“Yiv? You’re needed out front.”

He snapped the phone shut, but I never once moved. I wanted this fucker intimidated enough to let me in. I needed to fight. I needed to kill.

“What the fuck’s wrong at this motherfucking hour?” a graveled, gruff accent complained, and then a big middle-aged guy came into view.

As soon as he saw me, his eyes narrowed and he folded his bulky arms across his chest. “Who the hell are you?” he snapped.

“Your fucking cage’s wet dream and your fighters’ worst nightmare,” I replied icily, bringing my fists to my chest and cracked my knuckles. The sound of each crack echoed off the bare walls.

The dick holding the gun and this Yiv glanced to each other. Yiv pushed the gun from the guy’s hand and stepped forward.

“You fought in a cage before?”

“Yes.”

His lip curled. “This ain’t no pissant MMA or WWE ring, you get that? Stakes are higher. Prices are paid with blood… with pieces of flesh. This is The Dungeon.”

My silence encouraged him to step forward, sizing me up. “You Russian?”

His question caught me off guard. I didn’t fucking know. My number was 818. I was raised in the Gulag. I was trained to kill. I had slaughtered over six hundred opponents. This was all there was to me. No history, no name, no family.

Just numbness.

The guy said something to me, only this time it was in another language. “I said are you fucking Russian?”

He’d spoken a different language than the guards, but somehow I understood it. He was speaking Russian? How the fuck did I know Russian?

Without thinking, I replied yes in the same language, and the guy’s face lit up.

“You haven’t got a sponsor, which means you’d be a buy-in.”

“What have I got to do?” I asked, the strange language pouring from my lips. My body tensed with the fact that I might get a way into this hellhole, this fucking heaven on Earth to me.

“You need to pay. That’s the only way in. We got a trainer that’s just lost a fighter, but it’s going to cost you.”

“How much?” I asked. Yiv jerked his thumb at the guy who handed me a slip of paper with a number written down.

As Yiv was walking away, he shouted, “You get that cash, you’re in. Training has already started for the rest of the men. The Dungeon begins in two weeks. It’s a three night ultimate battle to the death. The survivors fight in the final. You win, you win big. You have until then to get it together.”

The Dungeon.

Two weeks.

Revenge.

Alik Durov.

Kill.

I was going to do anything to get that cash.

Slamming the doors open, I fisted the paper in my hands, secured it in my pocket, and tried to think of what to do next. Then I saw a bunch of men sleeping on the street, hats out in front of them, begging money from passersby.

In a split second, I headed in that direction, grabbing a candle jar off some house’s tree. Tipping the candle to the ground, leaving it in my wake, I found a spot on the street, sat down, pulled my hood farther over my head, and placed my jar on the ground.

Two weeks.

I had two weeks to get the cash.

And I’d do anything to get in that cage and slice open Durov’s chest.

Chapter Five

Kisa

“Are you okay, miss?” Serge asked as he drove me through the awakening streets of Brooklyn toward the docks.

I pulled my gaze from outside the window and nodded my head, offering Serge an appeasing smile.

“It’s just a hard day. That’s all.”

Serge’s expression turned sympathetic in the rearview mirror. “Luka Tolstoi’s birthday,” he said, and I momentarily lost my breath just hearing those words out loud.

I stared down at my fidgeting fingers and nodded my head. It always pained me to think of Luka. Twenty-six years ago, the three Bratva bosses were all married and each had a son. Luka was born first, then Alik only a few months later. My brother Rodion and I followed a year later—we were twins. And finally, a year after that, Talia was born, Luka’s sister.

We all grew up together, the heirs of the New York Russian underground. We played together, spent days together in school, or hid together in secret when a threat to our mafiya was made by a rival. It was during these years that I became obsessed with Luka Tolstoi. He, my brother Rodion, and Alik were tight, the three male heirs to the Bratva rule. Rodion was destined to lead, Alik was second to him and Luka the third and final heir.

Luka and I shared something special. From toddlers, we were best friends. Then as the years passed, I knew I had fallen in love with him. I may have only been a child, but I loved him completely. Heart-crushing love.

Mama always said the stars aligned when we were born, that God made us a match. From the first time we saw each other, Luka took me in his arms and swore his protection over me to my mother. Mama used to say she caught him staring into my crib only hours after I was born. Then when she asked what he was doing, he asked her if he could have me. My mama joked and told him it would be my choice when I was old enough to crawl, and from the minute I was old enough to crawl, my mama told me I only ever crawled to one boy… Luka Tolstoi.

I’d agreed to let him have me. After all, God had created us to match.

Luka had a kind smile and the most beautiful dark-brown eyes. But it was Luka’s upper left iris smudged with a small splash of blue that made our mothers think we were destined to be. Mama said God placed a piece of my eye within his so we would always know we shared one soul. Luka was my protector. I adored the way he always held me close, making me feel safe, especially from Alik.