Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
He shoved hard, and for a second, strength met strength.
I released, stepping back with a wolfish grin. “You should’ve gone the mixed martial arts route.”
Vassilievich wiped sweat from his jaw. “I prefer political science. Also, you don’t believe in me.” His eyes flicked to the rope. “Five extra minutes, huh?”
Why did he take every word so heavy? He didn’t understand—a Russian father didn’t hand out gold stars. You earn them.
“I got class in an hour,” he muttered. “I’m out.”
My tongue itched to say, Who pays for those classes? We got along in increments. Time was up. He slung his backpack over his shoulder, his back muscles proof of every drill I hammered into him, and walked off.
Truth? Moy syn never climbed into the cage with me to find out if he had skills.
Nyet. That was a lie.
You’ve gone too far, Vassili! He’s only five! Zariah’s shout still cracked my eardrums. I’d just wanted to teach the boy to defend himself. That was our toughest year.
I scanned the gym, eyes locking onto the MMA cage where Yaroslav, a young Russian in my Killer Karo line, fought fresh meat. Only, the newbie was holding his own.
Yaroslav, looking like spoiled milk dripping in blood, twisted until his back no longer rested against the fence. The next punch, the other guy torpedoed, slamming against the wall. Yaroslav spun until his arm looped around the man’s neck, and Yaroslav plopped down square on his rear. Every limb engaged. Legs wrapped around the newbie. One forearm twisted in one direction, and the other around the man’s neck.
The guy’s lashes fluttered against his olive skin.
“Yarik,” I barked.
My UFC champ popped up, already climbing the cage like a wild wolf pup. The other guy woke a second after his face ate the canvas. He jumped up, energized, and then realized he was alone.
“What’s your name?” I asked, approaching.
“Eloy,” he said, Latino accent rolling.
“Eloy,” I tested the name. “You’re at the wrong gym.”
A flicker crossed his eyes, gone too fast as he exited the cage door. Then the smile.
Ah, you’re hiding something.
“Never been in a Russian gym before,” Eloy said.
I raised a brow. “Russian gym? Nyet, my friend. This is the World’s Best UFC gym—excuse me—that stands for Ultimate Fighting Championship. I have title holders in different races, weights. You box. You nap on canvas. You don’t belong.”
Laughter rippled across the room. Fighters, trainers, even weightlifters joined in.
His jaw tightened. “I’m a quick learner. I was a Marine, Mr. Resnov. Please check my credentials.”
I scratched the stubble on my jaw. He had form, discipline. “How should I use that information?”
He took a tentative step. “You, uh, need someone to watch over your daughter.”
Every hair on my arms lifted. Natasha. Always Natasha.
I didn’t even have time to shake off the guilt of putting her in the Chelomeys’ crosshairs, and now this kid shows up saying she needs protection? What does he know?
Yuri slunk in, unwrapping a Twinkie. Eloy could wait. Besides, my wife told me this Chelomey thing had me taking my daughter’s protection too far. I strolled over to Yuri, snatched the Twinkie from his hand. In one wolfish bite, I made the cake go bye-bye. “You had bad news?”
My cousin worked his jaw as if angry about the Twinkie, then fidgeted. “Uh … Our Cutie Pie … might be engaged.”
“Save the jokes for the Laugh Factory across the street, Yuri. This is moya doch’ we are discussing.”
“Lachlan,” he blurted. “He bought jewelry from Bellas.”
“When?”
“Valentine’s Eve. And CP was in Greece this weekend. Returned today.”
A chuckle broke from me, dark, bitter. My daughter wanted me dead more than I’d ever wanted to kill my father. “My daughter is more Russian than she realizes.”
Behind me, Eloy cleared his throat. “Mr. Resnov?”
I turned slowly. Still here? Thought I’d shaken him.
“I’m not a UFC fighter,” he said.
“No crap.”
“But I was in the Marines. I know protection. Discipline. You need someone to watch her. I can be that shadow.”
I wanted to bite his head off. Ask how he knew about my daughter. Though the entire world knew of the Resnov Bratva, they didn’t whisper our names, even in their own homes. Maybe this kid didn’t know better. Or perhaps he was stupid. A Marine, eh? I considered his offer. My pinkie itched. I’d promised Natasha no more shadows. “Eloy, you got a card?”
He offered his phone. I tapped mine. His details popped up.
“Thank you, Mr. Resnov.”
I nodded once. Watched him leave. Good form. Clean lines. Too clean.
“Yuri,” I muttered, forwarding the information via text. “Vet him. If he has a parking ticket—”
“Don’t hire him?”
“No. Kill him.”
Yuri blinked. “You think Eloy Hernandez is catfishing us?”
“He’s dead if no trail leads me to who he is. Who his parents are. Got that?”
“Da.”
I patted my cousin’s shoulder, muttering, “Khorosho, khorosho.” Vadim’s old words echoed in my ear. Good. Good.