Riot

  My pulse raced as he held his stare. I felt a blush creep up my cheeks and sprout, clearly, on my skin. As Master’s grip tightened, I winced at the pain. “Petal, meet 901, the Pit Bull of my arena.” Master leaned closer to 901 without letting me go, then added with obvious disdain, “My most successful pet.”

  My eyes, of their own accord, examined 901’s face for a reaction. None was forthcoming, save for the slightest creases that formed at the corners of his severe eyes. And then I knew. I knew that being called Master’s pet had struck a nerve.

  Master stepped closer to me, released my face, and leaned down to press a wet kiss on the side of my neck. 901 remained stoic, unmoving and completely unshaken. “What do you think, 901?” Master asked, as he pressed against me, his lips still grazing my skin. “Don’t you think my mona is simply the most beautiful creature ever created?”

  Master then kissed up along my cheek. I breathed through the discomfort his touch brought.

  Realizing 901 wouldn’t react, Master withdrew his hand and flicked his chin. “Get back to training. You have a match this weekend.” He leaned in closer to his fighter and added, “Remember what I said. We have high rollers attending that night. I want them to return.”

  901 said nothing. Eventually Master flicked his wrist and 901 marched away. He reentered the pit, picked up two short-bladed weapons, one in each hand, and commenced sparring. Master guided me to leave by his hand upon my elbow. As he did so, I glanced back to the pit, where a now familiar face was looking my way, his hard blue stare penetrating mine.

  As Master guided us around the pits, it took all that I could muster not to look back to the champion’s training area. To the large beast that dominated its domain.

  The male with the cruel eyes.

  The infallible killer.

  The Pit Bull of the Arziani empire.

  Master’s living god among men.

  3

  LUKA

  Brooklyn, New York

  “So are we talking thousands or hundreds?” I asked Valentin.

  He, Zaal, and I were stationed around the table in my house.

  Valentin’s eyes narrowed in thought. I watched the newest member of our Bratva as he straightened in his seat.

  Cracking his wide neck from side to side, he replied, “Hundreds, one or two depending if there is a match. Master Arziani brings in more of his males if his associates come in. They fly to the pit from all over the world, many traveling days to get there.” Valentin’s fists clenched on the tabletop, large muscles bunching under his black shirt.

  The veins in his forearms corded with the anger ripping through him. I glanced to Zaal, who studied his new brother-in-law. Zaal briefly met my eyes before leaning forward and saying to Valentin, “Be calm. Breathe through it.”

  Valentin’s nostrils flared. I could see that Zaal’s words were having no effect on him whatsoever. Instead, Valentin rose from the table and began to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace. He was panting with rage. Given his sheer size and scarred face, and the permanent raised red scar collaring his neck, Valentin appeared every inch the monster he was renowned to be.

  “Why are we wasting time with all this shit?” he snarled, pointing at the maps we’d had constructed of the Blood Pit based on his memory. I never took my eyes off him. The map lay in the center of the table, our notes scattered around the edges of the wooden top. Our intel regarding Arziani’s pit was gradually building day by day.

  “We sit here, like fucking fearful morons, as that prick sits on his throne, doing fuck knows what to my sister,” he roared, then stopped dead in his tracks. His fists shook so much that his entire body seemed to convulse.

  As calmly as possible, I leaned back in my chair at the head of the table and said, “Arziani is the biggest threat we’ve ever faced.” I pointed to Zaal, then to myself, and finally to Valentin. “I’m not just talking about within the Bratva or the Georgian brotherhood. I’m talking about us three, too: in the gulag, under Jakhua, and with that bitch, Mistress Arziani. The Blood Pit is like nothing we’ve ever experienced.”

  Valentin’s hot glare locked on me. He slapped his fist on his broad chest. “I know this more than any of you. I was raised in that hell. I spent day after day in those pits, until I was chosen as an Ubiytsa. Do not lecture me on what I had to endure.”

  I chased back the annoyance of his disrespect. “Then I don’t need to explain why detailed planning is essential, why we need to know exactly what we’ll be facing. Above all, we need to find a way in. The Blood Pit is underground, heavily fortified, and manned by many, many guards. It’s impossible, unless we can identify a secure way in—unseen.” Valentin remained motionless while I talked. Leaning forward, I rested my elbows on the table and asserted, “We are heavily outnumbered. Besides us three, the males under our command are soldiers of the street. They fight with guns. They have no idea how to overcome an organization such as this, how to fight male prisoners like us. Even if we made it into the pit, the guards are too many. Even if we overcame the guards, the conditioned male fighters would surely tear them apart. And we would all die. Each of us is unbeatable in a death match, but even we cannot defeat hundreds of enslaved fighters and Ubiytsy.”

  For a second I thought that I had gotten through to Valentin. But suddenly a pained roar burst from his throat, and he struck out at the mirror hanging on the wall. The sound of shattering glass echoed around the room. But Valentin didn’t stop there. Lost in his rage, he swept his arm along the mantelpiece, destroying Kisa’s ornaments.

  Zaal looked to me in concern, but I slowly shook my head. Valentin was fresh from his long imprisonment. Worse, his sister was under the control of that sadistic bastard Arziani. The deep fear of this was steadily eroding any peace he could find, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute.

  When Valentin’s gaze snapped to us, I could see that he had been overwhelmed by the monster that lived within. I nodded my head. Zaal shifted on his seat, ready to fight. But there was only one person that could quell his rage. She brought with her the same calm each of us had found latterly in this dark hell of a life. She brought water to the fire, the balm to our conditioned rage.

  “Zoya!” Zaal bellowed, never taking his eyes off Valentin, who was bracing to fight.

  Light footsteps padded on the wooden floorboards of the hallway. In seconds there was a light knock on the door. “Enter!” I called. The doorknob turned.

  Zoya Kostava entered, long black hair hanging to her back. She was dressed in black jeans and a sweater. Without any need for explanation, Zoya’s dark gaze zeroed in on an increasingly agitated Valentin. Zaal pushed back his chair, readying to protect his sister. But she gestured for him to stop. As she looked to her brother, she shook her head. Zaal stilled, though he remained primed to strike if needed. As was I.

  Zoya stepped forward. As she did so, Valentin’s lost eyes slammed to greet her. She walked forward, no fear in her stride. Valentin’s muscled shoulders relaxed in response. His scarred face melted to one of deep sorrow.

  “Valentin,” Zoya murmured softly, as she approached her male. Valentin reached out and drew her in to press against his chest. I watched as his eyes squeezed shut and he breathed in her scent.

  Zoya’s hands lifted to run over his head. “You’re okay,” she murmured in Russian, speaking Valentin’s native language to help calm the savage beast within.

  I could see the tension leave Valentin the second Zoya was in his arms. I glanced to Zaal, who was watching the scarred Russian like a hawk. Zaal had slowly, but steadily, grown to accept Valentin over these past few weeks. Worryingly, Valentin’s mood was unstable. A whole lot more unstable than either Zaal or I had been when freed from captivity. We knew that most of this stemmed from a desperate need to save his sister, Inessa. The rest was due to his many years as a slave killer for the Arzianis. Valentin wasn’t adjusting to the outside world as well as we had hoped. His conditioning to kill, only to kill, ran far too deep to undo quickly.
But it was his anger that troubled us most. We all had anger. We all had to tamp down its burning heat. To be “normal” in this world was a challenge every unforgiving second, round the clock. But for Valentin, it was much worse. Only Zoya could tame his anger.

  “You’re okay,” Zoya murmured gently. Rearing back, Valentin looked down at his female and sighed deeply. His hand cupped her face and he slowly nodded, an unspoken message of love traveling between them.

  They stayed that way for several seconds, communicating silently. Then Zoya turned her head to me and asked, “Can we go home?” I could see the desperation in her torn expression. She needed to be alone with Valentin. She needed privacy to truly calm him.

  I nodded. Zoya took Valentin’s hand in her own. Without another word, Zoya guided him from my office and out of the house.

  As the front door closed, Zaal slumped back in his seat and pushed his long hair from his face. I sat back too, glaring at the blueprints of the Blood Pit, trying to figure out how the hell we could break in safely.

  “We need to get into that fucking pit,” Zaal said eventually.

  Sighing, I ran my hands down my face and nodded. “I know. But with their numbers and their home-field advantage, I can’t visualize how to take these fuckers down.”

  Zaal glanced out the window to the street beyond and admitted, “Valentin isn’t coping. He needs his sister back to fully heal and move on.” He turned back to me. His face darkened. “I’ve only just gotten Zoya back. I will not see her destroyed because she alone can calm him down. It’s affecting her. I can see it in her face every time she enters the room and sees his rage.”

  He was right. We could all see it.

  “I am the Lideri of the Georgians. You are the knayz of the Bratva. We run this city. I know this. The New York underworld is ours and ours alone. But if we don’t find Inessa soon, before long Valentin will snap and he will kill.” Zaal shook his head. “Even we cannot prevent him from killing in public twenty-four/seven.” Zaal’s hands flattened on the tabletop, and he added, “Then people would realize he wasn’t like them. That he was different. Changed. Too many questions would fall back on us.

  “The real world isn’t ready to handle our reality. How could they accept that the gulags, the drugs, and the Blood Pit are real? It is the stuff of nightmares. How could they believe that males are being raised as killers, for sport and greed?

  “Worse, it would surely implicate the Bratva and my people in too many ways. We can fight the police and the system here in our city, but we can’t take on the whole world.” Zaal shrugged and tapped the map of the Blood Pit. “We need a way in. We need a solid plan, and we need it fast. I won’t have our freedom jeopardized. I won’t have what I’ve found with my Talia taken away from me, after being without her all of these years.” He raised his brow. “And we know you won’t give up Kisa. We need to act, Luka, and we need to do it soon.”

  Lifting the glass of water sitting beside me, I brought it to my lips and drained it in one motion. Zaal stood up. As he passed by, he pressed his hand on my shoulder. I didn’t move until I heard him leaving my house with Talia, who had been sitting with Kisa.

  Pushing back from the table, I got to my feet and walked down the hallway. In the living room, Kisa was waiting for me on the couch, hand lying on her swollen stomach.

  She took one look at me, her face sympathetic. Silently, she held out her hand. I took it in an instant and dropped to the couch beside her. Kisa fell against my chest and her hand landed on my stomach.

  She didn’t say anything. Once I’d fought through my pride, I admitted, “I can’t see a way to defeat Arziani.” The minute I had confessed what was torturing my mind, a heavy weight lifted from my chest.

  Kisa froze, then tilted up her chin to meet my eyes. I stared down at my beautiful wife and sighed. “They run a damn fortress, solnyshko. Arziani seems insane from what Valentin has said. He’s deluded, thinks he’s some kind of king, some Roman Caesar. The king of his prisoners. Males, just like me, he drugs them and forces them to fight on until they die. Kids plucked from families and orphanages, made into his monsters.”

  I ran my hand over my tired eyes and asked, “How the hell do we stop him? How do we even breach his Blood Pit?”

  Kisa sat up and brought her face to hover above mine. “You’ll find a way, baby. I trust you, we all do.”

  I shook my head. “And that’s the problem,” I said harshly. “Everyone expects me to work this out. Everyone expects me to find a way in and execute a plan to bring Arziani down.” I pressed my hand to Kisa’s pregnant stomach, to our baby she was carrying. “But more than that, I need this Arziani to be fucking killed. I need to cut off the head of the snake. Everything, everything we have all been through starts with Arziani. The gulags, his contact with the Durovs. Levan Jakhua worked with Arziani, using Anri and Zaal as his prototypes. Then we found out how he keeps so hidden—by using drugged killers as assassins. They take out anyone who is a threat.”

  Kisa blinked, then blinked again when what I was saying hit home. “You believe he’s coming for us. You believe that now we know about him, he’ll send another Valentin.” Her words were not a question. Because she knew what she said was exactly what I’d been thinking.

  An ache caved in my chest, and I leaned in to run my lips over hers. “If he came for you. If someone took you away from me…” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “Stop,” Kisa said, moving back to press her finger over my lips.

  I took her hand in mine. My mind took me back to the gulag. I could still smell the dankness of the cells. I could still smell the richness of the blood spilled hourly in the ring. I could still feel the heavy veil of death that draped us all, waiting to strike, waiting to deliver another soul to hell.

  “Luka, lyubov moya, come back to me.”

  I gasped as I heard Kisa’s soft voice cut through the memory. I tightened my grip on her hand. Once again I looked down to her stomach. My teeth clenched together, then I said, “I have to find a way to take him down. I can’t, I won’t, have our baby brought into this world knowing that the male who condemned me, us all, to that life is still breathing, still stealing children from homes, forcing them to be killers.”

  A tear escaped Kisa’s eye to fall to our clasped hands. “Luka,” she whispered, “this man scares me more than anything else in the world.”

  Dropping my forehead to rest against hers, I replied, “That’s another reason why he needs to be put out of our misery. I want our version of a normal life. I want this Bratva life with you, with my new brothers and our families. But as long as that prick lives, it can never happen.” I paused. My hand, still on Kisa’s stomach, felt a tiny kick.

  My eyes darted to my wife’s stomach. Kisa laughed a single watery laugh. She covered my hand with her own, just as our baby kicked again.

  Leaning forward, Kisa pressed her lips to mine. When she pulled back and I saw the love she had for me written on her stunning face, I knew I had to remedy the Arziani problem quickly.

  I had two months until our child came into this world.

  What that world would look like depended on me.

  A world free from any threat to our lives.

  That meant Arziani dead.

  His guards slaughtered.

  And the Blood Pit burned to ash.

  4

  901

  Stoically, I sat in my cell as I waited for my turn. I could hear the faint roar of the crowd and the stomping of feet coming from the pit. The first round had come and gone, as had the second and the third. The better matches were happening now, then my match would follow.

  The main event.

  I rolled my neck from side to side as I spun my beloved Kindjals in my hands. The handles were warm. My eyes stared straight ahead as I envisioned how this fight would go. I had no idea whom I was fighting. Master no longer informed me. He wanted me unprepared, going in blind to my opponent’s weapon of choice and level of skill.

  He w
anted a fucking show.

  A show he would never get from me.

  The sound of cell doors clattering against the walls came from down the hallway, and I knew it would be a Wraith for me. My cell was at the end of the champions’ quarter. It offered a bed, basin, and flush toilet. Master gave his champion the best accommodations. With this cell came more privacy. It was the only thing I really appreciated about this prison. I liked to be alone. I didn’t want a connection with anyone else. Liking, or even tolerating, another fighter made you weak. I never even took a mona when they were sent to me. I wouldn’t fuck a female, even though I wanted to. They were forced into fucking as much as I was forced into killing. I didn’t have any sympathy for them, but neither would I use them. I’d seen too many fighters brought down by becoming attached to a gifted female. They’d grown so attached that it had messed with their fighting skills.

  Females were a distraction from the most important thing in this place: staying alive.

  Suddenly, my cell door opened and a guard walked in, gun in hand. He was dressed in a black uniform, the match night uniform. Master was nothing if not a showman for his investors.

  “Up,” the guard ordered.

  I obeyed and walked to where he stood. The guard looked up at me and said, “Master has ordered you to draw out the kill. To let your opponent get in a few strikes against you. He said you are to allow the Chinese investors’ fighter to believe he is winning, to ensure a rise in the stakes for your next match.”

  Disgust at participating in such a pathetic show flooded through me. I wouldn’t do it. Master knew it, but he ordered it just the same. He lived for the day when he mastered me completely. It wouldn’t ever happen.

  “You understand?” the guard checked. Instead of snapping his neck to shut his whining mouth, I pushed past him and pounded down the hallway. As with every match, the sound of the spectators increased in volume. And, as always, I broke into a slow, steady run, my feet kicking up sand with every stride.