Lifting my hands to wrap around his neck, I squeezed hard, each of us robbing the other of breath. I could feel my face reddening under Valentin’s grip, but he was faring no better than I was. Our bodies were screaming for air.
“Enough!” Zaal called, his hand slapping on the floor, but I stared into the eyes of this killer trying to take my life. I could see in his blue eyes that he wouldn’t give up. Lifting my leg, I kicked out, unbalancing the male sitting above me. Rolling over, I straddled his waist, knocking his hands off my neck. My grip slipped from his neck. Zaal then pulled me from Valentin as he roared and went to strike again.
I panted, muscles braced to react as Valentin paced the floor of the ring, his deadly gaze slicing over Zaal to mine. I pushed off Zaal and rushed to Valentin, standing toe-to-toe with the psychotic male.
“I want to kill you,” he snarled, then pushed me back.
I moved back directly in his path and ordered, “Resist it.”
Valentin’s balled fist smacked at the side of his head. He growled low and said, “I need to kill you!” His fingers dragged down to circle the collar scar marring his neck.
“Resist it,” I ordered again, and watched the newest member of our Bratva war with the monster living inside.
“No,” he replied, abruptly standing still, every packed muscle in his huge body tensed and shaking as he tried to restrain his rage. “I want to kill!” he bellowed.
Zaal moved beside me, crossing his arms over his chest. His black hair hung down over his chest, dripping with sweat. “Fight it,” he ordered, too. Valentin’s stare almost eviscerated him on the spot.
“I’m a killer!” he hissed, his neck cording at the effort it was taking not to kill us where we stood. “I fucking kill!”
This time neither Zaal nor I spoke. If Valentin was to stand with us as a future Bratva king, if he was to stay and build our brotherhood to be unrivaled and feared, he had to learn how to conquer his conditioned instinct to strike.
Zaal stepped closer and Valentin bared his teeth. “For Zoya,” he said. The words immediately had an impact on our brother. Valentin stilled. He held Zaal’s gaze and Zaal held his.
As the minutes passed, the rage within Valentin reduced to a simmer. That was as low as it got for the scarred Russian. He was always angry, always filled with pain.
The three of us stood there silently, until I said, “To be a fighter, you have to know when to contain your rage. You must use it to fuel your need to kill but hold it back enough to not let it blind you.”
“I’m not a fighter,” Valentin bit out. “I’m a fucking torturer. I’m an assassin. I don’t dance in a ring for entertainment. I extract pain slowly, until they scream.”
Zaal stepped back. I knew it was to distance himself from the male that held his sister’s heart. The male that, before he loved her, had tortured her. Had exacted the pain he talked of so excitedly.
Valentin’s chest worked up and down as he tried to gain control. I had turned to speak to Zaal when Viktor came running through the back door of the Dungeon.
He rapped his hand on the office door as he passed. My father and Kirill walked out from doing business and moved toward us in the training ring. Viktor stopped and tried to catch his breath.
“What?” Kirill asked, adjusting the cuff links on his shirt. His eyes moved to Valentin, and I saw the flash of pride he had for our new brother. Valentin was a monster from your nightmares. And now he was a potential Red King of the Bratva. My father-in-law couldn’t wait for the day he could introduce the new Bratva/Kostava circle to the other crime bosses of New York.
He knew exactly what seeing the three of us would inspire—pure fear.
Viktor inhaled deep, and, looking me dead in the eye, said, “I know how we get you into the pit.”
The moment his words reached my ears, my heart started thundering in my chest. “How?” I pushed. Zaal came to stand at my right; Valentin, also eager to hear my old trainer, stood at my left.
Viktor looked at the three of us and explained. “I’ve just heard from my contact in Georgia that Arziani is holding a death-match tournament in the Blood Pit. He holds regular matches, but he has a group of champions that cannot be defeated. The investors, the crime bosses that go there regularly to gamble and pit their fighters against his, were becoming frustrated with Arziani’s men never losing. To prove Arziani doesn’t rig his matches, he is giving other gulags he’s invested in, and bosses outside his network, a chance to pit fighters against his men and the others entered. It’s an ultimate tournament.” He looked to Kirill and Ivan, then said with emphasis, “Big stakes. The money to be won is in the tens of millions.”
“But how do we get in?” I asked, confused.
Viktor glanced nervously to my father, then to the Pakhan. My father frowned, but answering my question said, “Each gulag can enter up to three of its champions to fight in the tournament.” He swallowed. “I was contacted by an old colleague to ask if I had any fighters I wanted to enter.”
Pure adrenaline surged through my body. I stepped forward, my fingers twitching, and asked, “And you said ‘yes,’ yes?”
Viktor slowly nodded. “Yes, but better still”—he paused—“my contact, him and his three brothers work for Arziani. His brothers are guards in the pit.”