Kolya sat on his bed, lost in his thoughts as sleep eluded him. He was a loner, always had been but lately he’d been feeling the need to connect to something—or someone. He had hoped that by coming to the States and joining Glazov’s boxing organization, he’d become part of something bigger than himself. Clearly, Bratva leadership didn’t trust him or they wouldn’t have felt the need to have him followed to that dive bar.
It was a silly thought anyway. He chided himself for even believing they would go to such trouble. Boxing was all he’d ever known. He’d grown up fighting in back alleys. When the wrong people noticed his talent, they’d taken him in and he had started fighting in underground fight clubs.
It wasn’t until one of Glazov’s men had seen him fight that his big break had come. Glazov had brought him over from Russia and now boxing was his life. The Pakhan had saved him from a life of being used and brutalized and given him a chance to forge his own destiny.
It wasn’t a superficial kind of connection he was looking for. Sure, there were women -- groupies who followed fighters, as if being on a Bratva fighter’s arm would give them the prestige they coveted.
More than once, he’d seen a woman become a boxer’s downfall. He’d been careful to stay away from that and the other pitfalls of boxing. Drugs, alcohol, steroids, or poor management could undo years of hard work.
Kolya resented the fact that Bjarke was wasting Glazov’s time and money. It was a black eye to the rest of the boxers who were serious about their careers. Trust had to be earned and Kolya had every intention of doing that.
He thought about the pain he’d seen in the stripper’s eyes at the bar. His gut was telling him that she had her own nightmares that robbed her of sleep. Maybe she was wide awake somewhere just like he was.
Just like every other night of his life, he struggled futilely to push away the memory of the man he’d killed so long ago. It was a murder the Pakhan had made go away – another reason for his loyalty now. Nothing could wipe the memory of the man’s face from Kolya’s psyche, though. The wide-eyed stare of the man laid out on the mat, his face forever frozen in an expression of horror and surprise.
It hadn’t been entirely Kolya’s fault. The man had suffered head trauma from a lifetime of boxing and one perfectly placed blow had been all it took to kill him. An accident. Could have happened to anybody. He had been told that many times, but Kolya still endured profound guilt about it every day of his life. But the nights were the worst. In the dark, the death weighed heavily on his conscience like a shroud he couldn’t shake off.
Kolya knew that every heart carried within it the heaviness of secrets, and that everyone was saddled with their own brand of pain. Living with it was the hard part, and it was a journey that each person had to make alone. He had been pursuing his destiny on his own for a long time. Maybe it was time to make some long overdue changes in his life. And he knew just where to start.
The dim light of the quarter moon barely shone through Helena’s dingy one-room apartment. The grimy window certainly didn’t help matters. She had thought she’d be able to get a good night’s sleep because of all the liquor she’d consumed, but the man’s face was imprinted on her mind like a ghost that had followed her home.
As she had dried off after her shower, she tended to the scratch on her neck with a few dabs of ointment while she thought back on her evening. She had overheard a few of the girls gossiping about the customers they thought were hot. They had giggled about the man who sat alone and stayed to himself. Lilly seemed to know everything about everyone and she had managed to get his name. Kolya. Russian, no doubt. She hoped her memory of him wouldn’t fade with time and that he’d remain a vivid image in her mind.
Dark, wavy hair had fallen over his forehead, practically begging for a woman’s fingertips to reach up and tame it. His nose was prominent and strong, and fit his face perfectly. Unlike other boxers’ noses, his didn’t appear to have been broken, although she doubted that it would have ruined his good looks.
Kolya’s whiskey brown eyes drew her to him, as if he were a soul seeking salvation. But if she couldn’t even save herself, how the hell was she supposed to save him? She was the one who needed a savior, trapped by the man who had brought her over from Russia and was now basically keeping her enslaved because of money he said she had cost him. It was the reason she stole, so she could, someday, pay him back and try to escape and start over…
She could still feel the heat of his eyes as they had raked over her curves. Unlike the men who leered at her body under the stage lights, he had seemed to look deeper, almost as if he somehow knew her innermost secrets, her deepest shame, and still couldn’t look away. It was the first time a man had shown any interest in her beyond the flesh she bared on stage. Although he never said anything, his eyes had conveyed everything that words couldn’t. She hoped he would come back someday.
Her curiosity got the better of her, so she did an online search on him. His name was unusual enough that it didn’t take long until she found information about the gym where he trained. Then, bingo! There was a photo of her mysterious stranger as well. He was sweaty and shirtless as a referee held his hand up above his head in victory.
“Kolya Ivanov.” She said his full name out loud, liking how it rolled off her tongue with her Russian accent. It felt natural to say his name. She wished she had known his name when he’d made her cum – and make no mistake, he had made her cum even though he never laid a finger on her. She fought the urge to snarl with jealousy at the thought of another woman saying his name while he powered into her body.
She felt silly for letting her mind embrace the vague thoughts that were really little more than a fairytale. The same way she had secrets, she still had dreams. She refused to let the life she’d been forced into rob her of her aspirations for a better life. If she gave up, she would die and she had no doubt Sambor would make sure it wasn’t a natural death. She couldn’t give up; her dreams were all she had left.
She sat up in bed and looked out the window. Christmas wreaths hung beneath the twinkling lights that were strung along the lampposts that lined the streets. Despite the hardships she faced, she still loved this time of year. She just wished she had someone to share it with.
Bjarke groaned as he opened his eyes the next afternoon. The light stabbed his brain like a million little needles. “Fuck…fuck booze, fuck me.” He tried to remember the events of the night before as he ran his hand through his greasy hair, only to wince as a fresh wave of nausea rolled through him.
There had been that dancer—the brunette. He couldn’t remember if he’d managed to solicit her to help him kidnap the Glazov brats or not. He had intended to. He hadn’t worked out the details yet; maybe have her act as decoy when he made his move, or get her to infiltrate the Glazov household staff. He couldn’t remember a whole hell of a lot from the previous night. Probably just as well.
He tossed the covers off, slid his legs off the bed, and stepped onto the cold, dirty floor. He held on to the edge of the mattress as he waited for the room to stop moving and his stomach to stop churning. When he looked over and saw a half-empty bottle of vodka on the nightstand, he turned it up and took a swig. Best thing for a hangover...
He stood up slowly and padded into the bathroom where he dropped to his knees and emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He waited a few minutes to make sure he was done. Better to get it over with so he could get back to forgetting life’s problems at the bottom of a bottle again. Drink, puke, rinse, repeat.
His mouth felt like sand and gravel mixed together. He loaded his toothbrush with toothpaste, eager to scrub away the rancid taste from his mouth. A glance in the mirror revealed a sallow complexion and red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes.
He staggered back into the bedroom, grabbed the bottle, and turned it up until half of what had been left was gone. He reached for his wallet and wasn’t shocked to find he’d been cleaned out. No wonder he had a hangover, he and that dancer had drunk his wallet dry. Hell, he couldn’t have made it any easier for her to steal from him. Bits and pieces were all he could remember from the evening. He needed to talk to that woman again but it would have to wait until he got a couple more hours of sleep.
He slumped back down onto the bed with an agonized groan. At this point anything had to be better than the hangover that clung to his tired body and muddled mind. Yeah, just a couple more hours of sleep, then he’d get up. He drifted off without sparing a thought about yet another pre-dawn training session he had missed at the gym.