Page 43 of Forced Innocent Bride By the Bratva

“You have my respect, Mr. Tarasov,” Tiny Jack said to me, his voice deep and raucous. “But in here, I’m the king, and I won’t go easy on you,” he bragged, boasting in his might and size.

A faint smirk lined a corner of my lips, but I didn’t respond. I watched him closely, studying his every move as he cracked his thick neck and flexed his fists. Tiny Jack was bigger and stronger than me, and as advantageous as that was, it still had its downside—he was slower.

I, on the other hand, was fast like lightning; that was my upper hand, the advantage that I had over him. I’d always been fascinated by the story of David and Goliath, how a regular man brought a giant to his knees with one stone and a slingshot.

The bell rang.

Tiny Jack, as expected, charged first, swinging a powerful right hook aimed at my jaw. He moved exactly as I’d predicted, proving my theory. Men like him, huge and mighty, often fought without thinking.

With a swift motion, I sidestepped with lethal grace, my body a rapid blur as I retaliated, driving my fist into his ribcage—once, twice—a sickening crack splitting the air.

He groaned, staggering forward, a hand over the affected area.

The crowd grew more raucous, cheering and jeering.

Tiny Jack regained his balance and faced me, his jaw tightening, rage dancing in his eyes, chest heaving rapidly. He was angry. Good. This meant that he was bound to do dumb shit now that his ego had been bruised. He’d want to make me pay, and with that mindset, he’d let his emotions control him, playing right into my trap.

He came at me with brute force, swinging wildly. But I was quick—too quick, in fact—ducking, dodging, and weaving his advances. I’d watched him fight countless times, and the one thing he lacked aside from strategic thinking was cardio. Tiny Jack was the kind to get tired easily, and that was because he fought with everything he had.

Over the years, I’d mastered the art of patience, conserving my strength in a fight, knowing when to attack and when not to. Now wasn’t the time to attack. No. Now was the time to mess around and make him throw as many punches as he could. The plan was simple: Make him exhaust all of his strength.

Tiny Jack was huge, meaning one strike was enough to disorient and throw me off balance. All he needed to do was hit me once, and he’d have the upper hand, but I wasn’t going to let that happen. Not while Scarlett was watching.

Oblivious to my plan, Tiny Jack continued to come at me, swinging powerful blows and kicks, all of which I dodged with seamless ease. His failure to land a single punch was starting to infuriate him. I could tell by the look of frustration in his eyes and the way he desperately slung his fists around.

He wasn’t thinking; all he wanted to do was win. His reputation as an “undefeated champion” meant more to him than anything else. Tiny Jack was determined to retain that title at any cost. Sadly for me, that desperation was going to be his downfall.

By the time I had him worn out and a bit exhausted from all that unnecessary dancing, I saw a window to strike and jumped on the opportunity. My muscles coiled like a beast, ready to pounce.

Tiny Jack, unaware of the danger in front of him, swung a punch as usual. As I ducked away from his swing, I struck a brutal uppercut that snapped his head back, blood spraying from his mouth, accompanied by a lost tooth.

A loud gasp of shock and astonishment rose from the crowd as Tiny Jack staggered backward under the weight of my blow.

I didn’t stop. No. I seized the moment, driving my knee into his gut, my strike stealing his breath. Tiny Jack barely had time to double over before I struck again, delivering a savage elbow to the side of his head.

My opponent crashed with a loud thud, his body sprawling to the floor. I lunged at him, eyes dark with sinister intentions as I grabbed him by the neck, fingers digging into his thick skin. With a strategic move, I dragged him up only to send him crashing down again—this time with a strike to his throat. Both hands flew to his neck, and he choked as he dropped to the floor.

The crowd roared, some chanting his name, others chanting mine.

He wheezed, struggling to stand. Big mistake.

I prowled forward, my foot connecting to his jawbone with a kick so powerful it turned his neck to the other side, a sickening crack filling the air. Again, a tooth flew from his mouth, blood spraying on the floor. He gasped, unfocused, bleeding from his mouth and nose.

With unimaginable strength, Tiny Jack sprang back to his feet, taking me off guard. He landed his first punch, a powerful blow to my head that sent me crashing to the floor. My mind was blank for a moment, and my vision was a little hazy. The blow had me disorganized, and the ringing in my ear seemed to muffle the sound around me.

I shook my head, fingers rubbing my eyes in an attempt to get a grip on myself. And then I felt it, the prickle at the back of my neck. With lightning speed, I rolled away, his heavy foot stomping on the very spot I lay on seconds ago.

Back on my feet, I swiped a palm over my eyes, and the moment my vision cleared, I saw his fist flying toward my face. Swiftly, I stepped to the side, trapping his hand in mine, and before he could make another move, I snapped it like a twig, dislocating his elbow. The sound of his bone cracking echoed through the ring, accompanied by his loud cry.

I caught a glimpse of Scarlett’s reaction through the chaos. Her green eyes locked on mine, and in their depths was something that made my blood boil even hotter.

My expression darkened, fingers clenched into a dangerous fist, and with a final, thunderous strike, I delivered a powerful uppercut. My fist connected with Tiny Jack’s jawbone, the impact raising him into the air. Moments later, his now limp body crashed onto the floor with a heavy thud that seemed to shake the whole building. Out like a light.

For the next few seconds, the arena was silent as a graveyard, everyone marveling at what they’d just witnessed. I straightened, rolling my neck in a triumphant motion, my eyes darting toward Scarlett.

The referee rushed over to the motionless Jack, feeling for a pulse. Once done, he signaled that their champion had been knocked out, and then, the crowd erupted into a frenzy of screams—shouts. But I heard only one thing: the sound of Scarlett’s breath hitching.

I held her gaze, my chest rising and falling, fists still dripping with blood. The crowd chanted my name, singing my praises, but none of that mattered. That smile on her face was more than enough for me.

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