Ignoring the shitbag, I hefted the bar and heavy weights from the stand to begin my reps.

Someone, probably Yiv, knocked on the door and ordered, “Raze, out here now.”

Placing the weight back on to the stand, I rose to my feet and walked out into the wider gym, my gaze narrowed and to the ground. There I saw fighters all itching to draw blood, like feral animals being held back on a leash, coaches standing by, watching on.

Then my blood ran cold as Durov pushed through the crowd, his narrowed eyes trained on me.

I stood my ground, fighting an overwhelming urge to rush forward and break his neck. But I wanted his death to be drawn out, real slow, humiliating. Durov clicked his neck from side to side. I had no memory yet of how he’d lied, how he’d condemned me to the Gulag, but I didn’t give a fuck. I would remember in time. Every fiber of my being told me this prick must die.

Alik’s strut stopped just in front of me, his bare feet coming into view. I kept my chin down as I studied his every move from my peripheral vision. He was built for death match fighting. But so was fucking I.

“Raze is it?” he asked, and I could hear a smirk pull on his thin lips.

I kept staring at the ground, my silence causing him to step forward. “What’s the matter, can’t look at the champion? The man who can kill all the shits in this competition?” I didn’t react, though my blood boiled inside. “Get in the fucking cage,” Alik then ordered. One of the trainers opened the steel door to the octagon and, without hesitation, I stepped inside.

I stood in the center and braced for an opponent. Alik flicked his chin in the direction of a dark fighter to his right, a fighter twice my size, but this didn’t faze me.

“Get in with him.”

The fighter’s coach pointed to the door, and I stayed still, my eyes remaining locked on the ground, even as I felt the fighter’s presence fill the cage.

“The Turk, champion of the Chinese underground,” Alik said. “Let’s see what you got. First man to knock out wins.”

I clenched my hands into fists just as the Turk charged, his large, heavy feet bouncing the floor of the cage. I tilted my head to face him, unmoving, watching his slow movements with tight eyes, my gaze zoning in on his weak and untrained attack.

The Turk charged me and lifted his fist to strike. Ducking, I jabbed his kidney, then struck his jaw before he’d even had a chance to react. Turning around, I slowly walked away, eyes again fixed on the ground, as I heard the Turk hit the floor—unconscious.

The other fighters grew restless, a mob of psychos shouting, eager to take me on. I looked up, sure Alik couldn’t see my eyes under the black grease from here.

Alik’s eyes flared with rage. He turned to a blond-haired fighter and screamed, “You’re next.”

The blond entered the cage as the Turk’s trainer dragged out his knocked-out ass. The blond gave me no time to prepare. He ran at me full force. As he was about to tackle me, I quickly spun away. Gripping his neck, I used his momentum to slam his thick skull into the rigid metal of the cage. Then I forced him back to ram his nose into my knee. The guy slumped to the floor, a pool of blood already forming.

Standing straight, I wiped the blood from my hands on my torso. I caught a glimpse of Durov seething on the spot. I saw his gaze shoot to the left. I followed his line of sight and my gaze fell on Volkova, who had stepped out of her office. Her face, betraying shock, took in the scene. Then her huge blue eyes met mine, once again locked into the pull that was pulsing between us.

Movement from the side brought my attention back to Durov, who was sprinting toward the cage. My muscles rippled as I braced for his attack. Suddenly, a loud clapping from the back of the room stopped Durov in his tracks.

A gray-haired man stepped forward. He wore a long black coat and a suit, his excited eyes not once straying from me. Durov paled when the man stepped forward. He stared at me, teeth gritted in frustration, chest veins dancing under his flesh.

He wanted me dead too.

Fucking perfect.

“Alik, don’t you dare think of getting into that cage,” the man said, then looked at Volkova, and my blood began pumping. “Kisa, come,” he ordered.

Kisa…

Kisa bowed her flushed face and walked over and stood beside him.

“The buy-in?” he asked, his cold eyes drinking in my still form. His eyes narrowed as he focused on the number—818—tattooed across my chest. I dropped my chin, avoiding eye contact.

“Y-yes,” Kisa stuttered.

Durov roared and punched the nearest wall, evidently losing his shit. The man didn’t even flinch, too busy forming a smile on his sharp face. This guy exuded power; he had to be the one in charge, the boss, the Pakhan Viktor had fucking talked about nonstop. The most powerful man in New York, ruthless, not to be fucked with.

“He goes on the headline roster,” he ordered Kisa. She nodded in agreement.

“Like fuck he does!” Alik boomed out as he faced up to the Pakhan, his torso tight with strain. A nervous hush settled on the gym as Alik fumed on the spot. As quick as a flash, the Pakhan gripped Alik’s face in his hands and pushed him back against the mesh wall of the cage. Alik smashed into the metal, which clinked and groaned at the force of impact.

“You will show me some fucking respect or you will force me to lift my hand and drill it into your skull.” The Pakhan didn’t raise his voice, keeping cool and calm.

I’d always found the silent ones to be the most dangerous opponents.