someone else’s. I laughed as I pushed up from the cold cement floor, no longer counting the number of pushups. I simply exercised until my muscles screamed for relief then continued on for another hour.
