“You know how fucked up that sounds, don’t you?” Talia replied in dismay.
“But it doesn’t make it any less true. This is all I’ve known for so long. I don’t know how to be without him anymore.”
Talia sighed. “Okay, Kisa. You’re old enough to make up your own mind.”
I nodded even though she couldn’t see me.
“Right, well, I’ve got to get more work done. The Chechens are attending this season. That means big money, Kisa, which means there can be no fuck-ups. Keep me updated on the new fighter. We’re cutting it close. Papa’s concerned.”
“I will. Speak later, Tal.”
I hung up the phone and leaned back in my chair. A knock sounded on my door. “Come in!” I shouted, and Yiv poked his head round the door.
“Miss. Volkova, we got the buy-in. He’s training with Viktor now.”
A huge feeling of relief washed through my body, and I grabbed my pen. “Thank God! Have we got a name?”
Yiv shrugged. “Viktor said he calls himself Raze.”
My eyes darted up from the Post-It note, and I frowned at Yiv. “Raze?”
“Said he didn’t have a name. Just called himself Raze.” Yiv opened the door. “He’s in the weights now if you want to talk to him.”
I nodded my head and added him to the roster at the lowest level. Newbies, unless approved by my father, did the early fights, the fights for less money. And it wasn’t uncommon for fighters to have no names; sometimes they preferred to use an alias. The only people insane enough to fight to the death were murders, serial killers, those repaying a debt to their sponsors, or the truly messed up. I was sure Alik crossed into a few of these categories… which was a disturbing thought all in itself.
Feeling I needed a walk, I decided to go check out this new fighter. Opening the door, I walked through the small, private weight rooms where the fighters were training. I was proud of the quality of this year’s contestants. The men were more ruthless and brutal than any we’d been able to secure in recent years.
The Dungeon’s Championship reputation grew year by year in the dark world of underground gambling rings. The Dungeon had more prestige than ever, which equaled more money. The fact that my father’s Byki were here day and night until the gym closed, lining the gym walls in their masses and packing AK rifles, said everything about the mental state of this year’s crop of fighters. Papa didn’t want any more pre-fights breaking out, no more early deaths—which did happen each year. And he definitely didn’t want me endangered, which looking at what some of the contestants had done in their pasts, well, it was a real possibility.
Keeping my head down from the lustful glares of the fighters, I headed to the back room where the newbie was training. Hearing the distinct sound of grunts and the metal to metal of weights clanging, I entered the door and was greeted with the domineering sight of a large man’s back, a back full of scars and burns, red marks and raised white skin. He had a huge tattoo across his bulking shoulder blades, which read, “RAZE.”
The new fighter was lifting weights, his ripped and cut muscles tensing and flexing. He was in great condition. A perfect addition to The Dungeon.
Viktor noticed me walk in. He moved from in front of the fighter, counting his reps on a clipboard, to greet me. “Miss. Volkova,” Viktor said, coming to stand next to me as I kept watching this Raze.
The fighter didn’t stop lifting, and I didn’t stop staring. I tried to open my mouth to say something to Viktor—about the fighter’s progress, his stats, if he’d be any good in the cage, what he’d chosen as his weapon—but I was struck dumb watching him lift such impossible weight with a fierce intensity. My thighs tightened as I felt moisture pool between my legs.
I cleared my throat and ran my hand over my forehead. I had no idea what was coming over me lately, but lusting after another man was not… normal. I was turning into a whore.
Viktor nudged me and held out the clipboard for me to read. As I ran my eyes over Raze’s statistics, they bulged. I snapped my gaze to Viktor, who raised his eyebrows and nodded his head. The only other fighter we had who worked as hard was… Alik.
I surveyed the tattoos and scars, which were all over this man’s back. I flinched at some of the images: laughing evil clowns, what can only be described as satanic and demonic lettering spelling the word ‘RAZE’. His tattooed name alone told me the type of man this was—lethal, unforgiving, a born killer. But it was the tattoos beneath that had me entranced: what looked to be hundreds and hundreds of tally marks littering the bottom of his back, then continuing around his sides and, I guessed, over his stomach too.