Chapter 4

The ringtone on Cecily’s phone woke her. Blinking groggy eyes, she answered the call.

“Cecily Marianne Carrigan! Where are you?”

Cecily held the phone away from her ear as her mother’s voice shrilled across the connection.

“What? Mom?”

“Pyotr called. He’s frantic. He says you left him!”

Cecily waited in silence. She knew from long experience that her mother wasn’t finished.

“Cecily, weren’t you going to marry him? What happened? And where are you?”

“Hi, Mom,” she said when her mother ran out of steam. “Pyotr never proposed and…”

“Well, I did always tell you girls that a man won’t buy a cow if the milk’s for free,” came the tart retort.

Cecily sighed. “Yes, you did, Mom. And you were right, as always.” She sighed again. “Look, Mom. I don’t want to get into the details now. I’m not really sure about things yet.”

“Where are you, Cecily?” Her mother’s voice turned stern.

“I’m traveling, Mom,” she fibbed, knowing that, if Pyotr genuinely wanted her back, her mother would tell him. “I’ll let you know where I settle.”

“Cecily, are you pregnant? Is that why you’re behaving so irrationally?”

“No, Mom, I’m not pregnant.” At least she didn’t think so. She’d been religious about taking her birth control pills.

“You know, honey, if you are pregnant, you can come home. We won’t judge you.”

Oh, yes, they would. If she went home pregnant, they’d call Pyotr and her dad would break out Grandpa’s shotgun just for the occasion.

“I know, Mom. I... I just need to be alone to think things through.”

“Okay, honey. I realize you’re an adult, but we do worry about you. You’ve never been the most sophisticated girl.”

Thanks for letting me know, once again, that I’m the stupid one in the family, she thought bitterly.

“Bye, Mom.”

“Be careful, dear.”

Cecily looked at her phone in disbelief. Or maybe dismay. A thousand miles away and she still couldn’t escape. Her belly rumbled and she decided that now was as good a time as any to scout out the local restaurants. She dropped her phone back into her purse, pocketed the room key, and embarked upon a new culinary journey.

Tex-Mex, barbeque, Asian fusion, and more barbeque. She walked and walked, committing the immediate area around the hotel to memory, noting the restaurants that seemed prosperous, if not trendy. She’d apply for work at those restaurants tomorrow. Those restaurants, she was sure, primarily catered to a transient crowd. Where did the locals eat? She stepped into an office supply store, figuring she needed some pens and paper anyway.

“What’s a good place to eat?” she asked the cashier. “A place where the folks who live here eat?”

The cashier shrugged his stooped shoulders and said, “My girl and I like to go to Acapulco Dream. It’s on the eastern side of town. You can’t go wrong on the River Walk, but it gets a little pricey over there.”

“Thanks,” she said, paid for her purchases, and left. She found a sidewalk bench and sat, using her phone to look up Acapulco Dream. Nope, I’m not going there, she thought after reading the reviews and getting a Google Earth picture of the neighborhood. She figured she might as well check out the River Walk.

She caught a cab and found herself enchanted by the festive atmosphere of the famous River Walk. The greenery and quiet river soothed her. Music floated through various doors. Couples and small groups clustered at outdoor seating. Cecily strolled slowly, reading the menus as she went by. Here variety reigned. Her keen nose picked out scents of beef, chicken, and pork, cumin, oregano, cilantro, citrus, and bourbon. The air nearly pulsed with vibrant energy.

This, she thought with excitement, this is where I want to work. The restlessness within her rang to the same vibe. She didn’t belong in Cleveland; she belonged in San Antonio.

She veered into a shady doorway and patiently waited for the maître d' to acknowledge her.

“How many?” the man asked.

“Just one.”

“Just one? Surely not?” He smiled at her, white teeth bright in his swarthy face. “You’re far too pretty to be alone.”

She smiled back, enjoying his charming flirtation. “I just got in this afternoon and haven’t met anyone, so I am indeed alone.”

“Then welcome to San Antonio,” he exclaimed as he led her to a small round table flanked by two chairs. “You’ll find we’re a friendly city. I’m sure you’ll feel at home very soon.”

“I hope so.”

“Are you here to see family? Taking a vacation? Or to work?”

She decided that honesty wouldn’t hurt. “I’m a chef and looking for work.”

“And you’ve decided to try out our little restaurant! We’re not hiring, but I do hope you enjoy your meal.”

She returned his smile and said, “Everything thus far smells delicious. I’m sure it will all be superb.”

He nodded and left her to her own devices. A waiter stopped by a moment later, introduced himself, handed her a menu, and took her drink order, nearly sneering when she asked for a glass of water. Cecily didn’t want to ruin her palate by drinking something strong before she ate, regardless of the waiter’s correct assumption that she was going to be a stingy customer. Several minutes later, the waiter returned with her water and took her dinner order.

While she waited for her meal, Cecily took pleasure in watching passersby. Couples strolled hand-in-hand or arm-in-arm in the soft, warm air. She sighed. It would have been so romantic to walk the River Walk with Pyotr. She could admit to herself that she missed him. She glanced at her watch and realized that she hadn’t adjusted it for the Central Time Zone. He would probably be sitting at his usual table at The Matrynoshka, sipping slowly at mug of dark beer, waiting for her to take a break and join him.

Her phone rang. She pulled it out of her purse and answered it without thinking.

“Where are you, dorogoy?”

“Pyotr.”

“Da. Where are you? Why did you run away?”

“I explained everything in my note, Pyotr.”

“Your note explains nothing. Come back home, vozlyublennaya.”

“I’m not your sweetheart any more, Pyotr. You didn’t love me enough to marry me. I need to find a man who does.”

“Then I will find you.”

“Don’t threaten me.”

“Is not threat; is promise.”

She could tell he was getting very emotional; he dropped his articles when overcome by strong emotion. She tried to soften the blow.

“Pyotr, I know you care. But I lived with you for more than six months and I can’t do that anymore.” She sighed. “Besides, I don’t like Cleveland. I don’t want to go back to Cleveland. And I won’t.”

“I find you. Then we talk.”

She frowned at the electronic device and ended the call without another word. She needed to get another phone, a disposable that Pyotr couldn’t call.

The waiter brought her meal, set it down with practiced flair, and inquired if she needed anything else. She did not and he departed to tend to other customers who were sure to tip better than this one.

Cecily enjoyed her food. Exquisitely prepared, she reveled in the spicy, piquant flavors that one just didn’t find in a stuffy northern city like Cleveland. She watched people as she ate. They smiled freely, moved with grace and abandon. She wanted that. She wanted to be part of this vibrant city that just teemed with life and exuberance, not the dreary cold that characterized Cleveland in winter.

“I think I’m going to love it here,” she said to herself as she watched a tour boat float past with ponderous grace.

After supper, she took a taxi back to the hotel and broke out her e-reader. Logging-in to the hotel’s complimentary wi-fi, she searched local advertisements for cooking positions, jotting down those that seemed promising. She then began cross-referencing them with restaurants she noticed in her walk down the River Walk. Three had openings. She used her tablet to immediately send inquiries to those three and hoped for a positive response.

* * *

“I got her,” Gennady announced with low-key triumph. “She’s in San Antonio.”

“Texas?” Pyotr exclaimed.

“Texas,” the lean, dark man confirmed. “Now we just have to narrow down her location from there.”

“I need to talk to Maksim.”

“He’s going to be pissed. You’re his favorite enforcer.”

Pyotr shrugged and rubbed his knuckles. They still ached. Since Vitaly’s last interrogation, Gennady had taken over those duties and Vitaly served as the organization’s medic. Pyotr had no idea where Vitaly got his medicines and such, but he wasn’t about to turn him in. None of them wanted the attention of law enforcement officials.

“He has others to substitute for me while I fetch Cecily back.”

“If he permits you to go.”

“Maksim is a believer in true love.”

“And is that what this is?”

Gennady did not flinch when his colleague’s expression turned hard and stone and cold as ice. He was made of sterner stuff, though that expression more often than not had caused grown men to wet their pants.

“Da,” Pyotr answered curtly. “I have the ring.”

“She doesn’t know,” Gennady muttered to himself.

Pyotr sighed. “No. I was going to surprise her.”

The perspicacious man, whose sexual tastes leaned toward the very dark, leaned back in the chair and watched his colleague with glittering eyes. “I know women,” he began.

“You break women,” Pyotr shot back.

Gennady nodded. He did break women. When he found a woman strong enough not to break, he’d keep her and maybe she’d break him. He repeated, “I know women. I observe their expressions and their body language. I listen to the tone of their voices and the reactions of their bodies. Your Cecily was not happy here.”

“She was happy with me.”

“She was restless. You said so yourself. What makes you think she will come back here with you?”

Pyotr clamped his jaw shut before he committed himself to something he knew was wrong, like abducting his woman and forcibly returning her to his home. Once the urge to beat his chest like a gorilla had passed, he released the tension in a gusty exhale and said, “Then I will stay in Texas with her.”

“There’s no leaving the Bratva. Not alive.” Gennady gave him a small, sardonic smile. “And I don’t particularly want to kill you.”

“There are associates in Texas.”

“Houston. Austin maybe. But I don’t think Maksim will transfer authority so readily.”

Pyotr pondered that. No, Maksim, tolerant as he might be for a Bratva boss, would not cede ownership of his prized enforcer so easily. He wondered if he had sufficient funds to buy his way out. Or if he could fight his way out. He rubbed his knuckles again. He was a damned good fighter, perhaps not as quick as some, but he had sufficient speed, a powerful punch, and a crushing grip. A harsh life had crushed much of the kindness from him—that kindness he had left was reserved for only a very few honored individuals.

Cecily’s betrayal hurt deeply. He quivered with the need to beat something to a bloody pulp.

“I’m going back to the cage tonight,” he said.

Gennady’s eyes lit up. “I’ll bet on you.”

Pyotr nodded. “I’ve got to make some phone calls. Thanks for your help today.”

“Win your fights tonight and we’re even.”

Pyotr pulled out his wallet and handed Gennady a wad of cash. “Place two bets on me, would you? I feel a need to boost my bank account.”

Gennady favored him with a toothy smile, saluted him, and left. Pyotr knew Gennady would not cheat him. The man was sadistic and cruel, but he could be trusted.

His first phone call was to a connection in the underground fighting subculture.

“Joe, it’s Pyotr.”

“Hey, Pyotr! Long time, no hear. What’s up, my friend?”

“Where’s the biggest open fight tonight?”

“You going back in the cage?”

“Da.” He could practically hear the adding machine tallying up odds in the other man’s brain.

“There’s an open challenge scheduled tonight in the warehouse at Rocheford. D’ya know it?”

“Da, I know it. What time?”

“’Bout eight, man.”

“I’ll be there. Don’t tell anyone.” That, he knew, was tantamount to posting an announcement on Facebook.

“’Course not, bro.”

“Spasibo.”

His next call was to Vitaly.

“I need your assistance tonight.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll explain when Gia isn’t around.”

There was a pause, then Pyotr heard him make his apologies to Gia.

“This had better be good, Pyotr. Gia’s making gumbo.”

Pyotr wasn’t entirely sure what gumbo was and hoped it wasn’t some weird euphemism for kinky sex, because he didn’t particularly want that image on his brain, especially when he wasn’t getting any that night.

“Meet me at the warehouse on Rocheford at eight tonight.”

“You going back into the cage?” Vitaly’s voice dropped an octave.

“Da.”

“Did Maksim approve this?”

“Maksim doesn’t know yet. I’m calling him next.”

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

Yes, he was. He hoped Maksim would understand.

“Where is she?” his boss demanded when he received his enforcer’s call. “She left without a word! The kitchen is in shambles!”

“Gennady tracked her to Texas,” Pyotr replied.

“Texas! Why would she go there?”

“I need to go down there to get her back.”

“And will you be coming back with her?” Maksim’s voice turned cool and calculating.

“If she wants to come back, then yes.”

“And if not?”

“I will not force her to return with me.”

Maksim recognized evasion when he heard it. “Tell me, Pyotr, have I treated you poorly?”

“No, Boss. You’ve been most generous.”

“Then why do I feel you’re taking advantage of my good nature?”

Having nothing to fall back on, Pyotr went with gut-wrenching honesty: “I love her, Maksim.”

“Is that Pyotr?” he heard Olivia’s voice in the background.

There was a click and then he heard Olivia’s voice on the telephone extension. Maksim only used the landline in his house; he disliked cell phones.

“Have you found our missing girl, Pyotr?” Olivia asked, worry making her rich tones unnaturally thin and reedy.

“Gennady tracked her to Texas.”

“You must bring her back.”

“She might not want to come back, Olivia.”

“What did you do to her?” the fiery redhead demanded hotly. “If you hurt her—”

“No, no. I did not harm her,” Pyotr rushed to reassured her before she could sic her husband on him. “I had planned to ask her to marry me.”

She must have heard tears clogging his throat, because she sniffled, too. “Oh, Pyotr, you poor, poor man. Maksim?”

“Da, dorogoy?”

“You let this boy go to his sweetheart.” An undercurrent of steely resolve in the small woman’s voice cowed many men. Maksim was no exception.

“But, Livvy—”

“You have other bully boys who can beat people up for you. Give him a few weeks to take care of business.”

“And if he decides not to come back?”

“Then you let the man fight or buy his freedom.”

“Da.”

No man under Maksim’s authority was so foolish as to mock their boss for his acquiescence to pretty little Olivia. The last man who had done so had gone swimming. In pieces. Maksim might behave the doting husband and papa, but underneath beat the cold heart and brutish cruelty of a hardened criminal. Maksim hadn’t risen to his current position in the Bratva by being either stupid or soft.

“You have one month to settle this, Pyotr.”

“Spasibo.”

“And you will owe me.”

“Da. Spasibo.”

“Tell Gennady to put ten thousand on you tonight. Don’t you dare lose my money.”

Pyotr wondered how Maksim already knew he was fighting, but did not question the man and promised him he wouldn’t lose his money: “Ya ne budu teryat' svoi den'gi.”

The call ended. Pyotr rolled his shoulders and went to the bedroom to pack his gear. There wasn’t much. A light silk robe the same icy blue as his eyes. A mouthpiece to protect his teeth. Water bottle. Towel. Soap. Tape for his knuckles. Vitaly would bring his medical kit. Finally, he packed a pair of shorts of the same blue as the robe.

He ate a protein bar, drank some water, took a piss.

He was ready to go.

Murmurs of recognition greeted him when he walked into the building: “Is that the Ice Bear?” “The Ice Bear’s back!” “Will he fight?”

He stopped by the registration desk and scanned the list of fighters who had already signed up. His left eyebrow rose when he recognized a handful of the names scrawled on the paper.

“Who’re you?” the skinny dude sitting at that table asked, his voice dripping with contempt.

“Pyotr Idaklyka.”

The young man’s eyebrows rose to meet his receding hairline. “You’re the famous Ice Bear?”

“Da.” And, just because he could, he leaned forward and loomed over the nasty little man. He let his accent thicken and said, “And you will treat me with respect, little worm.”

“Er, yes, of course, sir.” Suddenly the skinny man scooted his chair back and muttered, “I gotta go.”

Pyotr watched his rapidly retreating form. It was good to know he hadn’t lost his edge. He signed his name, then printed it neatly on the roster. He handed his entry fee to the gaping boy sitting in the other seat at the registration table.

“Mark my entry fee as paid.”

The boy’s pimply head bobbed in an obedient nod and as he quickly scrawled a receipt and handed it to Pyotr.

“Are the dressing rooms still back and to the right?”

The boy nodded.

“Spasibo.”

Pyotr’s expensive Italian leather dress shoes slapped softly against the concrete floor as he walked back. He deliberately and methodically emptied his mind of everything but the long night ahead. Old laurels and notoriety would get him nowhere in the cage. The young punks he’d fight tonight would be fast and vicious. Having been out of the game for a few years, he’d be starting anew, having to fight every round before graduating to the money rounds, the prize fights.

He was of the age when fighters retired from the ring, not went back into it. If he didn’t defeat every opponent tonight, then...no, he would not entertain the notion of defeat. Thinking of it would become a self-fulfilling prophecy. He was going out there to win. Only winning would bring enough cash to buy his freedom.

When he entered the makeshift dressing room, Vitaly was already there, waiting for him. Other fighters and their helpers looked up at his entrance, then went back to minding their own business. With the low murmur of private conversations and the rustle of clothing, the dressing room was a surprisingly quiet place.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” the former interrogator said in their native tongue.

“So do I. Is Gia here?”

“God, no.”

“Good. She’s too nice for this.”

“You do remember who her grandfather is?”

“Yes, and I also remember that her father got out and is a literature professor. Her mother’s a professor, too.” Pyotr claimed an empty bench and unknotted his red silk tie.

Vitaly shook his head. “I met them a month after Gia and I were married. They didn’t approve of me.”

“Did you expect them to?”

Vitaly huffed a bitter laugh. “No, not really. They weren’t very good at hiding their disappointment in their daughter.”

“That would have been hard on her.”

Vitaly smiled. “My Giancarla is strong, tougher than she realizes. She’s more like Giuseppe than her pansy-ass father.”

“I’ll bet Giuseppe realizes that, too.”

“He’s a sharp one, misses nothing. Giovanni’s just like him, only taller.”

Pyotr barked a burst of laughter. “Some interesting in-laws you’ve got.”

“My Giancarla comes with family and I would not part with her for anything.”

Pyotr envied him for having found and secured the love of his life. The two men exchanged silent, knowing glances. Vitaly knew, as did Pyotr, that Giancarla’s entrance into his life had saved what little was left of his soul. Pyotr’s own soul felt cold and hollow without Cecily’s warmth and heavenly cooking to fill it.

“So, when’s the baby due?” he asked.

“You know she’s pregnant?”

“Man, we all know she’s pregnant. What we don’t know is why you haven’t announced it yet.”

Vitaly’s wide shoulders sagged. “She wants to tell her parents and grandfather before anyone else. We’re having a family dinner next week.”

“At your house?”

Vitaly shrugged. “It’s neutral ground, more or less. Maksim and Olivia will be there, too.”

“As your family?”

“We are Bratva.”

And Bratva was family with ties thicker than blood.

Pyotr finished stripping and hung his clothes carefully. That suit was expensive and he had learned early to take care of what was his. He pulled on the shorts; they were a little tighter than they used to be.

“The ring rats will like that look,” Vitaly joked.

Pyotr threw him a sour look. His abdominal muscles were still hard, his thighs still bulged with muscle.

“You’ve gained bulk, not fat,” Vitaly observed with a critical eye. He rose from the bench. “You ready?”

“Da.”

“Then let’s go beat some pansy-ass thugs.”

Pyotr nodded and thumped his chest with a fist. He and Vitaly walked to the doorway that opened into an aisle that led to the cage. The newest of newcomers fought first. Those rounds went quickly with the best of them soon defeating their opponents. When Pyotr’s name was called, the announcer added a bit of extra commentary:

“Some of you may remember an undefeated champion, a six-time heavyweight champion who mowed over every opponent unfortunate enough to cross his path. He’s back, folks! The Ice Bear has returned to reclaim his championship status!”

Gasps, cheers, and boos rose to the rafters as Vitaly and Pyotr walked toward the metal cage. Inside the cage and sweating from his last fight was the current champion. Pyotr’s keen gaze watched him, noted the tightening of the skin around his eyes, the flare of his nostrils. This youngster had heard of him, perhaps had even seen him fight, had an inkling of what he’d be going up against. If Pyotr defeated him—and he would, no doubt about it—then Pyotr would stay in the cage fighting all challengers until someone fresh beat him to a pulp.

Pyotr was determined that would not happen.

Vitaly had the same thought. “Don’t play him. Conserve your energy.”

“Da.”

The cage door opened. Pyotr removed his blue robe and walked in, remembering the feel of the mats beneath his bare feet.

“You’re fatter than you used to be, old man,” the youngster jeered.

The big Russian ignored him, knowing better than to let such taunts rile him.

“Shake hands,” the referee ordered.

Opponents met in the center of the ring and lightly bumped fists. Pyotr noted that bruises already blooming on the other man’s pale skin. The placement of those bruises meant that he too often left that area unguarded. The fighters took a step back and waited eternal seconds until the bell rang. Pyotr’s fist shot out and drilled his opponent. The man squealed like a stuck pig and dropped to the mat, clutching his side.

“Fight! Fight!” the crowd shouted.

The referee waved Pyotr back. He retreated calmly, coldly to his corner to wait.

“Slayer’s ribs are broken!” the announcer shouted with glee. “The Ice Bear felled him with one blow! Who will topple the Ice Bear?”

Two men with a stretcher removed Slayer from the cage. The Russian waited calmly while the announcer identified his next opponent, who called himself The Dragon of Cleveland. A more seasoned opponent, he landed one blow on the Ice Bear before being pummeled to the floor with brutal efficiency and admitting defeat. Again, Pyotr retreated to his corner. He took a sip of water while The Dragon of Cleveland hobbled from the cage. By the time his fifth opponent staggered from the cage, Pyotr was tired. His skin gleamed with sweat. His left eye was swollen nearly shut. His knuckles oozed blood. A deep bruise darkened his right thigh and another flowered on his left side. The frenzied crowd couldn’t quite make up their collective minds whether to cheer for him or for each new opponent who fell to the power and speed of his fists.

“Who will fight the Ice Bear?” the announcer shouted into his microphone. “Opponents are scratching right and left, running scared! Who will take up the old man’s challenge?”

A roar from the dressing room rose above the general din.

“I will! I will fight the Russian fascist!”

Vitaly shook his head and muttered, “Fucking idiot.”

Pyotr’s face, which he had carefully maintained in an expression of boredom, went sharp and cold. “Fascist?” he whispered.

“I will fight and defeat the communist pig!”

“Really? That’s the best he’s got?” Vitaly murmured.

“And then I’ll fuck his fat girlfriend and show her what a real man feels like!”

“Oh, shit.”

The loudmouthed challenger marched into the cage. Fully as big as Pyotr, he looked like nothing other than a veritable mountain of muscle. But the Russian watched him closely, analyzed his every movement. The challenger met his glance with his upper lip curled in a sneer.

“You’re gonna be nothing more than greasy puddle on the floor when I’m done with you, old man.”

Pyotr glided to the center of the ring. The other man lumbered. Both men rolled their shoulders to loosen up.

“Shake hands,” the referee said

The men bumped fists. The challenger’s fists shot out with heavy force. Pyotr jerked his bruised hands back to avoid the brunt of that impact.

“Scared, pig?”

“Nyet.”

The bell rang and the men circled one another, measuring each other. Pyotr quickly realized that, for all the man’s crude bluster, he was a veteran of the ring. But he’d grown sloppy and overconfident. He moved like a boxer. The Russian smile thinly in assured triumph. He knew the man’s weak point and he would exploit that as quickly as possible. With smooth speed, he attacked using his mastery of Krav Maga and Systema as though the beefy man had attacked him. In a few short, targeted blows, his opponent heaved deep breaths of overheated air redolent of the odors of sweat, blood, and cheap perfume. The challenger, driven back by the sudden onslaught, rallied and rained rapid blows on Pyotr. The fight devolved into a dirty brawl within a split second.

The bell rang and the referee and four other men pulled the two fighters apart.

“Thirty seconds!” the announcer shouted and directed each man to take a break. The crowd screamed for more fighting, more blood.

“He’s called the Gladiator,” Vitaly said as he squirted water into Pyotr’s mouth and held up a cup for him to spit in. He dabbed a sponge soaked in cold water on Pyotr’s eye. “Are you all right to go on?

“Yes.”

“You’re dropping your right shoulder and he knows that. He’s favoring his right leg. Use it against him.”

Pyotr nodded as the announcer called for the fighters to resume. He groaned as he rose from the stool. Really, he was getting too damned old for this. But he’d made his decision and he’d stick by it. He rolled his head on his neck, rolled his shoulders, and shook out each leg.

“We gonna do the Hokey Pokey now?” the Gladiator sneered.

“Ten seconds,” Pyotr replied.

“Huh?”

The bell rang and the clock ticked. Pyotr’s fists shot out with a vicious one-two uppercut punch that knocked the man’s head back. His leg swept out, knocking his opponent’s legs out from under him. Another blow caught the man as he fell. When he hit the mat, Pyotr dropped to his knees squarely over the man’s kidneys and landed a few more rapid punches.

The Gladiator tapped the mat in defeat.

Pyotr rose to his feet, feeling a piercing ache in every joint, every muscle. Even his hair hurt. His vision blurred. But he was upright when his opponent was not.

“Undefeated again! The Ice Bear!” the announcer cried out. He made as if to grab the big Russian’s arm, but a warning glower deterred him. Pyotr suspected that if the ringmaster grabbed his arm, he’d topple over. “Give a hand to the return of the Russian Ice Bear!”

Gennady met Vitaly and Pyotr in the dressing room, looking as happy as Pyotr had ever seen him.

“Good show, Pyotr,” the thin, dark man complimented. “You made all of us tidy profit tonight. When do you fight next?”

“Four days,” Pyotr replied and worked his jaw. Damn, but someone had gotten in a hefty punch there.

“Just enough time for those bruises to bloom in glorious color,” Gennady said with approval. “Looking like someone beat the hell out of you will increase the odds against you. We’re going to make a killing.”

“Find Cecily for me and I’ll give you half of my winnings from the next fight.”

“You got it, man.”