Page 66 of City Of Thieves
Where the fuck are the spectators?
The underground fight club, an illegal ring that runs on bloodlust seven days a week, is unnaturally empty. There’s no overpowering stench of blood and sweat. No sounds of bone crashing against metal.
This is no accident... It’s a fucking mousetrap.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
A tall figure emerges from the shadows, his slow clapping reverberating off the concrete walls. With each step, the shadows recede, revealing a man who’s traded his shitty gray suit for the more venue-appropriate attire of jeans and a black button-up.
Oleg Belov.
The nearer he gets, the harder he claps. “Lorenzo Marchesi,” he says, raking an appraising gaze over me. “Congratulations, you have found me. It seems Vasily was wrong—youdohave more brains than your brother. Which, I admit, is impressive, since I watched most of it explode against a wall in Atlantic City.”
My response is to level the barrel of my gun right between his eyes. He doesn’t flinch. Not because he doesn’t think I won’t pull the trigger, but because he knows I came here for answers as well as revenge.
“Slow night, Oleg? Or is your lack of clientele a byproduct of shitty management?”
He chuckles at the insult. “Boynyais closed...” Glancing over my shoulder, he arches a disinterested eyebrow at his newly deceased guard before settling that smug gaze back on me. “Private fight,” he adds.
Enough of this.“Cut the shit,” I growl, the need to shut him up with a bullet too tempting. “We both know why I’m here. You know, since you murdered my brother, skipped town, came back from the dead, and then ran away from me like a little bitch.”
He laughs. “You Italians think you are so smart, when in reality, you are nothing but discarded Bratva tools.” Dismissing me with a flick of his wrist, he walks toward the cage as if I don’t have a loaded gun aimed at him.
“You sure about that?” I say, watching him closely. “How do you know I haven’t played you? I may not be a part of a fucked-up brotherhood with a hard-on for throwing each other under a bus, but I’m good at exploiting delicate situations.” I let that sink in before adding. “How do you know Konstantin didn’t send me here?”
He pauses, his jaw ticking at the mention of his oldest brother’s name.
Gotcha fucker.
“I see Killian Davies has been talking.”
“Or maybe you underestimated me, and I’m just that goddamn smart after all. Let’s be honest, you don’t have the greatest track record, Oleg. Vasilydidsell you out by telling me about the auction.”
I’m throwing taunts like darts, hoping one hits. I know I’ve gotten close when his smirk drops to a scowl.
“And that traitorous piece of shit is now floating face-down in the Hudson because of it.”
“And your reason for turning on Konstantin…?”
“What about you,comrade?” he sneers, ignoring the question. “You handed your brother over to me with nothing more than a few concealed agendas and bullshit art rhetoric. Did you want to be underboss so badly that it simply slipped your mind?”
Bratva Bastard.
He’s goading me, trying to gain the upper hand. Unfortunately for him, my arsenal of intel is well stocked and ready to fire.
“How long have you been working with the rat in my family?”
“So many questions,” he tuts. “But four floors down, information comes with a price.” He flashes me a vicious smile. “You should know that better than anyone.”
“What do you want?”
He nods toward the empty metal cage. “Fight for it.”
“You?” I let out a hearty laugh. “Gladly.”
“Nyet.” After clapping his hands twice, a door opens near the back of the arena, and in walks a genetically engineered tank, his enormous six-foot-fucking-seventeenframe stopping a few inches behind Oleg. “Boynya’smain event,” he states nastily. “Undefeated in two-hundred and seven straight fights. His fans call him the Undertaker.” He smirks at the granite-faced man. “For obvious reasons.”
Reasons, meaning two-hundred and seven wins equate two-hundred and seven kills.
