PROLOGUE
Vassili Karo Resnov
Mixed Martial Arts Arena, Brazil
“You good?” Vadim, my coach, asks in Russian, while applying pressure to the gash on my forehead. Blood is smeared all over the canvas beneath my feet. It’s dripping from the incision at my temple. The medic already cleared me to continue, although, the sticky stream left me with only one working eye.
“Da,” I respond. My gaze is dead as I glare through my enemy, Tiago, seated across from me, in the corner. Ten years ago, I would’ve laughed at the hot head. I was cocky then, too. Backing my shit up had always come easily. Now, my entire body is on fire, and killing Tiago, in the cage, is my fuel for that fire.
“How’s your knee?” coach questions.
The death trance I’ve been in, for two rounds, fades the second Vadim mentions my knee. A vivid image of my wife, Zariah, permeates my mind. Her mahogany skin has lost its glow; deep brown eyes were now full of disdain, as the physician had injected cortisone in my left knee, not an hour ago. Marriage to an attorney means I've got to fucking defend myself whenever she's worried about me. Don’t get me wrong. There are broads in this world that want nothing more than to hang on my arm, and get a piece of me. There’s nothing like having a real woman, who loves you regardless of your faults. Truth is, she isn’t all debates and arguments. I should have held off my return, but I was born for the octagon. All I have ever loved is my wife, our baby, Natasha, and pounding flesh.
“You aren’t ready to return, Vassili,” Zariah had said. She loves to bust my fucking balls, though, this time, she wasn't too far off from the truth. Every time I step into the cage, man, her heart breaks a little bit more. I’m a damned occupational hazard, and she’s too good for this shit…too good for me. So, how did someone like me get such an innocent treasure? One, I’m not a quitter. I’ve loved Zariah since long before she ever gave me a chance. Two, I did it with patience. It was seven whole damn years before she finally offered me the key to her heart in return.
Vadim’s bushy white eyebrows rise. “Vassili, you good?” he asks, again.
I shake the daze from my brain. “Khorosho. Khorosho—Good. Good. Just a little blood.” A lot of fucking blood.
“A little blood never hurt anyone, eh? Karo, knock ‘em the fuck out,” Nestor says, handing me a cup of water.
“No, Karo is going to lay Tiago to rest.” Vadim has a hungry glare in his eyes, as he preps me with more Vaseline. “Keep him moving. He’ll tire. You’re doing good, Karo. Don’t let him get to your knee. Bring that mudak down. Kill ‘em, Karo, kill ‘em.”
I nod, rising to my feet. Tiago and I come together, once more. I lock his arms and pin him against the fence. My good knee jabs into his abs. With each forceful hit, I annihilate his liver. Tiago goes back to the clinch. A hook punch lands right behind my ear, and then we’re back to the middle of the cage. Back and forth we go, fists like bricks, as if one of us pissed on the ones mother’s grave. I’ve got power, but this motherfucker is just as dominating.
Tire him out. Bring him down for the kill.
A kick against my left knee forces venom into my veins. White noise buzzes in my ears. Instantly, my mind is on her and her disappointment.
Kill. Kill. Kill. Should be the only thought in my mind. But, Zariah’s arguing has bull rushed back into my head space. Shit, don’t think about Zariah now, I’m not going to bitch out! She’s sitting in the front row. Though a professional at taking hits, I’m not stupid enough to glance her way. My stats: 25 knockouts, 9 submissions, and 2 loses… The first was as an amateur. The second left me with a fractured patella 217 days ago, and I’ve been ready to get my ass in the octagon ever since.
It’s as if Zariah’s heart is beating through mine, when Tiago realizes my knee isn’t as “good” as I let on during our promotions. With each blow, I counter, knowing she’s right there, unable to breathe. Tiago alternates from targeting my knee to the gash on my head. The cortisone high my left knee was on has ended, not just to a dull ache, either. It feels like a serrated knife, burning like fire from being left on hot coals, has sliced through my knee.
“Karo, do you want to continue?” The ref asks, holding up a steady hand for Tiago to keep his distance.
This is where Zariah and I always chatted about putting our baby girl, Natasha, first. Though the crowd is egging me on—one fucking eye and all—Zariah’s disappointment palpable. Breathing jagged, my heart crumbles, and I feel like the ultimate asshole, as I nod vigorously to continue. It’s me or this motherfucker before me. One of us is going down tonight.
There has to be less than a precious minute left. And I can’t take a loss by decision.
“Vassili, baby, just stop. We have a good life! We have a beautiful baby girl, who your doctor hasn’t even cleared you to pick up without you having to be in a seated position!” Zariah had said some odd months ago. That was after I lost the welterweight belt—my belt. It was my second professional loss.
I jump to my dominant leg and force my left leg forward. The shot dislocated my toe as my foot slams against Tiago’s mouth. He’s brought to his knees.
Total knock out or submission. The easy route would be another swift kick to his mouth and lodge that fucking mouth guard down his throat. Nah, let’s go for overkill! Jaw tensed, I clamber behind him onto his back, and pull my right arm around his neck. My bicep sinking into his carotid artery while my forearm curls around his spine, gripping my fists together, I begin squeezing him in a rear naked choke.
“Vassili, it’s Natasha and me or the cage. You choose.”
“Zariah, really, sweetheart? Don't do that. Don't fucking do that. Natasha is my princess. You're my queen, so you know that the answer will always be—”
Tap! Tiago gets in one tap. His hand pauses mid-second tap. His body then softens into a limp position in my arms.
The referee is calling the fight as the Brazilian slips to the floor, and I jump up. My entire body is on fire now. The pain engulfs me as if I just leapt headfirst into a volcano. Every muscle screams, every tendon haggard. I climb up the side of the fence, favoring my right knee. I straddle it and place my fists into the air.
“This is it! Killer Karo is back!” I hear through the loudspeakers. The announcer’s already predicting that my belt will soon return to my grasp; the welterweight belt I lost seven months ago. The feel of it is so tangible. I breathe in the victory, glancing toward Zariah’s chair.
It’s empty.
The only time my wife has left during the middle of a bout, she’d gone into labor with Natasha. Nestor said she’d squirmed in her seat almost the entire time waiting for my victory. Though I’d won that fight, my body had felt like shit. I’d still grabbed the keys to his motorcycle, wove crazily through traffic, speeding my ass off, to get to her at the hospital.
She. Left. That high, that triumphant high, so much better than cocaine, crashes down around me. My wife is gone.