Inside, the light was low. One-way bulletproof glass muffled most of the chaos.
Nikolai pressed me into the leather sofa, hands braced on either armrest, looming over me. The irritation faded from his face, replaced by cold, aggressive intensity.
"Stay here. Don't wander." He yanked open his henley collar with one hand, those slate eyes gleaming dangerously. "Keep your eyes on that cage, writer. I'll give you your inspirationmyself."
Before I could process that, he'd turned and strode out, door slamming shut.
I sat frozen. What? He was leaving me alone in this blood-soaked underground fight pit?
I walked to the one-way glass, staring down in confusion.
They were dragging the bloody loser out like a dead dog. Workers hosed down the vivid bloodstains on the cage floor.
What was Nikolai planning? He said he'd give me "inspiration"—was he going to interrogate some Marchetti informant in that cage?
Some brutal Bratva execution ritual?
Imagining brain matter splattered everywhere made my stomach clench. But disturbingly, beneath that biological fear, my writer's instinct was hooked by that extreme tension.
The box door opened silently.
A waiter in a crisp black vest entered expressionlessly, carrying a tray with iced soda water and elegant caviar canapés—absurdly out of place amid the cheap beer and sweat stench outside.
"Excuse me..." I cleared my throat tentatively. "Where did Mr. Volkov go? Is there... some special match happening in that cage?"
The waiter set down the tray with mechanical precision, face like a human mask.
"My task is only to ensure your comfort, ma'am." He bowed slightly, tone devoid of inflection. "As for the rest, you'll see soon enough."
He left no room for questions, exiting briskly. The door locked again.
This airtight suspense clawed at my heart like a cat!
I gulped down ice water irritably, pressing my face back to the glass, staring at the empty cage.
Minutes crawled by. After maybe twenty minutes, the crowd's restlessness spread. Gamblers started pounding the rails impatiently.
Suddenly, every light in the underground pit went out.
Half a second of eerie silence. Then the crowd erupted in roars, whistles, and stomping ten times louder than before. The floorbeneath me vibrated like some dangerous beast was about to be unleashed.
A brutal spotlight slashed through the darkness like a sword, hitting the rusted cage.
With a tooth-grinding metallic screech, the chain-link door opened slowly.
I squinted at the figure stepping into the spotlight from the darkness. The next second, my pupils contracted, heart skipping a beat, breath stopping completely.
Nikolai.
Shirtless, revealing that scarred, explosively powerful torso.
No suit. No men. His usually slicked-back hair fell loose over his high brow bones. And beneath those brows, those gray eyes burned with unmasked violence and killing intent.
Dangerous. Focused. Terrifyingly formidable.
His opponent—a muscle-bound heavyweight—charged like an enraged bear. Nikolai didn't even blink.
He dodged the deadly hook with cold precision. Then that black-wrapped arm moved too fast to track, a crushing punch landing squarely on the man's jaw.
