Yanna

This is it. Today, I’m starting another new chapter in my life. Hopefully this one is the start of a whole new book. A bestseller. With my phone, I take one last picture of the four-story apartment building I’ve called home for the last nine years. It’s identical to the six other apartment buildings that make up this complex. Their facades used to be white, but they’ve been grey and shabby since I moved here, because the landlord doesn’t really care and the tenants don’t have a lot of extra money to spare, but I’ll miss it. This apartment has been the first real home I’ve had since I left my grandma’s farm at ten years old.

My next-door neighbor, Olya, a lady well into her eighties, is watering the blooming red carnations on her balcony and she’s blurry in the photo I just took. I’ll miss her too. She was like the grandma I lost nearly eighteen years ago to me, since the day I moved in. Her hand is shaking now as she waves to me, and the smile on her face is shaky too, but I know she wants the best for me and she knows this is what I always wanted, what I’ve worked hard and relentlessly to achieve since I came to this country.

“You will be the best, Yanna, because you already are,” she calls out to me in Russian. “Write to me and tell me all about it.”

I smile too, but I bet my smile looks just as shaky as hers. “I’ll write all the time, babushka!”

She nods and her lips shake a little, because she probably thinks this is the last time we’ll ever speak, but I mean to keep my word.

The taxi waiting for me honks. The driver isn’t doing that on his own, I bet my coach, who’s already sitting in the back of it told him to hurry me along.

I wave to Olya one last time, the lump in my throat too big and painful to say anything, then run to the taxi, toss my duffel bag into the trunk, and get in the back. I sent the rest of my things to Las Vegas in the back of a movers’ truck three days ago. I tried to convince Vlad, my coach, to help me drive the truck there. We could take turns and I could ride some of the way on my motorcycle. I’ve wanted to do the Route 66 road trip on my bike ever since I came to this country, but there was never enough time. And there isn’t enough time now. Vlad refused because he wants me settled, rested and ready for the tournament that starts in a little over a week, so we’re flying to Vegas.

This tournament is one of the biggest international women’s MMA fighting events. Only eight of the best fighters in the world get to compete in it and I’m one of them. It’s also the pinnacle of all I’ve accomplished since Dima saved me from the streets thirteen years ago and began training me. I will win this tournament for him, to show him all his hard work and his sacrifice paid off. And after it, I’m staying in Vegas, because there are more opportunities on the West Coast. Vlad is moving there too.

“I’m so ready for this, Vlad,” I tell my coach as we’re speeding down the interstate towards the airport.

“You better be,” he says gruffly and sternly. It’s the way he always talks, but today I also detect a note of pride in his voice. “This is what we’ve been training for.”

Vlad is a hard-ass and every other sentence he says to me is about winning or training even harder to win. He reminds me of Dima in that way. But Dima was always kinder, he was always softer and I miss him almost as much as I miss my grandmother. He was the only father I’ve ever known and he died so I could have the life I lead now.

I don’t think of him or my grandmother a lot, or give into missing them, because if I allow the sadness in then I can’t fight and I’m not strong, and I won’t win any tournaments that way. A part of me died on that cold autumn night when Dima died, and another part died years before, when my grandma did, and that’s just how it is. Crying over it won’t change it, so I don’t.

Training for the fights and the actual fights are my whole life and Vlad is the closest thing to a close personal relationship I have. I have few friends and no boyfriends. People die and people leave, and I don’t need to lose any more parts, I need the rest of them to get through this life.

I don’t need anyone. I wasn’t meant to have anyone. And I’m just fine with that. But what I do have is a big online community of fans who follow me on YouTube and Instagram. I started using social media just as a way to promote myself, but I quickly grew to love it. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t post a new video or at least a picture. My online fans have been with me every step of the way practically, since I got to this country and even though I wouldn’t recognize most of them if I met them on the street, they’re still a family of sorts and the only family I need.

I post the picture I just took of my old building and Olya, with the caption: “The last farewell, but good things wait in Vegas!”, adding a bunch of hashtags for good measure. The encouraging comments and hearts start coming in the second it goes live. Sometimes, after a particularly disappointing or just a hard day I wish I had a real life heart to come home to, but love isn’t something I have time for, and it’s not something I need.

“You can probably lay off the social media now that you made it,” Vlad suggests, frowning at my phone that’s still beeping from all the likes and comments.

“Never,” I tell him and smile widely. “I love my fans.”

And that love is the only kind I have time for.

* * *

Hawk

“Did you find all we need to know about these guys?” Cross asks right after barging into my office with no warning.

None of my Devil’s Nightmare MC brothers ever knock before visiting me here, and I’m sure none of them know how annoying it is to be interrupted when you’re all in, completely engrossed by searching for something on the computer like I am most of the time. Hell, most of them don’t even know how to turn on the computer.

But Cross isn’t one of those. Him and the old president hand picked me to join the MC as their hacker ten years ago, because Cross saw the value of having someone like me in their club, someone who can find out just about anything about anyone or anyplace without having to reveal themselves. They’ve taken me in as one of their own, but I’ll never really be one of them. I’m too different, an alien really, but that’s the story of my life, and I’ve accepted it a long time ago.

I didn’t answer him right away, so Cross makes a big show of knocking slowly on the already open door.

“Fine, I’ll knock next time,” he says. “Do I have to repeat the question too?”

I shake my head and motion for him to sit down in the empty chair next to me.

He’s my president and a man I’d respect even if he weren’t. Among other things, that’s so because he does things like almost apologize for not knocking like he did just now, and because he doesn’t lord it over us, even though he has the right character and the power to do it.

“This Yuri Kazarov we’re meeting in Vegas in a couple of days is the son of a big shot mob boss in Moscow, Russia,“ I tell him. “Not sure why little Yuri wanted to keep that a secret from us, but I’m willing to bet he was sent out here to make daddy proud in the new country.”

“Yeah, that sounds like he’s got things to prove,” Cross says in a bored, fed-up tone of voice. “I was hoping we’d have an easy kinda relationship with them now that we’ve settled on just running guns, but it doesn’t look promising.”

Our club has been a mercenary MC since it was founded more than 60 years ago, but Cross has been trying—and failing for the most part—to shift our area of operations away from that and towards just running guns, a thriving business handed off to us as payment by another MC about a year and a half ago. Something keeps coming up to prevent our break from the old ways, and these Russians who now want to buy guns from us as they get set up on the West Coast might be more trouble than they’re worth. Hiding their connections doesn’t bode well for an easy relationship.

“If he’s connected to the old country mafia, it means he’s connected to the East Coast Russian mob too,” Cross observes. “Since the Russians never made much of an inroad into the West Coast, I’m thinking this could be the start of attempting it. Not sure how wise it is to arm them to the teeth, if that’s what’s happening.”

“Yuri’s something of a wild card in his father’s operation. From what I’ve found out about him, I have him pegged as a spoiled youngest son who’s not gonna get much of his daddy’s wealth and business unless he takes it for himself.” I know all about that kinda logic. I grew up surrounded by bitter and arrogant youngest sons like this Yuri. Just another setting I never belonged in, since I would’ve inherited my father’s entire estate had I stayed. But I didn’t stay.

Cross’ frown deepens and his eyes grow even blacker.

“I think he was sent all the way out here, because he doesn’t play well with others,” I continue. “He’s caused all sorts of shit back in the motherland, and he’s stepped on more than a few toes when he disembarked on the East Coast a couple of months ago. Frankly, I’m surprised he’s still alive. I’d say it’s only his name that’s still shielding him from execution. But that just tells me his daddy has some very powerful friends and they probably reach all the way out here. Selling the guns to them might not be the best idea.”

“But I know you’re not afraid of a challenge,” I add quickly as Cross’ look grows blacker.

“I’d prefer smooth sailing,” Cross says. “But he’s a big new buyer and we need those.”

“That we do,” I say, although the ones we already have are plenty.

“Anything else I need to know?” he asks.

Cross might not always like my opinion, but that’s never stopped me from giving it and he never fails to hear me out. The money from this deal is good, and we do have a reputation to build, but I’m leaning towards passing this one up.

“The number of guns they want to buy has me worried. It’s enough for a small army, so I think we should check them out more thoroughly before agreeing to it, and certainly before delivering the goods.”

Cross nods and stands up. “You’re right. Take a couple of guys and set up in Vegas. Watching them is the best way to figure out what they’re really up to.“

He means we can never get the full picture from behind a computer screen, and he’s right, up to a point. I’m good at what I do, and I’m never wrong about anyone I investigate online. But some do surprise me, and I like to get out for some hands-on work too. I don’t even make a very good computer nerd, which is just another example of me never belonging anywhere. But I make it work.

“The meeting’s set for next Saturday,” Cross says. “I gotta think on how best to handle this, so try and get me something that’ll make my decision easier.”

“Don’t I always, Prez?” I tell him as he’s heading out the door. He just grunts something that could be taken as agreement, but it’s more likely him saying I’m too full of myself.

I will look into it, and I’ll find him good intel, but first I’ll look into something else. The thing that Cross interrupted me doing when he walked in.

Yuri Kazarov had quite a thing for controlling Russia’s budding ladies MMA league, and I’ve been following a gorgeous Russian fighter on social media for almost two years now. Not very closely lately, since she’s from the East Coast, and I’ve been kept busy all the way out here, so logistically there wasn’t much I could do about liking her. But she’s moving to Vegas now. What kinda fan would I be, if I didn’t warn her about this new shark swimming in the waters around here?

I can have my pick of beauties down at the clubhouse, or in town for that matter, but there’s just something about that beautiful fighter, who could be a model yet prefers to beat people up instead. She’s different. And I’ve always had a thing for different.

That’s not all I want from her. I almost rode out to New Jersey to meet her a few times, but it’s been a busy year and the Devils needed me here. I don’t get to meet women like her in my line of work. The ones hanging around the MC are mostly the crooning, take-care-of-me types, and that’s true for even the toughest among them. But this Yanna, she’s as tough as they come, and she doesn’t seem to need anyone. I’m gonna change that.

I just hope she likes men. The MC brothers that know about her think she probably doesn’t. But I’ll see her soon, so I guess I’ll find out.

* * *

Yanna

Bright lights, heat and noise! That’s the best way to describe this city. I thought NYC was bad, or even Moscow for that matter, but Las Vegas takes it to a new high. I’ve been filming all the way from the airport to my hotel room, and haven’t really soaked everything in yet, but now, as I go over the footage I see it’ll be mostly unusable unless I mute most of it and do a voice over before I post it online. Besides fighting, making videos and editing them is my other passion. Vlad keeps complaining about me missing everything, because I’m always filming, but the thing is, I enjoy watching what I’ve filmed even more than actually living it, since that lets me enjoy it all in peace and quiet, alone. My phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with Vlad’s text.

I hope you’re not still up and messing with your videos. We have a big day tomorrow.

He never really saw the point in me spending so much time on social media, and still doesn’t. I gave up explaining to him how these days, you’re not anyone at anything unless you have a huge online following, and besides, I don’t have a real promoter on my team. It’s just me, Vlad and his assistant, Ivan, who does some promoting but isn’t the best at it. So I have to toot my own horn.

I ignore Vlad’s text since I’m not giving up social media and my fans want to see this one. They’ve been begging all day for an update and I want to give it to them before I go to bed.

Vlad’s not wrong. It’s past midnight and I do have a big day tomorrow. A press conference, a photo-shoot for ads by my new sponsor, and as much training as I can cram in between all that. I won’t have time to do anything else but train for the next couple of days, and my fans all know I usually go silent right before a fight, so I need to give them this video. I set up a meet-and-greet for them, but that’s after my first fight and only the locals will be here, yet I have fans all over the world.

The “The Best of Her” international female MMA championship starts next Saturday, with 8 of the best fighters from all over the world competing for the title. I devoted the last year of my life to gaining a spot in the tournament, and I trained my whole life to win it. I’m gonna win it for Dima and everything he’s done for me. And I’m gonna win it for me and all my fans. Vlad has nothing to worry about, but he likes to worry and complain anyway.

If I let my mind wander, I kind of start to wish I could celebrate all I’ve achieved and have yet to achieve with an actual, warm, real person I could hug after the day’s work is done. Dima was such a person, but he’s dead and cold. Vlad is a great trainer, but he’s about as warm and inviting as a wall in winter. My online fans are loud and fast to offer congratulations, but they’re not there after a fight and they’re not there to touch. I’d like someone to touch, someone to come home to at night.

But I don’t let my mind wander often, so I don’t miss that hole in my life much. It’s easy to focus when there’s only one thing to focus on. And when it comes to winning, focus is just as important as training for eight to ten hours a day. It’s what separates the winners from the whiners. Winners focus and whiners lose. Dima constantly told me that, and I made a viral meme from it and took it as my personal motto.

I’m all about focus and I’m all about winning, and I never cry.

I update my Instagram with a picture of me in full fighting gear with the motto as a caption to remind myself, and everyone else who might be watching, how true and perfect those words are. If I dared, I’d post a picture of me and Dima from all those years ago, and thank him for all he’s done for me, let the whole world know I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for him.

But I can’t ever mention him or how much he meant to me. I’ve been hiding from Yuri Kazarov and the Russian mafia since the night he died. I never told anyone that I witnessed his death, and I changed my name, grew out my hair and lied that I’ve been living in the US, since I was eleven years old.

I practically live my life through the videos I post on YouTube, but most of what I’ve told my fans about my past has been a lie. I’ve never told them about Dima, the man who pulled me out of the gutter and made it possible for me to become the woman I am today and not some prostitute or worse. I know who killed him, but his killer doesn’t know that, and I’m alive because he doesn’t, and because I’ve grown up quite a bit since he last saw me as a girl of seventeen. But one day, I’ll get justice for Dima. Just as soon as I rise high enough to be untouchable. Just as soon as I achieve what he and I set out to achieve. Then I’ll thank him for all he’s done for me and make sure his killer pays.

I’ve made this promise to myself so many times since the night I saw him die, that it’s a permanent fixture in my thoughts, like a wallpaper that lines everything. By winning and by avenging him, those are the only two ways I can thank him for his sacrifice. And I will settle that debt. Soon.

Then I stop thinking about it and return to narrating and editing the video. It’s getting light out by the time it’s finally done and live online.

I just spent the whole night awake, and tomorrow will be hell, but I couldn’t sleep if I tried, not with Dima so real and vivid in my thoughts. It’s been years since I wanted to see him and speak to him as much as I want to right now. And it makes me feel even more alone than I usually do. But I’m better alone. And I know that perfectly well.