Riot (Scarred Souls 4)

We were different males now. Had different lives. Yet at the same time, until Arziani—the puppet master of our personal hells—was dead, we would always be the same captured males we had been for most of our lives. We would be forever imprisoned by our pasts. We would never truly move on.

Addressing Valentin, I said, “We need to use the four weeks to train you.” I then spoke to Zaal. “We need to train ourselves again, too. Ask Viktor to get us ready. We have no choice but to come back to our females. To do that we need to defeat every fighter that gets in our way. It’s the only way we can go—we go to win.”

Zaal held out his hand and I shook it. Valentin did the same. As we looked to one another, a surge of excitement welled up in my heart. In four weeks’ time, for four days, I would once again be Raze.

I had missed being Raze. I had missed and craved the blood I would shed. For two weeks, I could be the gulag champion again; then I would forever leave him in the past.

Turning on my heel, I jumped from the cage, and my father stepped in my path. Kirill fell in behind him, a look of serious concern on his face. But it was my papa to whom I gave my attention. The sad yet stubborn expression on his face was hard to ignore.

“I won’t allow it,” he said, and shook his head. “Your mama and Kisa won’t want this, Luka. What the hell are you thinking?”

Glancing down to the floor, I then looked back and said, “How many more kids are in gulags around the world? How many are stolen from group homes or the streets and being forced to fight?” I held on to my father’s arm and said, “How many papas are searching for their lost sons? Not knowing, never believing they could be under the control of some fucked-up psychopath who has a delusion of being a sadistic Caesar from ancient Rome?” My father paled, but I kept going. “It’s not over, Papa. Even though I’ve been back here in New York with you, Kirill, Mama, Talia, and Kisa, I’ve never been fully present.”

I searched for a way to make him understand. Kisa’s face filled my mind’s eye. I pictured my hand on her stomach, which punctured a hole in my heart when our baby had kicked. Pushing the lump from my throat, I said, “Kisa is due to have our baby soon. I can’t live in a world with my child while being haunted by the past. To be the father I want to be, the father you are, I need to end this once and for all. The Arziani empire must fall. And I must be the one to do it.” This time I looked to Kirill and said, “To be the Pakhan of our Bratva, I have to rid myself of all the pain I still carry with me. Arziani is the root of all of this evil. He’s the snake. And I’m going to rip off his fucking head.”

“Luka,” my papa rasped, and placed his hand on the nape of my neck. He brought my forehead to his and said, “I’m proud of you, son. But I cannot rest until you have taken this bastard down and returned home safe. For good this time.”

“Thank you,” I hushed back. Lifting my head, I met his worried gaze and said, “I’m Raze. I’m the champion. I don’t lose.” I thought of my beautiful wife and our child. I thought of Zaal and Talia, Valentin and Zoya, and I knew I wouldn’t fail. This was my family now. And we would all survive. We had to, there was no other choice.

Kirill walked around my father and kissed my head. He didn’t speak, but I didn’t need words to see the pride on his face. Kirill had been the Pakhan for decades. He knew that leaders sometimes had to sacrifice a part of themselves for the greater good. And killing Arziani was for the greater good.

I had four weeks to recall and embrace the savage killer I had pushed down deep.

As I made my way home, I flexed my hands, staring at the fingers that would soon be reacquainted with the bladed knuckle-dusters they knew so well.

And with every mile driven toward my home, the identity tattoo on my chest burned hotter and hotter. 818 was breaking back through, pushing Luka Tolstoi aside.

Temporarily, I had to embrace the monster within.

I’d let him take the reins.

Then when I arrived at the Blood Pit, I’d let him unleash hell.

For one very last time.

Before I laid him to rest, for good.

9

901

Two weeks later …

I stood in the center of my cell, waiting for my time to be called. Tonight was the first show fight Master had planned for his tournament investors. He had told me over the past two weeks that these matches were important to secure money for the spectators. He impressed on me that these investors will gamble on the fighters, and some more important bosses might enter their own.

And he had told me in no uncertain terms that I was to take my time with my opponents. Draw out the kill. Obey his every command. He even offered me a bribe: If I did as he instructed, he would continue sending 152 to me every night.

This was exactly why I intended to kill my opponent in three seconds flat.

My gut clenched as I thought of the past two weeks. Then I thought of what my nights would become after tonight. She’d be gone. It was what I needed. Though I was starting to think it wasn’t what I wanted.

Since that night two weeks ago when she had pleaded with me to let her die and she had spoken to me in Russian after I had called her a whore, we had barely spoken. That night I had let myself get too close. I had asked her too much. Listened to her too much.

Felt too much.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the memory—of how she had told me to get a guard instead, of how much that pissed me off, the repulsive thought of her under a Wraith. Something inside of me had broken when she’d pleaded for that version of hell.

She wasn’t a whore. I hadn’t meant what I had said. I was pissed, lashing out. I hadn’t known she was Russian. Her dark hair and features made her appear Georgian. It only made me want her more.

She was like me.

Master still sent her every night. I released inside her when the drugs made her need me, but we never spoke. She slept in the corner of the room, and I stayed on my bed. She knew I didn’t want more. She never asked for more. I gave only as much as I was willing to give.

Master’s plan to fuck with my mind wouldn’t work, I couldn’t let it. I’d defy him tonight, and he’d punish me by taking 152 away. I glanced down at my hands wrapped around my Kindjals’ handles at that thought. They shook.

My mind clogged, it stabbed with the sound of 152’s moans as I took her as mine. Her touch was sensuous as her hands scraped on my back. The look in her eyes as they cleared from the drug in the aftermath of our releases was so welcome. It was when her true self came through. The look that showed me her gratitude. The look that seared me on the spot.

Krasivaya.

Footsteps on stone outside the cell made me walk to the door. 667 was walking past. He was dripping with sweat, marked in slashes from what looked like a bladed chain. He flicked his chin as he walked by.

His mona arrived only minutes after he had. She swiftly moved into his cell. As she passed by, I studied her for the first time. She was attractive, nothing like 152, yet pretty enough. But it was the look of worry on her face as she ran after 667 that made my stomach flip over. She cared about him enough to run to his aid after he had been injured. I frowned. I couldn’t remember a time, ever in my life, when someone comforted me. Then again, the only times I had been injured were as a child figuring out the run of the cage. Learning what weapons to choose, and hardest of all—learning how to kill. I had been alone ever since.

Seeing 667’s mona run to him, her affection for him was obvious and unapologetic. For a moment, it made me regret the decision I had already made.

Another cell door opened. 140 pounded past, his expression one of a male that was minutes away from sending a soul to hell. In a flash, my regret for losing 152 tonight was gone. Because here was a male that was a shadow of his former self. He had allowed himself to want and need a mona. That had been his ruin.

The crowd outside roared. Just as I was about to move from the doors, someone stepped out of the shadows. A guard stopped before me and flicked his chin in my direction. “Master has sent a message. He said that your opponent belongs to one of the biggest investors. He has bought several shares in many gulags from Master over the years and is planning to enter many fighters in the tournament. Master has demanded that you slow the kill and not simply slaughter.” The guard stepped closer, holding his gun toward me. “Master said that if you don’t obey, there will be consequences.”